Page 190 of Wild Card 13

Her eyebrows lifted.

“I mean yes,” I said quickly. “Obviously yes. I’m saying no to whatever emotional damage you are about to inflict before asking.”

Freya laughed through her tears.

Lo’s mouth curved.

Bea’s smile wobbled. “You made Northbend feel like somewhere I could belong without performing all the time,” she said. She looked down at her tea, then back at me. “You probably don’t realize that. Actually, you definitely don’t realize that because you are terrible at knowing how much you matter to people.”

“I am not terrible.”

“But I love you anyway,” she continued, her voice thick again. “And I want you with me. Will you be one of my bridesmaids?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling. “Of course yes. Are you kidding? I get to stand beside you while you marry a man who looks like he was assembled out of unresolved tension and German engineering.”

Bea pressed both hands to her face. “I love all of you.”

Freya stood first, knocking the blanket half off my lap. Bea tried to rise carefully and nearly took the breadbasket with her. Lo made a soft, emotional sound and stood too, arms already open. Somehow, in the limited space between the table, curved sofa, teacups, plates, and one rejected poached egg, all four of us ended up tangled together in a ridiculous, laughing group hug.

I stood between them with one arm around Bea and the other trapped somewhere behind Freya’s shoulder, my cheek pressedagainst Lo’s scarf, laughing hard enough that the sound came out wet.

It should have been embarrassing.

It probably was.

I did not care in the least.

Outside, snow kept falling over Northbend.

Inside the igloo, Bea cried and blamed the baby. Freya declared herself head of bridesmaid athletic conditioning. Lo began discussing silk robes in a tone that suggested resistance would be futile. I told her no one needed silk robes. She told me that was exactly the sort of sadness silk robes were invented to cure.

By the time we sat back down, the table was a disaster.

The croissants had collapsed into flakes. Someone had spilled tea near the mimosa pitcher. Freya had icing on her sleeve. Bea’s mascara had given up on subtlety. Lo looked luminous despite crying, which felt unfair. My glasses were fogged slightly at the edges from the heat of the igloo and the closeness of the hug.

Arlo chose that exact moment to open the door with dessert.

He took one look at all four of us and stopped. “Do I need to fight someone?”

Freya pointed at Bea. “She asked us to be bridesmaids.”

Arlo’s expression softened so quickly it nearly undid me all over again. “Yeah?” he said.

Bea nodded, wiping under her eyes. “And Lo maid of honor.”

Arlo set the dessert in the middle of the table. Four small chocolate cakes dusted with powdered sugar and raspberries. “On the house,” he said.

Lo narrowed her eyes.

He held up one hand. “Wedding party dessert does not count toward the bill.”

“That is suspicious accounting,” I said.

Bea laughed, and the whole table followed.

The sound filled the igloo, warm and bright and alive. It pressed against the clear walls, rose into the string lights, wrapped itself around the candles and the coffee and the little plates of food we had destroyed without dignity.

I looked around at them.