Whiskey!

The whiskey tasting filled the terrace with its own brand of gravity, the lantern light soft enough that it blurred the edges of everyone into slow-moving outlines, not quite strangers, not quite friends. For the first time all day, Andy found himself with nowhere specific to be. He drifted, glass in hand, until he spotted Felix and Van at the far end of the longest table, both parked in seats as though daring the world to try and move them.

Felix had a ginger ale, the glass beaded and sweating. Van had an empty whiskey tumbler, turning it between his palms like he was waiting for someone to tell him whether it was a weapon or a cup. Andy slid into the seat between them, just a little too close for polite spacing, and nodded toward the line of bottles standing sentinel on the table.

“You two look like you’re negotiating a peace treaty,” Andy said, easy. “Who’s winning?”

Van answered without looking up: “I think we’re mostly waiting for the other side to surrender. Not clear who that is yet.”

Felix’s mouth twitched, the line of his jaw going softer for half a second before he caught himself and straightened it out. Andy caught it anyway. He leaned back, let his arms drape off the chair like he was about to take a nap.

“You could do worse,” Andy said. “Neither of you struck me as the ‘lose on purpose’ types.”

Felix, after a pause, asked, “How’s the party treating you?”

Andy considered, then shrugged, watching the way the lantern light caught the condensation on Felix’s glass. “It’s good. I don’t know that it’s possible to make this place feel normal, but this is the closest I’ve seen anyone get.” He looked at Van. “You holding up?”

Van didn’t move, but the line of his mouth curled in a way that might have meant “sure” or might have meant “no one’s murdered anyone yet, so yes.” He finally spoke: “Better than I thought, but it’s weird seeing people who used to be just text on a page sitting around the same table.” He glanced at Art quickly, then at Herman. “And I didn’t realize how tall some of you are. It didn’t occur to me I’d have to look up this much.”

Andy grinned, the real one, wide and easy. “It’s a lie. I’m pretty sure Mark’s still the tallest here. Laura used a potion to temporarily make herself taller. I just keep standing on my tiptoes.”

Felix snorted—actually snorted, a little—and then tried to erase the sound by taking a long sip of his ginger ale. He lowered the glass and said, “You’re… handling this well.”

Andy let the quiet sit a beat. He thought about dodging, but instead he met Felix’s eyes, steady. “I read the letter,” he said. “Every word. Twice.”

Felix went absolutely still, like someone had set him to stone. Van looked away, down the table, polite as a priest at confession.

“I wasn’t mad about it,” Andy said. “Not a syllable.”

Felix looked at his hands, then at the glass, then at Andy. “You should have been,” he said, voice low.

Andy shook his head. “You don’t get mad at someone for saying what they actually think. And it was a lot less mean than you probably intended.” He hesitated, then said, “What stuck with me wasn’t the apology. I don’t think you owed me one. It was the part about watching me get my shit together after everything, and then somehow still having enough left to spend on everyone around me.”

Felix stared, waiting, the silence drawn tight as piano wire.

Andy let it hang. Then he said, “It’s funny. The luck stuff—it’s never just the coin flip, is it? People think it is, but it’s not. I got lucky, yeah. But you only get so far on luck. The rest is just showing up and making it stick. You’re doing that, too.”

Felix’s answer was fast, like he couldn’t stop it from getting out: “It’s not the same thing. I never had to make it stick for anybody else. Not really. I was….” He broke off, the words half-swallowed. “I don’t think I had any right to tell you anything.”

Andy didn’t let him have it. He reached over, not gently, and clapped Felix’s shoulder, same way he had at the roast. He could feel the tension all the way down to the bone.

“You have the right to say whatever you want,” Andy said. “And I wanted to let you know. This,” he said, gesturing to the Terrace, to the Hotel, “is almost over, for me. But none of us are ever going to forget, and the Hotel is always going to be part of us, in a very literal sense. So. If you ever want to talk it through, all of it, you know where to find me.” He paused, then added, “I mean that. I don’t have an agenda. I just… I’d like to see you do well.”

Felix didn’t answer. He leaned into the hand on his shoulder, just for a second, then sat back, blinking like he was trying to recalibrate to the light.

Van muttered, not looking up, “Now who’s overthinking the walk down the path.”

Felix grabbed a napkin, balled it up, and lobbed it at Van, who didn’t dodge but also didn’t seem to mind. The three of them sat like that for a while, not talking, but not needing to.

After a minute, Andy turned to Van. “You know,” he said, “I know something of your season, but it’s not the same as meeting you in person. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t someone who’s spent every day since waking up trying to make sure everyone else around him got their shot first.”

Van looked at him, neutral. “It’s easier than thinking about what I’m supposed to do with it. I don’t—” He let the sentence die, then tried again. “Do you ever feel like the only reason you made it this far is because someone else didn’t?”

Andy didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

They sat with it. After a while, Andy said, “I don’t think there’s a way to make that right. But the one thing that’s worked for me—when it does work—is never deciding for someone what they’re ready to carry. Just… show up, even if all you can do that day is sit there.”

Van held onto that for a few beats, his grip tightening on the glass. Then he nodded, sharp. “I’ll think about it.”

Andy smiled, not pressing. “You don’t have to. But the same offer goes to you, whenever you want it. Or never.”

Felix said, “He means it.”

Van said, “I know.”

And the three of them let the noise of the party swell back around them, the warmth of the lanterns and the easy drift of laughter building a small, soft shelter at the edge of the world.

Robert showed up ten minutes later, drawn by the same light and the low spill of voices that made the tasting feel more like a porch hang than a formal anything. He stopped a pace away from the table, the outline of him sharp against the lantern-glow.

“Am I—should I—” Robert started, then shook his head, the smile already apologizing before the sentence was done. “Sorry to crash your trio. Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

Andy waved him in with the easy, “There’s always room for another. Take a seat.” Robert did, sitting at the edge of the circle, arms crossed at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach for a glass.

“You missed the big feelings hour,” Van said. “We’re down to the mellow part now.”

Robert caught the tone, let it settle him a bit. “That’s good. I’m not much for drama. In movies, sure. Real life, it’s kind of—” He let the thought die, then shrugged. “You know.”

Andy said, “I made an offer to Felix and Van, and it stands for you, too. If the Hotel or anything else starts to feel like carrying a boulder, I’m not hard to find.”

Robert smiled, a little embarrassed by it. “I’m not sure my issues are up to par for this group. But I appreciate it.” There was a real gratitude in the way he said it, even if the words steered away.

Andy leaned forward, his expression turning wry but warm. “Consider this your formal invitation to the Masters Support Association. Myself, Mark and Laura are founding members, Harper’s emeritus—and all of us are on call if you ever need backup.” He gestured loosely between Felix, Van, and Robert. “That includes you three now. No dues, just an open door.”

Van let out a soft huff of amusement as someone finally started to pour from one of the bottles—a smoky, sharp-edged rye. Without being asked, he filled three glasses. He left Felix’s ginger ale untouched, then pushed two of the glasses over to Van and Robert.

Andy picked his up, but instead of a toast to the room or the day or anything big, he just raised it to the men in front of him, one by one. “Glad you’re all here,” he said, and meant it.

Felix ducked his head, a small, real smile folding the corners of his mouth. Van’s face tried to pull itself into a smirk and ended up somewhere closer to a real, if unfinished, grin. Robert raised his glass, voice almost gone, but nodded anyway.

Four glasses came together in one gentle, clear clink. For a moment, the noise of the rest of the tasting faded away, replaced by the tiny constellation of light and company that meant, if only for a second, that nobody here was a stranger to anyone else.

Then the party rolled on, and the warmth of it stuck.

Andy spotted Nick off near the edge of the lantern-light, half in shadow, nursing a drink he wasn't really drinking, the exact posture of a man standing guard duty at his own leisure time. It was such a specific kind of stillness that Andy recognized it instantly — he'd worn it himself, more nights than he could count.

He crossed over without making a show of it, the way he'd learned worked best with Nick: no big entrance, no forced cheer, just presence.

“Hey,” Andy said, coming to a stop beside him, matching his angle toward the room instead of facing him head-on. “You look like you're guarding the perimeter.”

Nick's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Force of habit.” He glanced sideways. “Nice party. Lots of lanterns. Feels like a wedding already.”

“Sam picked the place, and set up the party,” Andy said. “Tomorrow's the real thing.” He let that sit for a second, then added, quieter, “You doing okay? You've got a look.”

Nick exhaled through his nose, something rueful in it. “That obvious?”

“Only to somebody who's worn it,” Andy said. “I'm not going to pretend I know exactly what's on your mind. But I know the general shape of it. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

Nick was quiet for a beat, turning his glass slowly. “It's not really mine to talk about,” he said, finally, then winced at his own phrasing. “I mean — it's not a secret, exactly. I just don't want to make your wedding celebration about my mess.“ He exhaled. “Somebody's missing, back home. Somebody who matters a lot to me. I asked for something I probably shouldn't have asked for—pushed for it, actually, when I should've just left it alone—and now she's gone, and nobody upstairs will tell me anything except that she's trapped but she'll be fine when she's back.” His jaw worked. “I keep telling myself that's supposed to be reassuring. It isn't, really. But I keep saying it.”

Andy let the silence hold for a moment, not rushing to fill it. “That's a hard thing to sit with at somebody else's wedding.”

“Yeah, well.” Nick laughed, and it came out flatter than he meant it to. “Mary keeps telling me not to worry, which—I mean, that usually means she's worried too and just doesn't want to say it out loud, and now I'm worried about both of them, which helps exactly nobody.” He caught himself. “Sorry. You didn't ask for all that.” He glanced up, finally, meeting Andy's eyes. “You'd get it, though. Probably better than most people would.”

“I do.” Andy didn't elaborate, didn't need to — the corridor conversation from the ballroom sat between them, unspoken but present, the way old scar tissue is present even under a sleeve.

“It's fine,” Nick said, too quickly. “I didn't come here to make it about me.”

“You're allowed to,” Andy said. “But if you'd rather not… I get that too.” He shifted, tried a different angle, something to give Nick a place to stand that wasn't the edge of a bad feeling. “I actually came over here with an ask, if you're willing. Might be a decent distraction, might just be me being selfish and wanting you up there with me.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, some of the tightness in his shoulders easing by a fraction. “Up where?”

“Tomorrow. At the altar.” Andy turned to face him properly now. “I want you standing up there with me tomorrow. Groomsman. I know we've only actually known each other a handful of hours, real-time, but it doesn't feel that way to me. You're one of maybe two people on this earth — multiverse, whatever — who actually knows what it's like to carry what I carry. I'd like you next to me when I do the thing that's supposed to prove I finally figured out how to put it down.”

Nick blinked, caught off guard in a way that looked almost like it hurt. “Groomsman.” He said it slow, testing the word like it might not fit. “Andy, I've known you for one very strange evening.”

“I know how it sounds,” Andy said. “I'm not asking because it's tradition, or because I ran out of other names. I'm asking because there's maybe two people alive who know exactly what it costs to lose the person who made you whole, and then have to keep living anyway. You're one of them. I'd like you standing next to me tomorrow, not because it looks good, but because you'd actually understand what I'm doing up there.”

Nick's throat worked. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Yeah, okay. I'd—I'm honored, actually. Thank you.”

Andy nodded, but he didn't let the moment sit long enough to feel finished, because there was more, and he'd promised himself he wouldn't let Nick walk into tomorrow blind.

“There's something else,” he said. “And I need you to hear it before you decide you're still in.”

Nick's easy relief tightened back into wariness. “That doesn't sound like wedding talk.”

“It's not.” Andy kept his voice low, steady, the way he'd have wanted someone to tell him something like this. “Tomorrow isn't just a wedding. There's a real chance someone's coming to crash it. Someone with a debt to collect, and the collateral might be higher than any of us are comfortable with.” He let that land before he kept going. “Arabella's already made sure it's covered as far as guests go. You and Rose will be safe. Whatever happens, that's not in question. She's protecting everyone who isn't standing at the center of it.”

“And you are,” Nick said. Not a question.

“Laura and I are.” Andy's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. “I don't know how tomorrow goes. There's a real chance it ends with me losing her again. Not metaphorically. Actually losing her, the same way I did the first time, except this time I'd know exactly what it looked like happening.” He exhaled, long and unsteady. “I didn't want to ask you to stand up there without telling you that first. Seemed like the kind of thing you deserved to know before you said yes.”

Nick went very still, the color draining slightly from his face. When he spoke, all the rambling, apologetic energy had drained out of his voice. “You're telling me there's a real chance you go through it twice.”

“Yeah.”

Nick was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the party, at all of it. When he finally looked back at Andy, there was something raw and unguarded in his face—the same thing Andy had seen in the corridor, months of static finally resolving into a single clear signal.

“Then I'm—” Nick stopped, shook his head, started over. “I'm still standing up there. Tomorrow. More than before, if anything, not—” he exhaled, annoyed at himself for fumbling it. “Look. If it happens, if it actually happens, I don't want you to be the only person in that crowd who knows what it means. I don't know if that makes sense.” His hand landed on Andy's shoulder and stayed there a beat too long. “I hope you don't need me for that. But I'm not going anywhere tomorrow. Not now.”

The tasting had settled into its second hour by the time Andy ducked away from the main table, a trick learned from years of parties—if you needed a minute, the best place to find one was at the edge of things, just out of earshot. He circled the lantern-lit perimeter until he found Sam posted up at the glass railing, a half-finished whiskey in her hand and her eyes on the sky, the clouds dimming from orange to indigo. She didn’t turn when she clocked him, but her posture eased a degree, one shoulder angling just slightly toward him. He posted up beside her, close enough that their arms could have touched if either of them wanted to, and braced his own hands on the cold rail.

“You good?” she said after a minute. Her voice was low, soft, the way she used to talk to him in the thick of finals or in the dead hours after a breakup, as if the rest of the world wasn’t entitled to what would pass between them.

Andy nodded, then shrugged, then gave up the non-answer entirely. “I just needed a minute where I didn’t have to be the guy at the head of the table, you know?”

Sam snorted, the exhale more bemused than mocking. “Tough gig. Can’t believe they elected you.” She nudged him with her elbow, finally, still not looking away from the horizon, where the last fragments of sunlight clung to the ocean’s edge.

He let it hang, the two of them together in companionable silence, until Sam drained the last of her whiskey and set the glass down hard enough on the railing that it would have shattered if it hadn’t been resort-grade. “They’re waiting for you to make some big speech, you know,” she said. “Robert’s got money on it.” She grinned, teeth flashing in the half-dark. “I’m only here to see you chicken out.”

He rolled his eyes, more fond than annoyed, and shook his head. “Not happening. Don’t have it in me to be earnest at a crowd right now. Only you get the good material.”

Sam’s mouth twitched. “I don’t even get the family discount?”

“You get all of it,” he said, and even as he said it, he realized it was true. Whatever pieces of himself he’d managed to keep unbroken through the past decade, Sam had probably been the one to tape them together.

She didn’t answer right away, and for a minute it felt like maybe she wasn’t going to, but then she turned her whole body to face him, leaning with her back against the rail, arms folded. “So, is this the part where you get all weird and sentimental and thank me for being here?” she said. Her tone was light, but the way her eyes didn’t quite meet his told another story.

He looked down, tracing the pattern of condensation his fingers had left on the glass. “I don’t know if it’s that exactly,” he said, picking at the words. “I guess I just—” He stopped, tried again, slower this time, like if he took long enough to say it the words wouldn’t betray him. “You spent the whole day running the show. The scavenger hunt, the roast, all of it. It always looks like it costs you nothing, but I know it does.” He risked meeting her eyes then, and saw she was actually listening, not just humoring him. “I never said thank you for any of it, and I should have.”

Sam rolled her eyes, but it was muscle memory, not conviction. “You should have seen the one I pulled together for my brother’s high school graduation,” she said. “This was nothing. At least nobody got tased this time.”

“That’s a low bar,” Andy said, deadpan. “But you cleared it.”

She laughed, short and delighted, and for a few seconds they both just leaned into the night. The breeze off the water had gone sharp, bringing with it a brine and ozone tang that reminded Andy of every lakeside summer he’d ever spent with Sam, every disaster road trip and bender, every time she’d pulled him bodily out of a tailspin, or vice versa.

“I wasn’t kidding about not wanting to make a scene,” he said, but softer now, confiding. “But I did want to say it out loud, for once. You’re the one person in my life who never made it complicated to love you.”

That stopped her, right in her tracks. “That’s because I’m not your type, Andy,” Sam said. It should have been a deflection, but it landed as a half-offer, like she was testing the space between them for what it really meant.

He shook his head, more at himself than her. “It never mattered. I think—” He let out a breath. “I think you’re the reason I made it through college in one piece. And the reason I still know how to laugh about half the shit that should have broken me in half.”

Sam looked at him a long time, the hard lines of her face softening in the diffuse lantern light, the color draining out as the world went fully navy, then blue-black. “If you’re about to tell me you love me, at least let me finish my drink,” she said.

Andy smiled, but it was a thin one, almost sad. “I do. And I’m not sorry for it.” He turned, finally facing her head-on. “I wanted to say it before tomorrow, because I don’t think I’ve ever said it the way you deserve to hear it.”

Sam tipped her head, waiting for the punchline that never came, and when she realized it actually wasn’t coming, she set her glass down for good and folded her arms over her chest, like she was bracing for the weather. “You know the best thing you ever did?” she said. “When you found out about me and Liesa, you didn’t blink. Didn’t make it about yourself, didn’t do the whole weird performative acceptance thing, just… asked if I was happy and said you hoped she was good to me. It was the one time I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than exactly what I was.” Her eyes were bright, even in the dark. “That was better than love, for me. Nobody else ever got it right.”

Andy looked up at the sky, the stars coming out one by one, and felt the familiar ache of having more feeling than you could possibly hold at once. “You’re the best friend I ever had,” he said, barely over a whisper. “And I wanted to say that before I turn into a husband. Or a father. Or whatever this next part is.”

The silence after that was not uncomfortable, but it was thick, and it stretched until Sam finally let out a long, ragged sigh. “If you think marriage is going to make you less of a sad sap, you’ve got another thing coming. You’ll just have to schedule your self-pity in advance.”

He snorted, and it came out almost a laugh. “Maybe you can pencil me in.”

“Already did,” Sam said, and reached over to flick his ear, as if to anchor the moment in something physical before it went too soft.

For a long time, neither of them moved, both just watching the lights on the water and letting the ambient noise from the party play out in the background. Sam refilled her glass once, but nursed it slow, the way she always did when she was thinking hard about something she didn’t want to say out loud.

Andy watched the water, the slow shift of light, and let his mind walk backward through the years: to the midnight swim in the quarry, the time they snuck into the campus bell tower just to see what the city looked like from above, the night Sam stormed into his dorm room at 2 a.m. with a gas station birthday cake and saved him from the worst birthday he’d ever had. He wondered, not for the first time, how much luck it took to end up with a friend like this, the kind who never asked for anything but your whole, unfiltered self.

He started to say something about it, but Sam beat him to the punch. “You ever think about how weird it is that we made it here?” she said. “Like, statistically? We should both be pancake stains on the Eisenhower or lost somewhere in upstate freakin’ New York.”

He laughed, the memory of that particular trip still sharp as ever. “We’re not dead yet.”

“That’s your sales pitch?” she said. “Because it’s pretty weak. If I didn’t already love you, I’d walk right now.”

He grinned. “But you do.”

They stayed side by side for a long time, letting the sky go from blue to black, letting the noise from the tables run its course. Then, without warning, Sam wrapped Andy in a full bear hug, arms locked tight around his neck, crushing all the air out of him with the kind of force that would have embarrassed a less practiced hugger. Andy hugged back, matching her grip, both of them refusing to be the first to let go.

When Sam finally did, she stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Don’t you ever do that again, Cooper,” she muttered, but there was zero heat in it.

Andy just grinned, hand still on her shoulder. Then he turned and called out, not loud but strong enough to cut through the buzz: “Hey! Can I get everyone’s attention for a sec?”

It took a few beats, but the terrace went quiet, the conversations stalling mid-sentence as people turned his way. Andy raised his glass, but kept his arm over Sam’s shoulders.

“I know we’re not doing toasts until tomorrow,” he said, “but I want to get a jump on things.” He cleared his throat, then pointed at Sam. “This is Sam Collins, my Best Woman and the actual brains of the operation. You’ll be lucky if you get a friend half as good as Sam in your lifetime. She’s been my best friend since college. She’s closer than a sister to me. The only person who’s managed to make it through the last decade without making me feel like a total idiot for it.” The line drew a round of warm laughter.

He waited for it to die, then added, “I can’t wait to watch her start a family of her own, even if she denies it with her dying breath. And whatever thick or thin the two of us have waded through since college, she’s the one thing I’ve never once had to doubt.” He smiled, softer now. “She’s the best there is, and I don’t care who knows it.”

Sam’s face went red before he was even finished. She ducked her head and tried to hide it behind her whiskey glass, but it didn’t work; the whole terrace caught her, and the three cheers that rose up were so loud it probably carried halfway to the beach. “To Sam!” they called, and this time it was Van’s voice leading the charge, Felix right behind him. “To Sam!” The glasses raised high, even Mildred’s, the lanterns catching the light in them and throwing it back in sparks.

“Can’t believe you did that to me, you dick,” Sam whispered, but she was laughing now, the embarrassment lost in the wave of noise. She looked genuinely, fiercely happy, and when someone farther down the table called, “You’d better get used to it, there’s still the wedding!” she flipped them off with both hands and grinned even wider.

The noise still hadn’t died down when Herman appeared at the far edge of the terrace, dressed in a Greek chiton the color of night, sandals with small wings, and a thin golden circlet on his brow. His right hand held up a lantern, a caduceus resting in the crook of his left arm. The light inside the lantern was a weird, steady gold, brighter than it had any right to be. The effect was immediate—people stopped, turned, the hush spreading out in a ripple.

Herman didn’t wait for full silence before speaking. “I am ready now,” he said, voice solemn in a way that made Andy’s skin crawl. “It’s time for the katabasis.”

Just like that, the laughter died. The glasses went down. Even the air on the terrace seemed to pause, waiting for the next thing.

Andy’s hand found Sam’s shoulder again, both of them bracing for whatever came next, together.