“Hmmm?” Wyatt opens his eyes slowly, sitting upright in his seat, hands on the armrests like he thinks we were going to crash or something. “Where are we?”

“Still on the plane, genius,” I say. “We just landed.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Huh. I thought it’d be rougher than that.”

“It was,” I say. We came in a little too quickly for my comfort. “But you were knocked out.”

“I guess I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Well, you’d better get over it. Once we’re at the hotel, we won’t have much time until we have to get changed and head to the first dinner.”

“What time is it here?”

I take my phone off airplane mode, letting it catch up. “Three. Kind of.”

“Ugh, gross.”

With my phone back online, the missed texts and calls start coming in. There are a few from Samuel, and some new pictures in the group chat. Hoon is with his parents in Connecticut, and Samuel is back in New York. Mark was talking about the weather in London, but because of the time difference, no one else was awake.

Nothing from Josh.

Not here, at least.

There is one more missed call, though.

From Do Not Answer.

I’ll have to call back at some point, but that can wait until we’re at the hotel.

Part of me still thinks we might have time to book a flight back to Charlotte. I don’t have to do this. In fact, skipping the wedding might lead to my excommunication from the family, and isn’t that the dream? I won’t have to deal with Michael, or Mother, or Josh.

Fowler and I grab our bags and make our way quickly down to the baggage claim, where we have to stand for his last bag to come out on the conveyor belt. I try not to stare daggers at him as we’re forced to wait. The last thing I want is to be late for this dinner. I’ll never hear the end of it.

My phone rings.

“Who is Do Not Answer?” Wyatt asks.

That’s when I realize he’s staring over my shoulder. I tuck my screen to my chest so he can’t read it.

“No one,” I say.

Wyatt shrugs and grabs his bag, and we make our way out to the pickup area.

“Are you parents coming to get us or something?”

“Bold of you to assume my mother would waste her time,” I say as I order a Lyft.

“Your mom seems like a lovely person.”

“You’ll get to see just how lovely soon enough.”

Fowler looks around, kicking his feet on the pavement while we wait. “You grew up here, right?”

“Why would I have been raised in an airport?”

He shakes his head, but there’s this unmistakable hint of a smile on his lips. “Funny.”

“Yes, I grew up in California. In Bel Air, to be specific.”

“Is it nice there?”

“Nicer than Charlotte. I don’t know how you deal with the humidity. It makes my skin feel awful.”