The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

“How did the date go?” Sutton asks, lifting her martini. Despite the low lighting in the bar, the rock on her left hand—on the important finger on her left hand—twinkles. God, that’s a stunning ring.

The Swill, Sutton’s favorite establishment in her new, swanky Nashville neighborhood, isn’t what I expected. She insisted it was a dive bar where we could hang out and catch up after two weeks of being so busy that one-word texts constituted our friendship. With that vibe in mind, I wore cutoff jean shorts, an off-the-shoulder top, and my favorite cowboy boots. Purple, of course.

I was met with valet parking and a three-page wine menu.

Make it make sense.

It’s no wonder I have trust issues.

“The date last night?” I ask, plucking a toasted ravioli from the plate between us. “I canceled.”

“You did not.”

“Yes, I did.” I pop the appetizer into my mouth. “When I realized I’d rather wash my hair and pluck my eyebrows than meet him for dinner and drinks, I bailed.”

Sutton sighs, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you canceled on Bennet Copeland. What’s wrong with you?”

“Currently? Unemployment, the price of wine, and the fact that you let me walk in here dressed like this.”

She grins. “Well, if I had your legs, I’d live in those shorts. All heads turned when you walked in.”

“Yeah, probably because compared to the rest of you, I look like I charge hourly and spend a lot of time on my knees.”

“Shut up,” she says, laughing.

I shrug, swiping another ravioli.

Sutton McKenzie and I met on my first day at Waltham Prep. My parents divorced the summer before, and to suck as much money out of my father as she could, Mom finagled him into paying my tuition at a ritzy private high school that, financially speaking, I had no business attending. I wasn’t happy about leaving my friends for my senior year, and I really wasn’t happy about wearing a stuffy uniform and forgoing nail polish. But Sutton’s bright smile and offer to sit beside her at lunch eased my fish-out-of-water fears.

We’ve been best friends ever since.

“So what did Bennet do to earn the not-your-type label?” Sutton asks.

“I think it was his breathing that did it for me.” I chuckle at her eye roll. “Honestly? I don’t know that he did anything specifically. I just got tired of feigning interest in his portfolio. That man is pretty proud of himself.”

“Listen, I know you’re still in your rich-men-are-pricks era, but you need to reconsider. Trust me. It’s a lot easier working through your trauma while wearing a Siggy’s diamond and shopping at Halcyon than sitting at home in sweats eating ramen.”

“Sounds like you’ve had the wrong ramen.”

“You know what I mean, smart-ass.”

I laugh. “I do. I just disagree.”

“You are such a pessimist.”

“No, I’m a realist.”

“Your reality is what you make it.”

Sutton launches into a spiel about how life is like clay, and you must mold it to your liking. I tune her out, letting her voice blend in with the laughter from the tables surrounding us.

I’ve heard her speeches enough times that I can repeat them verbatim. It’s not that she gives awful advice or even that she’s wrong. I admire her perspective and how she wakes up in the morning with a clean slate. She doesn’t hold grudges. Her negative experiences aren’t allowed to taint her future, either. She truly believes that only good things are meant for her.

She might be right since she does live a charmed existence. My grandfather used to say people like her could roll around in pig shit and come out smelling like a rose.

That must be nice.

I’d love to be more like Sutton—a trusting, loving, positive individual who wears a smile and carries love in her heart. But when I try to slide on those rose-colored glasses, the ends poke me in the eyeballs, and I’m reminded that the best predictor of the future is the past.

And my past is filled with rich, manipulative pricks who wouldn’t even know what the word love means. Sometimes, I’m not even sure I know what it means, so I probably shouldn’t judge.

“Hey, what happened with your project at work?” I ask, eager to shift the focus away from my quasi-love life. “You lured me here with the promise of a huge update. So update me.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Remember the reality show idea I presented to my boss last year?”

“Of course I do. It was such a fun concept and totally original.”

“Well, he took it to the executives a while back. I’ve spent the past few months building out the concept and trying to attach names to a pilot, just in case.” She pauses, her smile growing as my anticipation inches higher. “And I did it, Georgia. I was notified a few days ago that it’s a go. The football player and beauty influencer we’ve been courting signed on, and the funding came through.”

I squeal, my auburn ponytail swishing along the top of my back. “You’re freaking kidding me! This is incredible.”

“Thank you.” She shimmies in her seat with excitement. “I’m over the moon about it. Because it’s just a pilot, we’re only shooting with one couple and have a low budget. We start filming next week, which is why I’ve been so slammed lately.”

“Sutton, I am so, so proud of you.”

I lift my glass to hers and tap them together.

My heart swells with delight. It’s incredible to share this moment with my friend and to witness the well-earned pride color her cheeks. She doesn’t often pause to revel in her achievements, choosing instead to root for those around her. So I sit back and give her space to toot her own horn.

“I’m pretty proud of myself, to be honest,” she says. “I put my heart and soul into this concept, and seeing it come to fruition—knowing others with much more experience than me believe in it, too—it’s so satisfying.” She spears a ravioli with her fork and drags it through a dish of marinara. “It’s also going to be satisfying when I tell Jeremiah’s parents, and they realize I am an asset to their family, not just a silly gold digger like they think.”

My smile fades. “Do this for you. Not them. You have nothing to prove to those people.”

She raises her glass and clinks it to mine again. “Amen.”

“Just remember when you’re a famous producer that I was the one who supported you when you were a nobody.”

“Thanks, I think,” she says, laughing. “Now, what about you? Have any of your interviews panned out?”

I down the rest of my martini before flopping back in my chair.

I didn’t expect to be job hunting for this long when I got laid off two months ago. I have a bachelor’s degree in communications with a minor in journalism. My résumé is solid, and I have great contacts in the broadcasting industry. My references are stellar, too. I’ve sat for numerous interviews and applied for various positions, everything from a news writer to a weatherwoman—the latter out of desperation. I’m pretty sure it just entails reading the weather report. And, if not, I can guess when it will rain as well as anyone.

The response? Crickets.

It’s disconcerting.

“I had an interview yesterday at a music label,” I say. “And I met a podcaster this morning for coffee. Both went great, but I doubt I’ll get a call back from either.”

“What makes you say that?”

I shrug. “Gut feeling.”

“Okay. Hear me out.”

I groan.

“I have an idea,” she says.

“That scares me.”

“As it should.” Her eyes dance with humor. “Remember when I took a weekend alone in Utah last year?”

I nod slowly. I’m unsure where this is going, but I know it will give me a headache.

“Well, I spent most of that weekend setting intentions for my life. I dreamed big. Created vision boards. I took a deep dive into who I am as a person and who I wanted to be. Where did I see myself in my personal life? Professionally? Emotionally? Spiritually?”

“Are those rhetorical questions?” I ask, grinning.

“Tease me all you want because all my intentions came true.”

She sits back, crossing her arms over her chest with a smug smile.

“And I’m thrilled for you,” I say, noticing an incoming text from my mom. “But it unnerves me to place my hopes and dreams into the hands of … does the universe have hands?”

Sutton’s annoyance at my failure to take her woo-woo seriously is written all over her pretty face.

“I love that it worked for you,” I say. “But I’m more confident in using actionable items than vision boards and weekend retreats.”

“Fair enough. But where have those actionable items gotten you lately?”

I gasp. “The audacity.” Knowing I can’t pretend she’s wrong, I sigh. “Also, good point.”

“Thank you. Now, humor me. What are your biggest dreams? What would you hope to find if you could see three years into the future?”

“That’s easy. Employment. Cheap wine. And a new wardrobe to fit the body I earned by actually working out five times a week instead of sitting in the gym parking lot and warring over whether to go inside or leave to get chicken nuggets.”

She narrows her eyes, shaking her head. The server, Bobby, momentarily interrupts her scowl by delivering another round of martinis. Sutton mumbles something that makes him laugh.

The alcohol warms my blood and loosens the muscles across the back of my neck. It’s a nice respite from the stress I’ve been holding on to for the past few weeks.

I ponder Sutton’s question while she chitchats with Bobby. What is my biggest dream? The straightforward question doesn’t warrant the slight tightness in my chest, but there it is. If I don’t nip this in the bud now, that tightness will grow.

I’ve considered this often lately. It’s obvious that over the past few years, I stopped working toward a dream. Not only did I abandon my ambitions, but I stopped dreaming altogether. Life, heartbreak, and fear will do that to a person.

No one talks about this. There aren’t trending books or podcasts for the dreamless crowd.

Someone needs to make that happen.

“Okay,” Sutton says as Bobby heads for the bar. “Back to your dreams. Gimme.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I could give you an answer, but it would be bullshit.”

Her brows knit together. “Do you have any dreams at all?”

“I mean, not really. I know that’s a problem,” I say, cutting her off. “I need to figure out what I want to do with my life, but I’m not going to figure it out tonight. So let’s talk about fun stuff like your wedding.” I smile. “Did you decide on a date yet?”

Sutton’s face lights up, and she leans against the table. “Kind of. We’ve decided on either September or October next year. I have no interest in sweating my way through a Tennessee summer wedding, and the spring is too soon. Besides, the foliage is beautiful in autumn, and I heard my chances of renting the Knopf Estate for the ceremony are better then.”

“Well, I have a lot of time on my hands right now. If you need early planning help, I’m your girl.”

“And my maid of honor, I hope.”

I laugh. “You’ll have a big problem on your hands if you even try to give that spot to someone else.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, of course. Why?” I ask, my stomach twisting as I take in the look on her face.

She rests her elbows on the table and nibbles her bottom lip. “Jeremiah picked his best man.”

“So?”

She exhales a long, semi-shaky breath. “So he picked Ripley.”

No, he did not.

I bite my tongue before I let out a yelp of protest.

“Jeremiah and I decided we will do everything we can to keep the two of you from having to coordinate on anything,” she says earnestly. “But I had to pick you, and he had to pick Ripley. It would feel wrong if either of us chose someone else.”

Internally, I scream. Outwardly, I try to look cool, calm, and collected but probably fail.

My storied past with Ripley Brewer began on my fifth day at Waltham Prep. It was a sweltering Friday evening in the West Gymnasium. The Senior Mixer. The night that Ripley humiliated me in front of our entire class.

It set the stage for every future interaction between us.

I’m not sure why I’m seemingly the only woman in the universe who can see beyond his sexy smirk and remain unfazed by his boy-next-door act. No one is that perfect. But instead of questioning his golden boy persona, our friends accept it. They lean into his storytelling abilities, absurd generosity, and how he teared up while showing us pictures of his new nephew, Arlo.

Everyone is so dazzled by him that it’s ridiculous.

Why can’t they see the arrogant, argumentative asshole I see?

We once argued for nearly an hour over the number of stairs in Jeremiah’s house and had to be separated by our friends. We hotly debated the existence of pickles at a Fourth of July party. Blood was almost shed. Our most famous fight, however, was over a sale flyer from a grocery store that neither of us had ever visited. Does a ten-for-ten sale mean you have to buy ten of the item to get them for a dollar each? I called the store to prove I was right, but they were closed.

“Is that why you brought me here?” I ask as Bobby returns. “You wanted to liquor me up before you broke the news of Jeremiah’s betrayal?”

“Betrayal?” Bobby asks, eyes wide.

Sutton snorts. “She’s being dramatic.”

I rest my chin in my hand and look up at the dark-eyed man handing Sutton more marinara. “I’m not being dramatic, Bobby. Her fiancé just chose Satan to be his best man in their wedding. Would I be a good friend if I wasn’t concerned?”

“Satan, huh?” Bobby grins.

“Yup. Satan,” I say, sighing sadly. “Sutton is trying to support her soon-to-be husband, and I respect that. But someone must fight for her.”

“And that’s you?” he asks.

I scoff. “Yes, that’s me. Ripley will make this whole thing about him. I’ve seen it before—a thousand times, really.”

“When?” Sutton asks, laughing. “Name one.”

“Oh, let’s see,” I say. “What about when we all went to the hockey game and sat in his family’s box?”

“Well, it was his family’s box,” Sutton says slowly.

“Fine. What about when we went to the lake for Jeremiah’s birthday, and he brought a yacht⁠—”

“It wasn’t a yacht!”

Bobby’s brows shoot to the ceiling. “He has a yacht?”

“No,” Sutton says as I say the opposite.

I roll my eyes. “Trust me, Bobby. He’ll find a way to make it about him. If Ripley isn’t the center of attention … Well, who knows what would happen because it’s never happened.”

Bobby nods warily, a cheeky grin slipping across his face. “I see what you’re saying, but if he has a yacht …”

I gasp, making him laugh.

“I need to go check on my other less entertaining guests now,” he says. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Thank you,” Sutton says, flashing him a soft grin as he dashes away. Then she turns to me. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal, but will this be an issue? You don’t have to like him⁠—”

“Good, because that’s impossible.”

“Just play nice. I need you to do this for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say, sipping my martini.

Sutton leans to the side, her smile growing. I start to turn to see what she’s looking at but stop in my tracks.

The hair on the back of my neck stands abruptly on end. Goose bumps ripple across my skin. Whiffs of expensive cologne—cedar and vanilla, if I’m not mistaken—nestle around me, trying to lure me into a false sense of comfort.

I set my jaw and brace myself.

Speak of the devil …

“Hey, Sutton,” Ripley says from behind me.

“Hi,” she says.

A long, heavy pause settles across the table. I hold my breath, refusing to break the ice.

“Hello, Georgia.”

Oof.

His voice is warm—rich, and smooth. My name rolls off his forked tongue as if it’s being caressed. The two syllables are blurred and lazily sexy, and I hate that as much as I don’t want to—he’s only putting on a show for Sutton—I like it.

Bastard.

I affix an aloof look on my face and turn slowly. I’m not fully pivoted in my chair when a pair of ocean-blue eyes snatch my gaze and hold it hostage.

Ripley smirks. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, you aren’t interrupting,” Sutton says, warning me with a lilt to her tone. “We were just chatting.”

“Looks intense,” Ripley says, his gaze still trained on me. “What was it about?”

I narrow my eyes back at him. “The devil.”