Plates of cake finally start to disseminate amongst the crowd. I grab one and, with my full glass of champagne, disappear outside. The patio is empty now, no longer crammed with wedding guests. I’m guessing it’s the lack of appetizers combined with the slight chill in the air. Coming from Connecticut, the brisker air still feels tropical to me. I settle on one of the concrete benches and stare out at the golf course. It’s pristine. Perfectly manicured.

The flawless grass reminds me of a soccer field.

Reminds me of Kluvberg’s field.

Reminds me of lying on it with Beck.

I blame the recollection for what happens next. I gulp down the rest of the bubbly alcohol and spin so my feet rest on the opposite end of the concrete bench. My stilettos fall to the stone floor as I stretch my toes, luxuriating in the freedom the lack of a pointed prison allows for.

I pull my phone out of the clutch, and it turns out there is something I would do drunk I wouldn’t sober. And that’s call the number I swore to myself I never would again.

Even if I were stranded in the desert and no one else was answering. Well, maybe then.

It rings once, and I take a bite of cake. A choice I regret when he picks up on the second ring.

“Saylor?” His voice is sleepy. Shit. Yeah, it’s… I actually have no idea what time it is here, much less in Germany. But I obviously woke Beck up. I don’t say anything.

Partly because I don’t know what to say.

Partly because I’m listening to hear if he leaves his bed, or if there’s a female voice in the background.

Partly because there’s a lump of flour and sugar blocking my windpipe.

Mostly because I’m contemplating hanging up and pretending it was a butt dial.

“Saylor?” he says again, tone more alert and softer. “Is everything okay?”

I swallow several times. “Yeah, everything is fine.” I pause. “I’m at my dad’s wedding.”

“How is it?” Beck asks. His voice is still quiet, no more than an accented murmur. No background noise.

“Weird. Good. Okay. I don’t know.” I let out a small laugh. “I danced with my dad, fought with my sister, and overindulged in champagne.”

“They didn’t have any gin?”

I hate how my chest warms with the realization that he remembered that tiny detail about me. “No, they did. I had some. And then I decided to try something new, I guess.”

“New can be good.”

I don’t respond. There’s no sound besides the whisper of his exhales being transported across the ocean by technology.

Eventually, “You called me.”

For once, the obvious deserves a response. “Yeah, I did,” I confirm. “I—I don’t know. I just wanted to hear your voice.”