Present

I push Maya's door open again and don't even bother being gentle.

I jump straight onto the bed.

"Maya—"

She groans like she's been summoned from the dead. "Stop. Please. Why is my head doing rounds and rounds and rounds?"

I flop down beside her, breathless from laughing. "Well, probably because... you got drunk, baby."

She squints at me, one eye barely open. "What? Again? Why did I get drunk?" She pauses, then her face softens into a dreamy smile. "Oh. I was having such a nice dream. There was this Italian man. He took me to eat some kind of sandwich. Or bread. Or pizza-adjacent thing. And he was so hot. Maddie. The way he spoke Italian—"

"Oh, I've seen it," I say flatly.

She frowns. "What do you mean you've seen it? Were you in my dream?"

She turns over, clearly attempting to go back to sleep.

I say nothing.

Two seconds pass.

Her eyes fly open. "Oh my God. No. No, no, no. Say it's not true."

I sit back against the headboard. "If it consoles you, I think he actually liked you drunk. But I'm pretty sure he'd love you sober. So. There's that."

She covers her face with the pillow. "I want to die."

"Oh, you want to die?" I grab another pillow. "Because I honestly might kill you."

She peeks at me. "Okay, fair."

I swing the pillow at her head.

She yelps, rolling away. "No! Redemption arc! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

We end up laughing, breathless, pillows everywhere, until she finally surrenders and lets me smack her once more for good measure.

"Yeah," she says, panting. "I deserve that."

She looks at me more seriously then. "So. How are things going?"

I fall back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Amazing. Truly. In the first, what—four hours of dating, we've already had at least three arguments."

She snorts. "That's not because you're dating. That's just you two."

"Exactly," I say. "Dating didn't change a thing."

She props herself up on one elbow. "Okay, but why were you arguing?"

I hesitate. There are things I can't explain. Things that don't make sense unless you've lived them.

So I go with the most ridiculous one.

"Victoria."

Maya's face lights up instantly. "What do you mean Victoria?"

"Oh, before the argument," I say casually, "she kind of wanted to murder me."

Her mouth falls open. "You're joking."

"Nope. Also—" I sigh. "I just found out she dated Luke."

She shoots upright. "Holy shit. No way. You're lying."

"I wish."

She stares at me, then bursts out laughing. "She's completely delusional."

"Yeah," I nod. "That part we already knew."

"Oh my God," she wheezes. "You managed to piss off Victoria again. Ten years later."

"And the worst part?" I grin. "She's genuinely furious about us dating."

Maya gasps dramatically. "So you're saying—"

"I'm saying," I interrupt, "this fake dating thing has benefits."

She claps once. "Victoria suffering."

We high-five.

I glance at the clock and groan. "Okay, this was therapeutic, but we have round two of today."

She sinks back into the pillows. "Define round two."

"You getting into a cute dress," I say. "Because apparently we're having dinner outside with all the wedding guests."

She makes a face. "Ugh. So Sophia-and-Henry-coded."

"True," I agree. "But also the best night of Henry's life. He's going to melt. I genuinely think he might pass out when Sophia walks by."

Maya laughs, rolling off the bed. "Yeah. He's doomed."

And somehow, despite everything—the lies, the arguments, Luke, Victoria, Tuscany—I realize this is the first moment all day where my chest doesn't feel tight.

At least Maya's still Maya.

By the time Maya is vertical again—technically sober, emotionally questionable—we're both wrapped in fluffy white robes, standing in front of the mirror like two exhausted bridesmaids who survived a battle.

"Okay," I say, clapping my hands once. "Operation: Look Like Functioning Adults."

Maya squints at her reflection. "I look like I lost a fight with Prosecco."

"You look Italian-chic hungover," I correct. "Very on brand."

She groans but reaches for a dress anyway—soft linen, pale blue, the kind that looks effortless but absolutely isn't. I change too, something simple and flowy, because Tuscany has a way of making you feel underdressed no matter what you wear.

Ten minutes later, we're brushing hair, fixing straps, passing lip balm back and forth like it's contraband.

"Do I look okay?" Maya asks, spinning once.

"You look like you didn't drunkenly flirt with a tour guide this afternoon," I say. "Which is impressive."

She points a finger at me. "No witnesses."

We grab our bags and step into the hallway, the villa already humming with voices, laughter echoing through the stone corridors. Somewhere downstairs, glasses clink. Someone laughs too loudly. Someone else is already tipsy again.

Maya links her arm through mine. "Okay," she whispers. "Deep breath. If I see Vincenzo, and I die, tell my story."

"I'll lie," I say. "Dramatically."

We descend the stairs slowly, and the space opens up into the central courtyard. Long wooden tables stretch across the terrace, lit by warm string lights. Candles flicker. Plates are already set. The air smells like bread, olive oil, and something herby and rich that makes my stomach growl.

It's beautiful in that effortless Italian way—like no one tried too hard, and yet everything is perfect.

Sophia and Henry stand near the center, greeting people, both glowing. Henry catches my eye and beams like a kid on Christmas morning.

"See?" I mutter to Maya. "Already melting."

She snickers.

Guests start finding their seats, drifting into clusters. I scan the crowd without meaning to—and of course, I find him.

Luke stands near one of the tables, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking infuriatingly calm. Like he didn't just argue with me an hour ago. Like he didn't leave my room with that tight jaw and that final, too-controlled nod.

Our eyes meet.

For half a second, neither of us looks away.

Then he does first, turning back to Tyler, who's mid-story and gesturing wildly with a bread basket.

Maya nudges me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I lie easily. "Why?"

"You're doing that thing where your face goes neutral, but your soul is screaming."

I huff. "I don't do that."

"You absolutely do."

We move toward the table, finding our seats. Maya drops into hers with a sigh of relief.

"I'm starving," she says. "If this dinner saves my life, I will personally thank Italy."

I sit down too, smoothing my dress, trying to settle the buzz under my skin.

This is it, I think. Round two. Public setting. Polite smiles. Fake couple energy.

Across the table, Luke finally looks at me again. Not angry. Not soft. Just... unreadable.

I lift my chin slightly.

Dinner

Maddie

The food arrives in waves—platters of pasta passed hand to hand, bowls of salad slick with olive oil, baskets of bread that never seem to empty. The table is one long, chaotic thing, elbows brushing, glasses clinking, conversations overlapping in three different directions at once.

It should feel comforting.

Instead, I'm hyperaware of exactly who's sitting where.

Sophia's parents are only two seats down from us—her mom elegant and warm, her dad already halfway into a story no one asked for. Across from me, Luke sits straight-backed, polite, perfectly composed, like he's attending a networking dinner instead of a wedding weekend.

I stab a piece of bread a little too aggressively.

Sophia's mom turns toward us mid-conversation, her smile gentle but curious in that way moms have when they already know the answer and still want to hear you say it.

"So," she says warmly, looking between Luke and me, "Sophia mentioned you two are together."

There it is.

The sentence lands like a dropped fork—small sound, huge echo.

Luke and I glance at each other at the exact same time.

I force a smile. Luke beats me to it.

"Yes," he says smoothly. Too smoothly. "We are."

I nod, adding, "Yeah. We are."

Sophia's dad leans in, elbows on the table. "Really together, or young people together?" he asks, winking like he's clever.

Maya chokes on her water.

I reach over and pat her back a little too hard, then look up again. "Really together," I say, keeping my tone light. "As real as it gets."

Luke's hand appears on the table—too close to mine to be accidental.

He doesn't touch me.

Which somehow makes it worse.

"Oh, that's lovely," Sophia's mom says, genuinely pleased. "Henry said you've known each other a long time."

"Yes," Luke replies. "We grew up together."

"That explains the comfort," her dad says, nodding sagely. "You can always tell. You sit like people who already know how the other breathes."

I almost laugh. Almost choke. Almost combust.

Luke, to his credit, doesn't even flinch. He turns slightly toward me, posture relaxed, voice softer.

"She knows all my bad habits," he says.

I blink at him.

This is new.

"Oh?" Sophia's mom asks.

"Unfortunately," I jump in quickly, before Luke can get ideas, "I do."

Luke tilts his head. "Unfortunately?"

I smile sweetly. "You alphabetize spices."

Sophia's dad laughs loudly. "That's not a flaw, that's a gift!"

"He corrects people's grammar mid-sentence," I add.

Luke raises an eyebrow. "You once microwaved aluminum foil."

"That happened once," I snap, then catch myself and laugh. "And it was a stressful time."

Maya snorts while trying to hide a grin behind her glass. Henry looks between us like he's watching tennis.

Sophia's mom beams. "Oh, I adore this already."

Luke finally, finally places his hand over mine.

It's casual. Brief. Just enough.

My breath stutters.

"Maddison keeps life interesting," he says, eyes on me now. "I'd be bored otherwise."

I meet his gaze, heart doing something extremely inconvenient.

"Well," I say, squeezing his hand once—too hard to be affectionate, just enough to remind him I'm here—"Luke keeps me from accidentally burning down buildings."

Sophia's dad laughs again. "Perfect balance."

The conversation shifts then, pulled away by someone asking about the pasta, about the wine, about whether Tuscany is always this beautiful.

Luke lets go of my hand.

Too quickly.

I pick up my fork, suddenly aware of the heat in my cheeks, the way my pulse hasn't slowed down yet.

Maya leans toward me and whispers, "Wow."

"What?"

"You two almost convinced me."

I mutter, "Don't."

Across the table, Luke catches my eye again. This time, there's something unreadable there—not annoyance, not anger.

Something closer to amusement.

I clear my throat and do what I do best when my emotions start acting up—change the subject so hard it should be illegal.

"By the way," I say, projecting my voice just enough, "very important question. Where is Josh?"

A couple of heads turn. Forks pause mid-air.

Henry, three or four chairs down, looks up from his plate. "Josh?" He blinks, thinking. "They should arrive either tonight or tomorrow. His schedule is... complicated."

I glance at Maya.

She very deliberately does not look at me. Instead, she keeps eating like the pasta personally offended her.

Luke answers before I can poke the bear. "He said he'd try to get here tonight. Probably late. Like—middle of the night late."

"So," I say, processing, "we'll already be asleep."

Luke nods. "Most likely."

Henry chuckles. "That's what happens when you date professional athletes."

Maya snorts into her wine. "Fame is rough."

I lift an eyebrow at her. Slowly. Carefully. "Are you still mad about it?"

Maya doesn't even look up. "No. Why would I be?"

"Because you've said exactly seven words in the last ten minutes, and one of them was fame," I reply.

She finally looks at me. Smiles too brightly. "I'm totally fine."

I turn to Henry.

He shrugs. "Scheduling conflicts. Big ones. It slipped."

I nod. "Right. Slipped."

Sophia leans in gently then, her voice calm in that bride way that could de-escalate wars. "I did consider putting you all on opposite sides of the table," she admits, smiling, "but you're friends. And we'll all be polite, right?"

Her eyes land pointedly on Maya.

Maya straightens immediately. "Yep. Polite. Absolute picture of grace."

I narrow my eyes. "You will be on your best behavior."

She nods solemnly. "One hundred percent."

A beat.

"Just put me next to the Italian guy and I'll be okay."

I groan. Luke exhales through his nose. Henry laughs outright.

Sophia shakes her head, smiling. "I'll... see what I can do."

The conversation dissolves again into overlapping chatter, wine being poured, someone arguing about which pasta is better. I sink back in my chair, letting the noise wash over me.

Luke leans slightly closer—not touching, not quite retreating either.

"Think you can do that," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear, "be polite?."

I side-eye him. "Don't encourage me."