Hallie is waiting outside the terminal when I pull up at the airport the next morning, effortlessly arty-cool in a pair of dark jeans and a slinky black tank top. Enormous sunglasses take up almost the entire top half of her face. “You made it!” I say, wrapping her in a hug.

“Barely,” she admits, popping her suitcase and camera bag into the trunk before hopping into the passenger seat. “I was sitting next to an old guy who must have eaten six giant cans of baked beans before he boarded. I came this close to asking the flight attendant to drop the oxygen masks.” She shudders, rolling down the window to air herself out and peering out at the brightly colored storefronts as we cruise through downtown. “This place is beautiful. I wonder if I can do some architectural studies while I’m here.”

“I’d take advantage of this trip any way I could if I were you,” I advise, flicking through the radio stations until I find some Kacey Musgraves. “Speaking of which: you want to stop for some brunch?”

“Always,” Hallie says with a grin. “Besides, I’m guessing I need a mimosa or five before I meet the bride-to-be.”

“Or a little rubbing alcohol,” I say brightly. “That should do the trick.”

Hallie finds us a sweet little café with a big patio boasting views of the water, lush tropical plants spilling from weathered terra cotta pots and a reggae band plinking away under an awning. “This is paradise,” she observes once we’ve ordered. “Seriously, I can feel the Vitamin D bringing me back to life in real time.”

“I guess it’s not all bad down here,” I admit.

“Mm-hmm.” Hallie peers at me over the tops of her sunglasses. “And exactly how much of that not all bad has to do with your handsome hunk for hire?” she asks, grinning a curly grin across the table. “Tell me everything, please and thank you. And don’t leave out the dirty parts.”

“Oh God.” I cover my face with my hands, but truthfully I’m happy to have the chance to talk about it. Whatever’s going on between Ryan and me feels like a balloon in my chest, taking up more and more room behind my rib cage until I feel like I might burst.

“He’s kind of wonderful,” I admit, once I’ve filled her in on the details. “I honestly don’t remember the last time I felt like this about somebody—if I ever even have. I feel like I had this picture in my head of what my ideal match would look like, you know? Someone sort of tailored and arty and sophisticated, and Ryan isn’t necessarily any of those things. But he’s better. More than that, he makes me better.”

“I love that,” Hallie says, smiling at me over her drink. “You look really, really happy.”

“I am happy,” I confess, “but I’m also trying—like, with limited success—to keep my expectations really low. I can definitely feel myself getting wrapped up in the romance of this whole thing, but I have no idea how much of it is actually for real.”

“Oh, I know that feeling,” Hallie says with a grin.

“No kidding,” I say, remembering what happened with her and Max. “And I don’t know if maybe it’s just a fling for him, or . . .” I trail off, not wanting to put my hopes into words just yet. “How did you guys figure it out?”

Hallie tilts her head to the side, considering. “I mean, there were definitely a few misunderstandings along the way,” she admits. “But we just kept talking. And, you know. Having super-hot, amazing sex.”

I laugh out loud, clapping a hand over my face and peering at her from between two fingers. “The sex definitely isn’t going to be a problem,” I reveal sheepishly. “Like. At all.”

“Aw yeah,” Hallie cheers, lifting her cocktail in a toast. “Enjoy yourself, Olivia,” she says as we clink. “You deserve it.”

Back at my dad’s house, we find Vanessa scrolling Instagram in the living room. She’s dressed in a short silk kimono printed with tropical flowers in garish shades of orange and pink, a giant water bottle full of green juice in one hand. “Bride Tribe!” she yells, loudly enough to send Jagger flying into the next room. “The photographer’s here!” She looks at us, frowning. “It’s about time.”

I see Hallie’s eyebrows twitch, but she smiles, holding a hand out to shake. “You must be Vanessa,” she says smoothly. “I’m so excited to get to capture your special day!”

“It will be special,” Vanessa says, brightening a bit as she sits upright. “Now. I made a list of my best angles for you to study, but that’s going to have to wait, because we have to get downtown to the bridal shop for the final fitting.” She frowns. “BRIDE TRIBE! HURRY UP!”

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” I say, edging toward the door. I’m already imagining heading back to the hotel and grabbing Ryan for an afternoon tumble. I can practically feel his mouth between my—

“What?!” Vanessa interrupts, looking at me like I’m demented. “Where do you think you’re going? You need to try your dress on, too!”

“Oh, no,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m all set, thanks. I’ve actually got a super cute tux picked out—”

“A tux?” Vanessa laughs like I just suggested wearing a red pleather catsuit. “Who do you think you are, George Clooney? Don’t be ridiculous, Livvie. I already found the perfect thing for you.”

Which is how I find myself standing on a stool in front of a three-way mirror in Tootsie’s Key West Bridal Salon in a teal satin princess number with puffy sleeves and an honest-to-Jesus bustle, enormous tulle underskirt crinkling loudly like I’ve got the Sunday Times shoved into my panties. There’s even a matching headband involved. Tootsie herself crouches at my feet, scowling while she pins up the lacy hem.

“That is . . . assertive,” Hallie murmurs as I turn slowly to get a look at the massive bow positioned directly over my ass.

“It’s classic!” Vanessa says, clapping her hands.

If by “classic” she means “directly out of 1989,” she is technically correct. I think longingly of the skinny black pants and exquisite white silk top hanging in my closet back at the hotel, which I was planning to pair with a perfectly tailored blazer and, as a nod to Key West, an amazing pair of flamingo pink fuck-me pumps.

Well. Fuck me, all right.

“Look on the bright side,” Hallie murmurs sympathetically, clicking away at her camera as Vanessa tries on her massive bedazzled tiara to the adoring coos of the Bride Tribe. The thing is so heavy with rhinestones I’m surprised her skinny neck doesn’t snap. “It could be worse.”

I look down at the dress, which is somehow both incredibly dated and strangely provocative, with a neckline even lower than the other day’s pirate costume. If I manage to make it through the wedding without a nip slip, it’ll be a minor miracle. “Could it, though?”

“Probably not,” Hallie admits, snapping a few more photos. She makes a face. “I’ll crop you out of these, in any case.”

“You’re a true friend— OWW!”

“Stop moving,” Tootsie orders, stabbing me with a straight pin.

I finally get Tootsie’s go-ahead to change my clothes, digging my phone out of my shoulder bag in the dressing room and smiling when I see I’ve got a text from Ryan. How’s it going? he wants to know.

Kill me, I type. I look like a slutty cupcake.

My favorite kind, he fires back. Then, a moment later: There’s a frosting joke here somewhere, but I’m too gentlemanly to go looking for it.

Too bad, I type, biting my lip to keep from smiling like a goof. See you later?

Can’t wait.

After the fitting, the girls head out to hot yoga but I beg off, dropping Hallie at the hotel before heading back to my dad’s house. It’s empty—at least, I think it is, until I wander into the kitchen and see Tristan sitting at the breakfast bar, laptop open and a bag of almonds at his side.

“Hey,” I say, trying not to sound too openly disappointed that it’s him and not Ryan. “What’re you doing here?”

“The wifi at the hotel was acting up,” Tristan explains, sitting back on his barstool. “Your dad said I could post up here and get some work done.”

“Insurance emergency?” I joke, but Tristan doesn’t laugh.

“It’s pretty serious, actually,” he says, before launching into an explanation of premiums and risk assessment that I can neither follow nor particularly care to. It’s strange how the Tristan of the last few days doesn’t seem to mesh at all with the person I had in my memory all these years. Has he always been so . . . bland? He’s got all the charm and character of . . . well, a bag of raw unsalted almonds, pretty much.

“So how are you?” he asks, once he’s finally finished. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you at all since you got here.”

“Oh,” I say, shrugging. I hadn’t actually noticed. “Just been busy with wedding prep, I guess.” And getting my brains fucked out, though I don’t add that part.

“Well,” Tristan says, “we should try and get that drink, in any case. We always had so much fun hanging out in college.”

“Oh! Um, yeah, of course.” I’m about to try and beg off as nicely as possible—already I’ve heard enough about umbrella policies to last me the rest of the week—when I hear the front door open. A moment later Ryan appears in the kitchen, a case of beer in one arm and a couple of bags of groceries in the other.

“Hey,” he says, holding the groceries up. His cheeks are faintly pink from the sun. “Your dad asked me to grab some stuff for a barbecue.” His gaze flicks back and forth between Tristan and me for the slightest fraction of a second before he smiles. “What are you guys up to?”

“Just hanging out,” I say, taking one of the grocery bags and tilting my face up for a kiss. “I’m really, really glad you’re back.”