Oh, also—I hated his guts.

“And you’re cold and sarcastic and lack basic empathy.” I continued listing his shortcomings. “Just because you’re helping me now doesn’t mean I forgot who you are. The devil incarnate. You’re far from Prince Charming. For one thing, you’re rude. And not the saving-princesses kind. You’d probably send someone over to save them for you. Also, you’d look ridiculous on a horse.”

I was half-sorry I wasn’t still puking. Vomit was favorable to what left my mouth as I tried to insult Chase. That was some second-grade stuff right there.

“Permission to remove your bra,” he said thickly.

“Granted,” I huffed.

He unclasped my bra with one hand, then produced a Yale sweatshirt from his nightstand drawer. He pulled it over my head, then stopped, staring at my breasts for a few good seconds.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

He tugged the sweatshirt down in one go, his throat bobbing with a swallow. The fabric was warm, soft, well worn. It smelled of Chase.

“And what kind of name is Chase Black, anyway?” I let out an unattractive snort. “It sounds made up.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but it’s as real as your hangover is about to be tomorrow morning. I suggest you chug this.” He unscrewed an Evian bottle that sat on the nightstand and handed it over to me. He rolled his black dress shirtsleeves up his elbows, exposing forearms so veiny and muscular I was surprised I hadn’t humped them months ago, when I’d still had the chance. “I’ll go get you some Advil.”

“Wait!” I called out to him when he was at the door. He stopped but didn’t turn around to face me. His back was so deliciously ripped inside his dress shirt that I was half-mad at myself for never exchanging nudes with him when we were a thing.

“Pick up the jasmines and put them in a vase full of fresh water. They don’t deserve to die,” I croaked. “Please.”

He made a grumbling sound, shaking his head like I was a lost cause.

The last thing I remembered was gulping the two Advil Chase put in my mouth and passing out.

I woke up with a pounding headache the next day. The clock on the nightstand signaled eleven. It was official—the weekend had started off with me being a spectacular failure, as far as my duties as a charming fiancée went. First, I’d gotten accidentally drunk; then I’d missed the Blacks’ family hike. The room was empty, save for a tray with bacon, eggs, fresh bread toasted with butter, and a steaming cup of coffee. There was a new vase full of slightly distressed jasmines on the dresser by the door. A neatly folded blanket and a fluffed-up pillow were sitting on top of one another tidily on the floor.

And a note on the nightstand.

M,

Went hiking. Jasmines are alive. Assuming you are, too, soak up the alcohol with the breakfast I left for you.

PS:

I’d look fantastic on a horse. #Fact.

—C

I spent the rest of the weekend working hard on redeeming myself in the eyes of the Blacks.

At lunch, I was glued to Katie’s and Lori’s sides, making pleasant conversation and helping Lori stitch back a part of her favorite vintage dress that had gotten torn. I then rolled up my sleeves and made scones for everyone, bantering with the family baker (because what kind of family didn’t have a baker on their payroll?) and laughing with Katie, who didn’t participate in the baking but was content to sit on the counter and tell me about the half marathon she was training for.

“It’s the only thing that makes me feel accomplished. My dad gave me a job and threw enough money at my education, but running? No one does it for me. It’s all me.”

When the family went wine tasting, I opted to stay behind, seeing as I’d drunk my own body weight the previous night and was afraid even the scent of alcohol would upset my stomach. I sketched and watched the sunset at Foster Memorial Beach, the ocean crashing ashore tickling my toes with its foam. The air was salty and clean. My heart twisted painfully. Mom would have loved this beach.

My phone pinged with a message.

Layla: Wellllllll?

Maddie: Welllllll?

Layla: What’s going on? Also, I think Sven is onto you. He knows the Blacks are in the Hamptons this weekend. Coincidentally, he dropped by your apartment earlier and I had to tell him you’re out. Anyway, should I be worried for Ethan’s marshmallow heart?

Maddie: Nope. Chase is gross as ever.

Layla: Totally gross. In a want-to-have-his-sociopathic-babies way, right?

Maddie: First of all: I cannot believe they let you work with children. Second: I told you. He is a cheating cheater who cheats and we are not warming up to him (we = me and my body).

Layla: This sounds a lot like you trying to convince yourself.

Layla: Also, I just want to point out, I was voted teacher of the month last July. So HA.

Maddie: You mean during summer break, when kids are not at school?

Layla: Bye, party pooper. Tell the cobwebs on your va-jay-jay I said hi.

I must’ve gotten carried away with my sketching, because when I got back to the Black mansion, the door in our en suite bathroom was back on its hinges, unlike yours truly. Chase was already showered, dressed, and looking like the billion bucks he was worth, ready for dinner. I’d managed to successfully avoid him throughout the entire day by spending time with his family. I refused to thank him for taking care of me last night on the grounds that he cheated on me and was still a jerk, and I decided to continue ignoring his good deed. Chase asked if he could count on me not to spontaneously puke at the table. I flipped him the finger and headed to the still-steaming shower. He went downstairs to spend time with his father and niece while I threw three bath bombs into the hot tub, lay in it until my skin became prune-like and I’d shrunk to the size of a ten-year-old, and chose my outfit for the night (A-line black dress with cat ears on the shoulders paired with an orange cardigan and blue heels).

I did not drink a drop of alcohol through dinner and politely ignored Amber’s death stares. The stainless beauty of her, paired with the fact her husband thought I was subpar, rattled something I hadn’t known existed in me. Luckily, her daughter, Clementine, who looked to be around nine years old, turned out to be an unexpected delight. I hit it off with the little ginger thing immediately. We talked about which princess dresses were the best (Cinderella and Belle, hands down), then about our favorite superheroines. (That was where we agreed to disagree. Clementine exclaimed Wonder Woman was her first choice, while I thought the clear, obvious answer was Hermione Granger. Which led to another subargument about whether Hermione was a superheroine or not.)