6️⃣

LINGLING

I stare up at the crooked wooden sign swinging outside the bar. The door is propped open to tempt in the evening sea breeze, but the noise pouring out from inside drowns out any sound of the ocean waves behind me.

There's a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk declaring that the bar is closed for a private event, though from the chaos spilling out the door, it seems anything but private.

The sign above reads Siren & Sword in faded faux-medieval lettering, and below it, a painted mermaid tail curls artfully around the blade of a sword. The chains holding it creak softly in the salty breeze.

Nobody can say this town doesn't commit to a theme.

I sigh, stepping aside to let a pair of blonde twins into the bar. One of them bellows a thunderous hello to someone inside before they even cross the threshold. Behind the bar, a tall man waves at them over the heads of the crowded room.

Locals, I assume. Childhood friends of the bride or groom.

I need to go in. If I linger out here much longer, someone will start asking questions, and the last thing I want is to draw attention to myself as a potential party crasher. I was invited, but the idea of explaining myself in the middle of all this noise and energy makes me shudder.

With a resigned breath, I step inside.

Instantly, the sound hits me like a wall. The music is deafening—some mid-2000s pop anthem is blasting through the speakers—and people are shouting over it, laughing, clinking bottles, and throwing their arms around each other like they're at a college reunion instead of a wedding pre-party.

I weave through the crowd, my eyes fixed on the bar. If I'm going to survive this, I need something—anything—to hold in my hand.

The bartender is a broad-shouldered guy with a rugged jawline, who's been joined behind the bar by one of the blonde twins from earlier. She smiles at me like I'm an old friend as I approach.

"Open bar tonight!" she shouts over the noise. "What can I get you?"

"Anything," I reply. "Literally anything at all."

She snorts and slides a brown bottle of dark lager across the counter. I nod in thanks, noting a streak of purple paint on her forearm, but she's already twirled away to serve someone else.

I take a sip and make my way toward a quieter corner of the room. I've barely made it three steps when the music cuts abruptly, and a cheerful voice echoes through the sound system.

"Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Josieandelijah Bachelor-Bachelorette Bash! Or, as I like to call it, the J-and-E B-B-B!"

I freeze mid-step. That voice...

I turn toward the front of the room, and there she is.

Orm Thanomchai.

She's standing on a table near the center of the chaos, holding a microphone with all the confidence of a Broadway performer. Her espresso-brown hair spills over her shoulders in loose waves, and her dark eyes sparkle under the warm glow of the bar lights.

I haven't seen her in over a decade, yet here she is—exactly how I remember her and yet... not.

Beside her, standing on the floor but still clearly in the spotlight, is Elijah Navarro. He's smiling bashfully, hands stuffed into his pockets, while the woman beside him—Josie Thanomchai, I presume—beams like she's the happiest person on Earth.

And that's when the puzzle pieces click into place.

Orm T. Orm Thanomchai.

Josie Thanomchai.

My stomach drops as realization washes over me.

They're cousins.

The memory of Orm's confident voice, her quick wit, and her frustratingly unshakable optimism at Camp Hannefort comes rushing back. I remember the way she'd light up every room she walked into, even the grim, fluorescent-lit counseling cabin where we'd both been forced to sit in uncomfortable plastic chairs and "express our feelings."

But here's the thing—I was sure I'd never see her again. The world is too big, the odds too slim. Yet, here we are, sharing the same suffocatingly loud room in some tucked-away corner of Point Reyes.

"...waiting for this wedding for, like, half my life," Orm says into the mic, smiling so brightly it could probably light up the whole bar.

The crowd erupts in cheers and laughter, and I take another sip of my drink to steady myself.

I need to get out of here. Or at least stay on the fringes long enough to fulfill my social obligations before disappearing again.

"I also want to thank Liam Moore for generously offering an open bar tonight," Orm continues, gesturing to the tall bartender. "And also, a huge thanks to his wife Amy, Point Reyes' internationally acclaimed artist, for stepping back into her old bartending shoes for tonight. Metaphorically, of course, because I know for a fact you're wearing Jimmy Choos right now, Amy."

The blonde bartender—Amy Moore, apparently—throws her head back and laughs.

Suddenly, a hand shoots up from the crowd, gently prying the microphone from Orm's grasp. The hand belongs to Josie, who climbs onto a chair beside the table, grinning ear-to-ear as she takes control of the mic.

"And I want to thank my wonderful, amazing, vaguely insane maid of honor for planning all of these wedding festivities," Josie Thanomchai says into the microphone, her voice ringing through the bar.

Maid of honor.

Oh no.

It keeps getting worse.

Earlier, when I bumped into Orm Thanomchai, I thought—hoped—it would be easy enough to avoid her for the rest of my time here in Point Reyes. It's a small town, sure, but with all the chaos of the wedding preparations and the sheer number of guests, I figured I could slip by unnoticed.

I never considered that she might not only be a guest but also the maid of honor—the architect of this entire chaotic carnival.

Clearly, there's no escaping her.

My best bet is to stick to the fringes of this crowd, become one with the shadows, and pray that Orm remains too preoccupied with her duties to notice me lurking at the edges. If our paths cross by accident, I'll simply rely on my earlier plan: pretend I don't recognize her and hope she does the same.

The crowd lifts their drinks in a raucous toast as Orm and Josie share a brief, glowing smile before the music starts up again. The two women are lowered gracefully from the tabletop by helpful hands, and the party surges back into motion.

I remain plastered against the wall, occasionally sipping my beer as the energy swirls around me. Over the years, I've become incredibly good at disappearing into crowds. It's a survival tactic I perfected as the daughter of Daphne Shay, Hollywood darling and perpetual paparazzi magnet.

But despite my best efforts, my eyes keep drifting back to Orm.

She's impossible to ignore. She moves through the crowd like sunlight spilling into a dark room, trailing laughter and warmth wherever she goes. She's wearing yellow tonight—a dress that's light and airy, with a neckline that dips just low enough to border on flirtatious. Tiny pearls are pinned into her wild espresso-colored hair, catching the light every time she moves.

She looks... ethereal.

It's infuriating.

That's what she always was to me—infuriating. Too bright, too optimistic, too Orm.

My fingers tighten slightly around the neck of my beer bottle as I watch her flit from group to group, handing out disposable cameras.

"Take as many stupid and terrible photos as you can," she tells one group, her voice carrying over the music. "Then drop them off in the bin by the exit at the end of the night. I'll be putting together an album of the photos on the wedding website."

"How cute!"

"Great idea, Orm!"

"So vintage!"

I roll my eyes and shift further into the shadows, edging toward the far corner of the bar. I'm almost free when—

She's right in front of me.

As if she teleported.

She's standing there, holding one of those ridiculous plastic cameras, looking straight at me with those big, expressive eyes.

I freeze, my beer halfway to my lips. For half a second, I tell myself that the tightness in my chest is purely from surprise, not because she looks impossibly radiant, even in the flickering neon lights of the Siren & Sword.

"Do you really think I didn't notice you standing there, Lingling Kwong?" she asks, her tone sharp but not unkind.

My mouth opens automatically, ready to spin some nonsense excuse, to feign confusion or ignorance, but I falter when she quirks an eyebrow at me in that maddeningly knowing way she always used to.

She knows.

She knows exactly who I am.

If I pretend otherwise, I'll just look like a jerk.

Then again, she already thinks I'm a jerk.

"Pardon?" I say, raising my voice slightly over the hum of the music, trying to sound nonchalant.

Orm narrows her eyes and lifts the disposable camera to her face. With a dramatic click and an impossibly bright flash, she snaps a photo of me.

The sudden light blinds me for half a second, and before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out and snatches the camera from her grip.

"Hey!" she exclaims, eyes wide with mock indignation.

"You shouldn't take photos of people without their permission," I snap.

Orm rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't fall out of her head. "Get over yourself, Lingling. It's for the wedding website."

"I don't want to be on the website."

"Why not?"

Her voice cuts through the noise around us, sharp and insistent.

I clench my jaw, familiar frustration bubbling up to the surface—a frustration I haven't felt in years. "Because I don't want to, Orm Thanomchai."

Her eyes flash at the admission, her name falling from my mouth like an accusation, sealing the fact that I recognize her.

But I won't explain myself to her. I won't stand here and tell her what it was like to grow up as Daphne Shay's daughter, perpetually scrutinized under a blinding spotlight I never asked for. I won't tell her how classmates used to sneak pictures of me in the hallways, or how a single photograph of me eating lunch alone in the school cafeteria after my parents' divorce made it onto the front page of a tabloid magazine.

I definitely won't tell her about my mother's relentless attempts to force me into her spotlight, as if being seen by the public could somehow make me valuable in her eyes.

Orm sighs dramatically, tossing a lock of espresso-brown hair over her shoulder. The gold shimmer dusted across her eyelids catches the light, making her look almost ethereal.

I hate that I noticed.

"What are you even doing here?" she demands. "I created the guest list. I would have remembered your name showing up on it."

"Would you have? Truly? It's been ten years."

"Twelve years, actually."

For some stupid reason, my stomach flips when she corrects me. As if some absurd part of me is pleased she remembers the detail.

Idiot.

"Well, I'm not a wedding crasher," I reply, brushing an invisible speck of lint off my sleeve with deliberate calm. "I went to Caltech with Elijah Navarro. I received an invitation. It's not my fault if you're not as detail-oriented as you think you are."

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "You haven't changed a bit, Lingling."

"Likewise."

She scoffs, arms crossing over her chest. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't one."

The corner of her mouth twitches downward, and for a moment, I feel like we've been pulled back in time—back to that humid summer at Camp Hannefort, where every interaction felt like a tug-of-war. Where every group therapy session was filled with barely contained tension.

We were oil and water then, and it seems we're still oil and water now.

Without warning, a partygoer nearby stumbles backward, bumping into Orm's shoulder. They don't seem to notice, but the momentum forces her to step forward—straight into me.

Suddenly, we're far too close.

She's standing inches away, looking up at me with her dark eyes blazing with irritation. Even though I can feel the tension crackling between us, electric and heavy.

I should step back. I should.

But I don't.

I can feel her warmth, smell the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin. For a moment, neither of us moves. The world seems to fall away, the loud music and boisterous crowd fading into nothing but static.

Her lips part slightly, and my gaze—traitorous and unbidden—drops to them. They're painted with some kind of rosy-pink gloss, just shiny enough to catch the light, just soft enough to look impossibly kissable.

My heart stutters.

The unwanted thought strikes me like lightning, and I react instinctively. I take a quick step backward, hitting the wall behind me with a dull thud.

The space between us grows again, but the air is still heavy.

She blinks, her brow furrowing slightly before she straightens, her expression hardening into something sharp and impenetrable.

"Enjoy the party, Lingling," she says, her voice tight, sharp edges wrapped around each syllable.

She doesn't mean it. Not even a little.

Then, with a dramatic turn of her heel, Orm Thanomchai flits back into the crowd, her yellow dress fluttering behind her like the tail of some celestial comet.