Chapter 85

The night started with a warning.

"No tequila. No loud music. And if anyone tries to get me to wear a sash that says 'Bride to Be,' I will throw myself off this roof," Alex had declared the moment they arrived—one hand on her bump, the other holding the edge of her maxi dress like a Victorian ghost with murder in her heart.

And they'd all nodded solemnly, like it was law.

Except Paloma, who had already started unwrapping the satin sash with mischievous reverence and muttered something about freedom of expression before Emma confiscated it with zero hesitation and tucked it into her briefcase like evidence in a court case.

Now, two hours later, the rooftop glowed like a sanctuary.

It wasn't rowdy. Wasn't wild. But it pulsed with a quiet kind of magic—candles flickering low on every table, the city skyline stretching wide around them like a protective spell. Strings of warm fairy lights wrapped the railings, casting a golden softness over the group. Every so often, the soft clink of a glass or the low hum of laughter would ripple through the air like a lullaby.

Alex was curled up on a cushioned daybed near the edge, swaddled in a floaty white maternity dress that caught the breeze like a whisper. Tiny embroidered moons circled the hem like guardians. Her belly rose like a gentle swell beneath her hand, and her other arm cradled a sweating mocktail glass full of mango, mint, and crushed ice. Her cheeks glowed with the kind of warmth that comes from being loved and slightly overstimulated. Her feet were propped on a velvet pouf. Her smile could've lit the whole city block.

Hanna Bang had taken control of the music early on, her taste impeccable and vaguely chaotic—flipping between K-R&B deep cuts, soulful ballads, and the Mamma Mia soundtrack like it was her God-given right. She wore a rose-gold sequined jacket over a graphic tee that said "THE BRIDE IS MY SISTER-IN-LAW, DON'T TOUCH ME," and sipped a lavender soda like it was wine.

Paloma was running games like it was her full-time job—boisterous, fast-talking, fully in her element. She'd brought a stack of "truth or dare" cards customized for hormonal women with no time for BS, and had already tricked Kendra into pretending to slow dance with a chair and forced Beth to rap about sea creatures.

Emma, as expected, had stolen a clipboard from a passing waiter and begun assigning everyone fake roles for the night. She'd labeled herself "Defense Attorney for the Bride's Sanity," Paloma "Director of Vibes," and Kendra "Supreme Leader of Comfort." Hanna was written in as "Minister of Music and Mocktails." Beth's card, handed to her with zero preamble, read: EMOTIONAL SUPPORT BEST FRIEND (May threaten men with a dessert fork.)

Kendra, glowing and heavily pregnant in a moss-green wrap dress, had parked herself in a plush corner throne like a regal fertility goddess. Her lemon water tumbler was comically large—practically a fishbowl—and the plate of meticulously sliced fruit beside her had been arranged by a visibly panicked waiter who now hovered nearby, just in case someone sneezed too hard near her.

"You know," Kendra said around a piece of watermelon, her tone dry and warm, "I feel like this is just a support group for hot, exhausted women who survived hell and are now soft and hormonal."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Alex burst into laughter—real, gut-shaking laughter that made her mocktail slosh dangerously close to the rim of her glass. "God," she said, leaning into Kendra with a grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I've never felt more seen."

Beth dropped dramatically onto the cushion beside them with a theatrical groan. Her hair had come mostly loose from its twist, a rogue curl sticking to the side of her neck. Glitter clung stubbornly to her collarbone, and her eyeliner had smudged just enough to make her look like someone who'd either cried, danced, or battled demons—possibly all three. She let her head fall back against the cushion, lips parted in mock despair. "Okay but seriously. My kid tried to freestyle rap this morning about jellyfish. I am no longer a person. I am a maternal punchline."

"I want to hear it," Alex said instantly, eyes going wide with interest, the kind that bordered on mischief.

Beth blinked at her. "You what?"

Alex nodded toward her belly like it was a satellite dish. "We want to hear it. She's learning language. Rhythm. Culture."

Paloma let out a choking snort, strawberry soda nearly going up her nose. "Oh my god. This child is gonna come out rapping in 6/8 time with perfect pitch and a grudge."

Emma leaned forward, her voice mock-serious and her eyes glittering. "Does the baby already have a playlist?"

Alex pointed vaguely toward her oversized leather tote. "She has three. One is angry Stray Kids songs for when I have Braxton Hicks and want to feel like a goddess of war. One is ocean sounds and lo-fi for naps. And the third one is literally titled 'I'm Trying Not to Have a Panic Attack Today.'"

Hanna didn't miss a beat. "That's the title of my debut album."

And just like that, the rooftop cracked open with laughter. Big, belly-deep laughter. The kind that made Kendra nearly spill her lemon water. The kind that made Emma hide behind her clipboard because her mascara was running. The kind that made Beth slap her thigh and wheeze. The kind that shook Alex until her belly trembled and she let out a tiny squeal of, "Stop—she's kicking! I think you offended her musical taste!"

"She's got critiques already," Beth said, reaching across the low table and plucking a piece of dark chocolate from a floral dish. "Here—bribe her. That's what I do. Works on my kid, works on my cat. Might work on yours."

Paloma slid a fresh mocktail across the table with a flourish. "This one's called Mint Condition. It tastes like being wanted."

Emma took one sip and made a face. "It tastes like toothpaste and sexual tension, but go off."

Alex took a sip, considered. "I taste the tension. I don't know if it wants me or wants me to floss."

"I think it wants to do both," Hanna said. "Lovingly."

That was all it took.

The conversation unraveled into glorious nonsense after that—detangling into chaotic debates about the sex appeal of hydration (apparently Kendra once cried during a spa facial), whether anyone had actually enjoyed a cucumber cocktail (Emma claimed yes, Paloma accused her of Stockholm Syndrome), and whether Beth's glitter collarbone could be legally declared a public distraction (Hanna offered to file paperwork).

"Look at it," Paloma said dramatically, pointing. "It's weaponized. I'd follow it into war."

Beth raised her glass. "Thank you. It's Fenty and unresolved trauma."

And somehow, in the glow of fairy lights strung above them, in the soft clatter of mocktail glasses and the breeze that teased their hair and hems, they forgot the ache. Not entirely. Not forever. But just enough to make room for something else. Something better. Something that sounded like belly laughs and tasted like strawberry soda. Something that wrapped around them like a safety net.

They played games next. Some traditional. Some utterly ridiculous.

Emma valiantly tried to moderate a round of wedding trivia ("How many hours did Alex sleep the week of her first recon mission? Wrong. None."), but it dissolved into glorious chaos when Kendra, in a moment of unhinged genius, began acting out "Jellyfish in Labor" during charades—her limbs flopping, her face a study in underwater agony.

Paloma collapsed to the floor gasping, one arm flung across her eyes. "Stop—stop—I'm going to pee. I've never laughed this hard in my life and I was once tased in a helicopter."

Hanna threw a pillow at her. "No peeing on the bride's pillows!"

By the time the playlist had drifted into slow piano and soft strings, they'd migrated into a loose sprawl—tucked under throw blankets, bare feet brushing against one another, makeup smudged, hair undone, laughter worn down to quiet hums and glowing smiles. The city glittered around them like it knew them. Like it had been waiting for this too.

Alex leaned back into a pile of cushions, her belly rising gently with every breath, one hand pressed instinctively to the flutter of movement beneath her skin. The candlelight flickered along her dress. Her shoulders, finally, had dropped from where they usually hovered near her ears. Her breathing had found a rhythm.

She didn't say anything for a while.

And then—soft, like the wind might take it—"I didn't think I'd get this. Any of it. Not after everything."

Beth turned her head toward her. The look in her eyes was quiet, steady. The smile on her lips was soft, but the ache behind it was ancient. "You almost didn't," she said. Not cruel. Not sad. Just true. "But you chose it. Again and again."

Emma shifted forward and reached for her ankle, squeezing gently. "You fought for this."

Paloma added, voice low and reverent, "And you built it."

Kendra leaned in, one hand resting protectively over her own belly. "You didn't just survive, Al," she said, voice thick. "You became."

Alex blinked hard. Then let out a half-laugh, half-sob. "Okay. Nope. Don't do this. Don't make me cry while I'm sober and emotionally unstable and wearing the only white dress that still fits."

Beth passed her a napkin like a peace offering. "Too late."

Alex dabbed at her eyes with exaggerated gentleness, sniffling. "God. I love you idiots."

"We love you too," Hanna said, cracking open a can of soda like it was a bottle of champagne. "To soft, hormonal bitches who still know how to fight."

They all raised their glasses—mocktail, mineral water, ginger ale, strawberry soda—and clinked them together beneath the faint starlight. The sound was soft. Sacred. Like a lullaby in glass.

Then came the chorus of "cheers!" and exaggerated sipping, followed by Hanna dramatically gagging as she tried Mint Condition again.

"I'm filing a human rights complaint," she muttered, pushing the glass away and opening a ginger ale instead. "That drink is an acquired trauma."

Emma nodded solemnly. "I'm calling the UN."

Beth stood, one hand bracing on the back of the couch. "Okay. Enough beverage war crimes. It's time for the main event."

Alex gave her a wary look. "What kind of main event? I'm too pregnant for a conga line and not drunk enough for a roast."

Beth grinned. "No roasts. No dares. No ice cream-eating contests—though that was pitched."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "By who?"

"Paloma," Emma and Beth said in unison.

"Valid," Alex said.

Beth moved to the table and picked up a small pale-pink box, nestled beside a stack of delicate envelopes tied with a silk ribbon. She held it up like it was sacred.

"This," she announced, "is the Bride Box. A tradition I just made up but will now pretend has deep ancestral significance passed down through generations of dramatic women and emotionally constipated soldiers."

Everyone groaned.

Alex squinted. "Is there a ceremony? Are there robes?"

"There can be," Hanna offered.

Beth opened the box and began to lift out the contents one by one: a tiny Polaroid camera, a glittery heart-shaped bottle of sparkling juice, a miniature disco ball, flower-shaped tissues, a fancy hand lotion that smelled like bergamot and fresh linen, and a single dark chocolate truffle wrapped in gold foil.

"What is this, a magical survival kit?" Hanna asked, deadpan.

"Basically," Beth said. "Here's the plan. One by one, we're going to go around and give Alex something for her future. It can be advice, a wish, a memory, a threat—whatever feels appropriate. Verbal, tangible, spiritual. We accept all forms."

"I love that it escalated to threat," Paloma said, stealing another strawberry.

"I accept threats," Alex said solemnly. "They feel like love."

Beth passed her the first envelope. "Okay, Emma. You're up."

Emma adjusted her hair, cleared her throat, and stood like she was about to deliver a closing argument in court. "Alex," she said, her voice somehow both dry and sincere, "I hope you always remember that love isn't just vows and rings and perfect days. It's taking turns doing dishes. It's staying when the other person is annoying. It's showing up after a hard week. May your marriage be full of loud support and quiet forgiveness." She blinked. "Also, use lube. Don't be a hero."

The group howled.

"Legal and horny," Hanna declared. "As God intended."

Kendra went next, her voice slow and steady—like someone speaking from the eye of the storm. She shifted her weight with care, one hand absently smoothing the fabric of her moss-green wrap dress as she looked at Alex. Really looked at her. Not just the glowing bride-to-be, the survivor, the warrior. But the woman beneath all that—the one who was still learning how to let herself be.

"Alex..." she began, her tone a warm tether. "I hope you find ways to rest in your marriage."

Alex's lips parted slightly, already blinking too fast.

"Not just sleep," Kendra continued, her voice wrapping around the group like a blanket. "I mean the kind of rest that sinks into your bones. The kind where you're allowed to just exist and be loved for it. No performance. No armor. Just... soft, human, messy love. The kind that lets you be held without question. The kind that doesn't ask you to earn it."

The words landed like a balm. Like a benediction.

Alex tried to speak, but her throat closed around the effort. Her hand went to her belly, her other swiping at her eyes.

Beth reached over and gently squeezed her knee.

Paloma broke the hush with a low exhale. "Okay, wow. Following that is illegal."

But she smiled, leaning forward. "Alright. I'm not gonna top that. But I will say this."

She shifted, letting her elbow rest on the pillow beside her, her fingers turning her glass in slow circles.

"Five years ago," she said, "I was stuck in a blown-out safe house in Jordan, bleeding from my shoulder and thinking, 'Well, shit. This is it.' And then you showed up."

Alex smiled through her tears.

"You were covered in soot. Your radio was fried. You had blood on your boot and zero backup. But you kicked the door in like a goddamn movie villain and said—" Paloma deepened her voice, "'Get up, Paloma. You owe me lunch.'"

Laughter rippled again, soft and grateful.

"But that's the thing," Paloma added. "You didn't just save me. You stayed with me. You made me believe again. In life. In sisterhood. In second chances." She raised her glass gently. "I hope Chan keeps you believing, even on the quiet days."

Alex mouthed "thank you," her lashes wet.

Beth sniffed. "Okay. I was doing fine until now."

She thrust the last envelope into Hanna's lap, a clear distraction tactic.

Hanna opened it, read for half a second, then snorted hard enough to nearly drop it. "It's blank."

Beth squinted. "What? Wait—no. Flip it."

Hanna turned it over and read aloud, "You're hot. Your baby is going to be hot. Your husband is also hot. Please enjoy your future of being hot." She looked up. "This is from me."

The eruption of laughter was instant. Loud. Sharp. Needed.

Alex wheezed through her giggles. "I feel so validated right now."

Beth wiped a tear from her cheek and handed her the camera. "Okay. Your turn. One picture for us. One for the baby."

So they took pictures.

One of each of them holding the camera too close to their face. One of Kendra pretending to give birth to a throw pillow while Hanna screamed "Push!" like a backup doula. One of Beth rapping beside a candle with a spatula as her mic. One of Paloma with her arms flung wide like a victorious gladiator. One of Alex mid-laugh, glowing and soft and unguarded—her hand on her belly, her heart in her eyes.

When the playlist shifted to something soft and slow—something wordless and aching—Paloma rose.

She held out a hand. "Dance with me."

Alex hesitated. Not because she didn't want to, but because something inside her was too full. Too fragile. Too quietly stunned by the joy of it all.

Paloma raised a brow, teasing. "Come on. Just once. One dance."

So Alex stood.

They danced like idiots. Like sisters. Like people who had nearly died a thousand times and still came back with glitter on their cheeks.

Alex moved slow and swaying, one hand on her bump, the other clasped with Paloma's as they turned in loose, uneven circles beneath the lights. The city blinked behind them, tall and golden. The breeze tugged at the hem of her dress. Somewhere behind her, someone hummed the tune.

Beth watched from the cushions, hand pressed gently to her chest.

She didn't cry. Not quite. But something rose in her—deep and warm and too big to name. A swell of memory, of fear survived, of futures claimed.

This wasn't the night she'd imagined for Alex, back when they used to whisper dreams into the dark like spells—when just surviving felt like victory enough.

It wasn't perfect.

It was better.