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ORM

"Did you guys hear old man Beaufort passed away last weekend?" says Tasha, leaning back against the couch cushions as she unfolds a Korean face mask and smooths it onto her face.

"That's a cheerful topic for a slumber party," replies Sam—or Mayor Dechaine—with a sarcastic snort. She doesn't look Mayor-like, considering she's in a bright pink pyjama set with cartoon avocados.

We're all in matching, brightly coloured pyjamas. Even though we technically had the J-and-E B-B-B, I planned for this final low-key bachelorette event to take place the night before the wedding so that we could all enjoy some much-needed girly time after the chaos of this past week. One last farewell to Josie's single life, even though we'll still have slumber parties until we're old and wrinkly.

"Isn't gossiping a key part of slumber parties?" Mabel adds, popping a gummy bear into her mouth as she crosses her legs underneath her.

"Who is old man Beaufort?" asks Brittany, mine and Josie's cousin from Washington. She's a small business owner like us but didn't hesitate to take time off to drive to Point Reyes for the wedding festivities.

"Roger Beaufort," Amy clarifies. He owns Beaufort Manor."

That means nothing to Brittany, who didn't grow up in Point Reyes, so Amy's twin, Ruby, jumps in to explain.

"It's a huge estate on the cliffs, not far from Marigold Manor."

"It's not nearly as well-maintained as Marigold," Amy adds.

Ruby gives her sister a disapproving look. "Well, he's just one old man. I don't think he has any family. Meanwhile, the Linworths have been caring for Marigold Manor as part of a team effort for over a century. There are tons of Linworths."

"My mom, for example," Tasha chimes in.

Ruby grins at her. "Exactly. How is your mom, by the way? I'm in LA so much that I can hardly stay updated with everyone back home."

Tasha shakes her head and waves off Ruby's question. "She's fine. Same old Greta. Still trying to perfect the art of homemade vegan cheese."

"Hey, at least she doesn't give up on her goals," Ruby shrugs.

"Wait, can we circle back to Beaufort?" Mabel pipes up while she arranges an array of sugary snacks—all courtesy of Gigi Lee—on the coffee table. "If the old man has passed away, what will happen to the manor?"

That puzzles all of us. Mr. Beaufort was a notorious hermit. He came to this town as a tourist in the eighties, purchased the historic manor, renamed it after himself, and has been here ever since. Despite that, he's rarely seen around town, even during the off-season when the tourists are empty, and this place gets calm and quiet for a few months.

"Do you think he left it to someone?" Sam asks, her brow furrowed.

"Who would he even leave it to?" Brittany questions. "Didn't you just say he didn't have family?"

"Maybe he'll donate it to the town," Amy suggests.

Sam laughs. "Yeah, because the local government has the budget to maintain that place."

"Honestly, the estate might just fall into disrepair if there's no one to take over," Tasha says thoughtfully. "It's happened before with other old properties around here. They end up abandoned."

A chill runs through me at the thought. Beaufort Manor might have its share of spooky ghost stories, but it's still stunning—its grand architecture perched high on the cliffs, overlooking the crashing waves below. It feels timeless, like a little pocket of history carved into the landscape of Point Reyes.

"That would be such a shame," I murmur.

Everyone nods in agreement.

Mabel tilts her head, eyes sharp with curiosity. "Okay, but... what if someone does inherit it? What if it's someone unexpected? Like, some long-lost nephew or someone random in his will?"

Ruby hums thoughtfully. "Could be. Who knows? Maybe someone will swoop in and fix the place up."

Tasha clicks her tongue. "Or sell it off to some developer who'll tear it down and build luxury condos."

A collective groan echoes around the room.

"Don't even put that energy into the universe," Sam says firmly.

The conversation drifts away from Marigold Manor and into easier topics—wedding outfit debates, the perfect shade of lipstick for tomorrow, and how ridiculous Harry looked in his sun hat at the barbecue earlier.

"Okay, guys," I call, hauling out a large cardboard box I'd stowed in the hall closet. "In honour of Josie's love of nostalgia, I've collected some old-school board games for us tonight. The sort of stuff we might have played at slumber parties in the early 2000s when we were all kids."

Everyone gasps and leans forward to glimpse what's inside the box. I had to scour yard sales, thrift shops, and online forums for weeks to collect them all. Amy pulls out Girl Talk and squeals with delight.

"Oh my gosh, we loved this game, didn't we, Ruby?"

Ruby laughs and nods. "You were ruthless with the dares, though."

Mabel takes out a vintage game called Pretty, Pretty Princess, and both Tasha and Sam immediately dissolve into chatter about how it was their absolute favourite to play as children.

"I used to cheat at this game," Sam confesses, her dimples showing as she grins. "I'd steal the crown before anyone could win it."

"That is exactly the chaos I expect from our fearless Mayor Dechaine," I reply with a smirk, earning a round of laughter from the group.

Lastly, I lay Mystery Date onto the coffee table, a proper throwback gem, and smile at Josie. The light from the string lights we hung earlier reflects in her glossy eyes, and I can see just how much this moment means to her.

Before I know it, she's throwing her arms around my shoulders.

"You thought of everything, Orm," she murmurs, her voice muffled by the cascade of my hair. "It's perfect. Better than perfect."

When she pulls back, I blink several times to stop my happy tears from spilling over. Still, I manage a casual shrug. "All in a day's work."

"I have another idea for something we could do," my cousin whispers conspiratorially. "And then we could save the board games for after?"

"I'm all ears, bride-to-be."

Josie dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her oversized pink pyjama top, then turns to face everyone. "So, girls, I've been planning something kind of... mischievous."

That gets everyone's attention fast.

I raise my eyebrows at her. "Mischievous?"

Josie beams. "A prank. I've only been planning it since today, but still... hold on. I'll be right back."

We all exchange confused glances as Josie scurries upstairs to her old room, her socks sliding slightly on the polished wooden stairs. The half-packed boxes are evidence of her slow transition to the new Navarro house. Less than a minute later, she comes bounding down with flushed cheeks and a triumphant grin.

She plops several Walmart bags onto the armchair she just vacated, the plastic rustling loudly. "Okay, so the groom's friends are all over at the new house, right? They're doing boring stuff in the backyard, I think. Grilling meat, drinking whiskey, and talking about whatever. Elijah said it was just a low-key thing, and he only planned it because he knew I'd be here tonight. So, I thought, why not make his little bachelor hangout less boring? With a fun little prank!"

Mabel's eyebrows shoot up as if she's just been personally blessed by the prank gods. Ruby tilts her head slightly, her smile already forming. Amy leans forward, smirking like a supervillain whose evil plan is about to unfold. Even Sam, the usually composed Mayor Dechaine, cracks a mischievous grin.

Josie giggles nervously before reaching into one of the bags. With a flourish, she pulls out a colourful plastic package and holds it high above her head like it's the most coveted treasure in the world.

Water balloons.

Dozens and dozens of tightly packed, multi-coloured water balloons.

There was stunned silence for a second, and then everyone laughed.

Josie bounces on the balls of her feet, her excitement nearly vibrating out of her body. "It can't be a slumber party unless we cause some trouble, right?"

I peer into the bags. There must be hundreds of these little rainbow-hued water bombs. I'm mentally calculating how long it will take to fill them all.

"Jo," I say, grinning as I pick up a packet. "You're a genius."

LINGLING

"These are straight from Milan," Eric boasts, holding out a sleek tin of Italian cigars for the guys to take one if they'd like. "They're the best you can get, I swear."

With a smile that looks somewhat forced, Elijah takes one—probably to be polite. "When did you go to Italy?"

Eric laughs. "I didn't. I order these from a special website. I'll send you the link."

"Oh... thanks."

Elijah frowns down at the cigar. I know Elijah well enough to recognise that he doesn't smoke, not for bravado, not for celebration. His indulgences are limited to a fine bottle of whiskey—like the one I brought to this backyard gathering—a rare bottle of Macallan, a subtle but intentional gift.

Suppose you could even call this a bachelor party. Just seven of us, most of whom are Caltech alums, gathered around Elijah's fire pit with low music playing from an old Bluetooth speaker. The stars are out, the night is calm, and the ocean air carries just enough chill to make the fire's heat feel luxurious.

I've stayed quiet for most of the evening. It's what I do best—listen, observe, and let others fill the silence. None of the guys from college expect me to hold court or contribute witty commentary, and I'm grateful for that.

Eric's attention swings toward me, and he extends the tin toward me. "Come on, Lingling. You've got that mysterious vibe going for you. A cigar would suit you perfectly."

I shake my head politely. "No, thanks."

"Come on, live a little," Eric insists, his smile wide and charming.

Before I can respond, another voice chimes in.

"She said no, Eric. Don't be that guy."

The voice belongs to Nadine Torres, one of the few women here tonight. She's a Caltech alum like the rest of us—sharp-witted, perpetually underdressed for any occasion, and about as subtle as a foghorn. Tonight, she's wearing an oversized hoodie, ripped jeans, and a pair of glittery sneakers that catch the firelight with every movement. Her short black hair frames her sharp features, and she easily stares Eric down confidently.

Eric raises his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Message received."

Nadine rolls her eyes and leans back into her lawn chair, whiskey glass balanced expertly on her knee. "Honestly, you'd think peer pressure died in high school. Guess not."

I can't help but smirk. Nadine has always had a way of diffusing awkward situations with her bluntness. She's sharp-tongued and unapologetic but never cruel.

"Thanks," I murmur in her direction.

She shrugs. "Anytime. Someone's gotta keep the smooth talkers in check."

The conversation shifts back to some college memory I wasn't part of, and I'm relieved to fade into the background again. Nadine briefly catches my eye, gives me a little smirk, and raises her glass.

Elijah catches my eye from across the fire pit and gives me a small, knowing smile. He doesn't say anything—he doesn't have to. Elijah's always been good at understanding people without asking questions.

I nod back, just a slight tilt of my head.

But even as I sip my whiskey and let the low hum of conversation wash over me, my thoughts drift back to Orm and Eric.

For some reason, I don't like this guy. It's not that he's rude or boisterous. He's good-looking, well-mannered, and generally friendly. Objectively, I can acknowledge that.

Despite that, he annoys me. I keep thinking about how he constantly gravitated toward Orm at the barbecue yesterday and how he so casually and comfortably touched the sleeve of her dress. He's one of those guys who can match her energy with all his charm, charisma, and chattiness. He makes people laugh without effort and never seems to struggle with words.

Maybe that's why I can't stand him; I'm jealous of him.

Not because of the Orm stuff.

Just... the other stuff. The social skills.

Then again, I've always known I could overcome my introversion if I wanted to. It's not like I'm stuck in my ways. I could learn how to fake it well enough, at least. I've just never wanted to. I'm content with who I am.

And who I am is the complete opposite of Orm. The complete opposite of Eric, too.

This is why, once again, they're very suited to each other.

Good.

Fine.

Whatever.

I don't care. Really.

I take a sip of whiskey and subtly check my watch. It's half past eight. The sun has barely set, and I've barely been here an hour. I probably can't slip out for at least another hour or so without drawing attention.

But tonight isn't about me. Tomorrow is Elijah's big day, and if there's anyone who deserves happiness, it's him. I've never seen him like this—this excited, this jittery, this joyful. It's like he's radiating light, and despite my general aversion to socialising, I'm genuinely happy for him.

Elijah is still staring at the cigar Eric handed him, clearly trying to figure out a polite way to avoid smoking it. I know Elijah doesn't smoke, not even for appearances. His hesitance makes me even more irritated with Eric than I am, though I can't quite place why.

Harry catches my eye from across the fire pit, his brow raising slightly as if to ask, Are you seeing this too? Harry might not technically be Elijah's assistant anymore, but he's still quick to pick up on the slightest social cues.

"Here, man, I'll toss you my lighter," Eric says, clearly missing Elijah's reluctance.

The bright blue lighter soars over the fire pit, but Elijah isn't athletic. He stares at it for half a second too long before fumbling and missing the catch. It lands with a soft thump in the damp grass at his feet.

"Sorry about that, man," Eric says.

"S'my fault," Elijah replies, bending down to retrieve it.

But before he can straighten up, something small and colourful sails out of the darkness and smacks Elijah square atop his head.

I freeze. So does everyone else around the fire.

Droplets of water splatter onto Elijah's shirt, and a neon green scrap of rubber lands in the grass at his feet.

"Is that a...?" I trail off, my whiskey glass hovering mid-air.

Elijah straightens up slowly, turning the limp rubber balloon over in his palm.

"Water balloon," he murmurs. Then, with sudden realization dawning on his face, he twists to look toward the copse of trees that borders the edge of his yard.

"Oh no," he mutters under his breath.

Harry stands up to get a better view. "Dude, what was—"

SMACK.

Another water balloon explodes against Elijah's shoulder, highlighter-yellow rubber catching the firelight as it flutters to the grass.

A high-pitched, unmistakably feminine cackle cuts through the night.

Elijah lets out a long-suffering sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I should've known."

Before I can process what's happening, the sky erupts.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of water balloons begin raining down on us, pelting the fire pit area in bright bursts of pink, green, yellow, and purple. They're small but mighty, exploding on contact and soaking everyone in their path.

Shrieking war cries echo from the trees as a squadron of women burst from the shadows, armed with bags full of water balloons and eyes glittering with chaotic glee.

The first one I recognise is Orm. She's leading the charge like some mischievous fairy queen, her silk blue pyjama set glimmering under the dim light of the fire pit, in their silk pyjamas in bright oranges, pinks, and purples.

And they're everywhere.

A redhead I vaguely recognise, I realise—charges toward Nadine Torres, who's been sitting quietly to my left all evening, nursing a glass of whiskey. Nadine startles, scrambling backwards with wide eyes, but she's too slow. Mabel hurls a purple water balloon, hitting Nadine square in the chest.

"Gotcha!" Mabel shouts triumphantly before sprinting away to find her next target.

Chaos erupts.

Harry dives behind a lawn chair, narrowly avoiding an onslaught from Ruby and Amy, who are flinging balloons with wild abandon. Still clutching his expensive cigar, Eric stumbles backwards and yelps as a pink balloon bursts against his shoulder.

It's time to get out of here.

I whirl around, estimating that it's only about ten steps to the back door. I can slip through the dark, quiet house and disappear while chaos reigns supreme.

It's not that I'm disgusted by frivolity or too much of a baby to handle some wet clothes. It's just that I'm a grown woman, and I can't remember the last time I had a water balloon fight. Maybe never. I didn't have many chances to mess around and wreak havoc as a kid, constantly being shuffled between schools, languages, and expectations. My childhood was always about structure, discipline, and achievement.

I struggle with silliness. Lighthearted, childish fun is a difficult concept for me to grasp. I can't let go and give in to foolishness like everyone else. Something stops me—something tense and cold in the centre of my chest that reminds me not to be so vulnerable, to keep my guard up, to hide away in my comfortable, quiet corner of the world all by myself. Even if it means most people won't like me, it's better that way.

I'll spoil the fun if I stick around.

An avenging angel blocks my path as soon as I get the back door in my sight and manage about three steps toward it.

Orm, armed with a balloon in either hand, stands before me. Her golden-brown eyes are alight with the flickering backyard string lights, and her long blonde hair is wild and tangled with leaves from sneaking through the woods.

She grins at me menacingly. I freeze, forcing myself not to take an automatic step back.

"I knew you'd try to make a speedy exit," she says, creeping closer.

For some reason, I can't bring myself to move.

I can, however, be a rude idiot.

"I don't like stupid, childish pranks," I retort.

Behind us, the backyard is a symphony of shouts, laughter, swishing footsteps through damp grass, and occasional splashes as balloons find their target. It's a wonder the neighbours don't yell at us to stop. Then again, it's barely nine o'clock. Plus, practically the whole town will attend the wedding tomorrow. It's not like they'll chastise the bride and groom for having a bit of fun the night before.

Orm rolls her eyes at my comment. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Neither have you."

Her grin twists into a smirk. She lifts her balloon-loaded hands. "I hope your fancy watch is waterproof."

It is, but that's not the point.

I glare at her, my knees instinctively bending to prepare for a quick getaway.

"Don't you dare," I tell her.

Somewhere not far behind me, a sharp smack splash is followed by a defeated bellow from one of the guys.

"Have mercy!" he yells. Harry, I think. I don't dare take my eyes off Orm to check. "I surrender! Please!"

"We take no prisoners!" croons his lady attacker.

Another smack-splash.

I find my lips twitching, the urge to smile almost winning over my annoyance at Orm. This whole thing is pretty funny.

Orm reels back, preparing to chuck a balloon directly at my face.

"Don't," I growl.

I should've known better. I should've tried reverse psychology.

With a cackle, she lobs a balloon straight at me.

By some miracle of agility, I didn't know I could. I stepped back and ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding getting hit. I'm not fast enough to prevent the second balloon, though. It collides against my face before I can straighten back up to my full height.

I splutter, shaking my head like a dog, and feel the cold water trickling down my neck and seeping into the fabric of my shirt.

Orm giggles as if she's never been more delighted by anything.

She reaches into the plastic bag looped around her elbow, ready to wage all-out war against me. Just me. She came here tonight with one mission.

I expect to feel anger at being smacked in the face with a water balloon—and by her, of all people—but there's a weird bubbling sensation in my chest and a strange lightness coming over me.

I want to laugh.

I glance to the side, looking for a second escape route. As I step to my left, a blur of white satin and black cotton comes rushing toward me. I'm barely able to dodge out of the bride and groom's way before they come careening in my direction and tumble into a tangled heap in the grass.

Both Josie and Elijah are shrieking with laughter, and then the bride lets out a squeal as her almost-husband wrestles her gently to the ground and breaks a balloon over the top of her head.

Orm is laughing at the scene, temporarily distracted.

I could run.

I could.

Except... in the chaos of Elijah attempting to even score against Josie, Orm dropped one of her bags full of balloons. Right at my feet.

I stoop to pick it up before I know what I'm doing. I've got about twenty colourful ammunitions, practically begging me to get revenge.

Orm tugs her attention away from her cousin and the groom to focus back on me, her chosen victim. In an instant, she realises what I hold in my hand. My eyes dart down to her bag of balloons, which looks sorrowfully depleted.

Her smile falters.

I reach into the bag for a balloon.

She takes a tentative step backwards.

My lips curve into a grin of their own volition.

"Now, wait just a minute," she says, her voice high with mock warning.

I launch a water balloon at her. She lunges out of the way, causing it to glance off her arm and splatter against the side of the house. I dig into the bag for another balloon.

With a shriek, she starts running, taking off across the now-muddy backyard in her flip-flops.

A breath of laughter whooshes out of me.

Then, because I'm not quite in control of my body, I take off after her.

I lob a second balloon at her as the chase begins. Orm lets out a surprised yelp as it explodes against her back. Around us, at least a couple of the guys have also managed to gain ammo for themselves and are gleefully fighting back.

I pay them no attention.

All I can think is Orm, Orm, Orm.

She ducks into the woods, glancing over her shoulder with a breathless smile.

I don't think. I follow her like it's pure instinct. Like there is nothing else in the world I could need to do at that moment besides go after her.