Georgia approached us gracefully, her Coach carry-on in the crook of her arm and an extra-large, matching suitcase rolling beside her. She set her luggage down and opened her arms, embracing me in a too-long hug. She smelled like honeydew and toothpaste; as usual, she looked like a girl who, although humbly and smartly dressed, could have been a runway model. Thick blond hair, beachy waves. Long, striking eyelashes that were clearly extensions, but could probably pass for real ones. When she smiled, she showed all her teeth. And, as I glanced down at her feet, I noted her espadrilles—she had better taste in shoes, that’s for sure.

Georgia extracted herself from our embrace and turned to Rosalee. “Hi there! Congratulations! I’m so excited for this trip. Thank you for letting me come, and for asking me to be a bridesmaid,” Georgia beamed. She put her arms around Rosalee, who looked startled as she settled into the embrace. That was one thing that Georgia and Rosalee had in common—they were both too nice. I just wished she’d run Rosalee off and stake her claim on my son. Lord knows they looked more suited for one another, and they were both enthusiastic about their careers. Unlike Rosalee, with her strange and eerie paintings, the dusty spots of chalk on her clothes and face whenever I stopped by for a visit…

“Aw, it’s my pleasure. Thank you for agreeing to be a bridesmaid. You’re Asher’s best friend, so it only makes sense…” Rosalee said. She closed her mouth then opened it, then closed it again, as though she had something else to say but couldn’t.

As Bri handed over Georgia’s shirt—nicer and well-fitted, for certain—I watched Rosalee study my son’s best friend. It was no surprise Georgia intimidated her.

Good. She should be intimidated. She should be afraid of us all, I thought, slyly.

Chapter Three

Mara

The best friend

My eyes wandered from one woman to the next as I approached with my shiny black carry-on bag. I had many flaws, but if there was one thing I was good at, it was reading a room. Rosalee’s awful soon-to-be in-laws, the beak-nosed Mrs. Beake and her thunderous daughter Bri looked downright miserable, waiting in their neatly-pressed designer pants, silky button-downs, and over-priced flats. Did they plan out their outfits together in advance? Ew, I thought, leerily.

And Georgia. The fucking Georgia. Don’t get me started on her…

Georgia is the bane of my best friend Rosalee’s existence. Rosalee didn’t tell me that, but then again, she didn’t need to. Best friends know these things.

When your fiancé’s ‘best friend’ is a woman who looks like an Instagram model, there’s nothing left to do but hate. And me, being me, can’t help hating anyone who upsets my closest friend from college.