It was something Bea had heard Blanche say a lot over the years, her go-to dismissive phrase, but Bea had never had it directed at her before, and she’d ended up leaving lunch early.

Now Blanche drains the rest of her margarita and repeats, “Eddie.” Folding her arms on the table, she leans forward, the sleeve of her tunic coming dangerously close to a splotch of salsa by her wrist. “I never trust men who go by nicknames like that,” she says. “Like. Grown men. Your name is Robert, don’t be Bobby, for Christ’s sake, you know? Or Johnny for John.”

“Right,” Bea can’t help but reply. “Like when a guy is ‘the third’ but goes by ‘Tripp.’”

Blanche blinks at that, but then, to Bea’s surprise, laughs and sits back. “Okay, touché, you bitch,” she says, but there’s no real heat in it. Bea feels some of the tension drain away, and wonders if this night will be salvageable after all.

But then Blanche leans forward again to take Bea’s hand. She’s drunk now, Bea can tell, that third margarita finishing the job the first two started, and her grip is surprisingly tight.

“But seriously, Bea. What do you know about this guy? You met him at the beach. Who comes back from vacation with a boyfriend?”

“A fiancé, actually,” Bea says, looking Blanche in the eyes. “He asked me to marry him last week. That’s why I wanted to have dinner with you. So I could tell you. Surprise!”

Bea holds her hands out awkwardly to either side of her face, wiggling her fingers, and smiling, but she knows she’s not going to get it, the moment she’s seen other women have, the moment she gave Blanche. That pause and then the squeal and the tear-filled eyes, the inelegant hugging, the immediate plans for showers and parties, questions about rings and dresses and honeymoons.

No.

Blanche, her best friend in the entire world, doesn’t give her that.

Instead, she sits back against the booth, her lips parted in shock. Blanche is blond right now, and the color is well done, but it’s too harsh on her, and for a second, she could almost be a stranger sitting across from Bea.

Then after a moment, she gives another shrug, rattles the ice in her glass. “Well, at least let Tripp set you up with a prenup.”

Their food arrives then, and as the waiter sets their plates down, Bea can only stare at Blanche, waiting until they’re alone again to lean closer and hiss, “Thanks for that. Really supportive.”

Blanche throws up her hands, that silver bangle sliding up her skinny arm. “What do you want me to say, Bea? That I’m happy for you? That I think marrying a really hot guy who just strolled up to you on a beach is a great idea?”

“It wasn’t exactly like that,” Bea says, putting her napkin in her lap and glancing around. They’re keeping their voices low, but she still feels like they are just a few seconds away from creating a Real Housewives of Birmingham scene, and that’s the last thing she wants.

It’s the last thing that the old Blanche would’ve wanted, too, but with this new Blanche—too thin, too drunk, too blond—who knows?

“You don’t get it,” Blanche insists, and now, okay, yes, a woman at another table is glancing over, her eyebrows slightly raised. “You’re rich now, Bea. And not, like, normal person rich. You aren’t a successful lawyer or doctor. You are on your way to having Fuck You Money, and this guy knows it.”

“And that’s why he’s interested in me, right?” Bea says, feeling her face go hot even as every other part of her seems cold. “Because I’m rich. Which, coincidentally, is also what bugs you. Obviously, being my friend was a lot easier when I was some … some fucking charity case for you.”

Blanche scoffs at that, sitting back in the booth hard enough to rattle it. “Okay, fine. I’m just trying to look out for you and remind you that you can’t just attach yourself to anyone who’s nice to you, but seeing as how that’s your entire deal, I guess I’m wasting my breath.”

Bea is almost shaking now, can’t even conceive of eating her dinner, and she pushes the plate away and picks up her drink. The ice has melted, the margarita has turned salty and sour and too strong, but she downs it anyway.

“I just want you to be careful,” Blanche says, her expression softened. “You hardly know him. You’ve been together, what? A month?”

“Three months,” Bea replies. “And I know everything I need to know. I know he loves me, and I know I love him.”

Blanche’s face twists. “Right. Because love is definitely all that matters.”

“I know things are rough with Tripp right now—”

“They’re not ‘rough,’” Blanche argues, making air quotes with her fingers. “It’s just that marriage is a lot more work than you’re thinking.” Then she shakes her head, puts her fork down. “But then again, he’s hot and you’re rich, so hey, maybe it’ll be easier for you two. Maybe that’s the secret.”

Anger drains out of Bea so quickly it’s like someone pulled a plug.

Blanche is jealous of her.

That’s what all this is about.

Blanche is jealous. Jealous of her money, jealous of her success, and now, jealous of her man.

Bea never imagined that Blanche would ever want anything of hers. And now, she wants everything.

Which makes it easier for Bea to gently take Blanche’s hand. “Can we declare a truce?” she asks softly. “Because it’s going to be super awkward to have you as my maid of honor if we’re not speaking to each other.”

Blanche snorts, but after a minute, she squeezes Bea’s hand back.

PART III

JANE

10

I didn’t know sheets could actually smell soft, but Eddie’s do.

Every morning when I wake up in that big upholstered bed, I hold the sheets up to my nose and inhale, wondering how I got this fucking lucky.

It’s been two weeks since I more or less moved in with Eddie, two weeks of soft linens and sinking into the plush sofa in the living room in the afternoon, watching bad reality shows on the massive television.

I’m never leaving this place.

I get out of the bed slowly, my toes curling against the plush rug awaiting my feet. The bedroom is luxurious in all the right ways—dark wood, deep blues, the occasional splash of gray. Neutral. Masculine.