In Twenty Years: A Novel by Allison Winn Scotch

that reminded Lindy of curdled pudding, and all of the peach-scented, hand-crafted candle favors they’d had to tie in twine on Friday, and home-pressed invitations Catherine had e-mailed them about, oh, a hundred times.
    “Give me a break, Catherine.”
    “Give you a break? I’m sorry that we can’t all be as important as your new cool friends, that you could barely bring yourself to wear the dress I picked out, that you being here feels like an inconvenience to your super-awesome life that is way cooler than mine! But this is the last straw, Lindy. I wanted you here, standing with me, because we were old friends. But you haven’t been acting that way at all.” She paused to take a breath, then kept on like a dam unplugged. “So I should give you a break? And then . . . and then this! With Colin! When we all knew how she felt! Jesus, he wanted Bea for years, and she would never , ever resort to this. There was an unspoken code.”
    “There was no code! What code?” Lindy stared across the buffet to see if Bea could come defend her, put a rest to all this code business, save her from the spiral this was quickly taking, but Bea was still chasing Annie, trying to abort her own emotional hemorrhage. “What sort of bullshit is this code?”
    Bea was nowhere in sight.
    “Oh, you know what code. Don’t pretend for one second that you don’t know the code. You just didn’t care.”
    “Fine.” Lindy flung her plate onto the buffet table, where it clanged against a carafe of orange juice, which promptly toppled to the carpeted floor. Catherine immediately dropped to her knees, grabbing wads of cloth napkins from the buffet, mopping up the orange stain like it was pooling blood. “Fine! You’re right! I’m a shitty person, I’m a selfish asshole. But I gave up a gig at The Bitter End to be here, when, I’ll be honest, I couldn’t give less than one shit if you have calla lilies or tiger lilies, when I don’t give a rat’s ass about your stupid peach-scented candles. I don’t need this shit, you’re right, Catherine, and for that, I’m the worst friend in the world. Happy wedding! Congratulations!” And then, because Lindy never felt safer than when she was running away from whatever obstacle lay in front of her, she fled out the same doors Annie had, though far enough behind not to catch up, not to feel the tremors from her wake.
    Now, Lindy wonders if Catherine is sorry for the way she so easily blamed her, accused her, cast her out. Or maybe Catherine is waiting for Lindy’s own apology. Lindy almost snorts aloud. Like she should be sorry. It was sex. It was stupid sex, but Jesus! Been there, done that. She holds her chin high and waits for someone else to offer an olive branch, to grab hold and say, “Let’s just all move on.”
    “Listen,” Catherine says now. “Let’s just get this out of the way. What’s going on here?”
    “You first,” Lindy tuts. “I’m waiting.”
    Catherine cocks her head, like she has absolutely no idea what Lindy is talking about, which, Lindy quickly realizes, she doesn’t.
    “What I mean is, why on earth did Bea own this house? Why would she have made a will with this directive in it?”
    Colin clears his throat, and they all swivel their gazes toward him. He presses back against the sand-colored couch, the late-day light from the bay window shadowing his face.
    “No . . . nothing,” he says. “I don’t know.”
    “Who has a will at twenty-seven?” Catherine asks.
    “Bea,” Annie suggests earnestly.
    Lindy rolls her eyes.
    “Was . . . something going on with her? Did anyone talk to her after the wedding?” Catherine says, “It’s strange. Like she was almost preparing for it.”
    “The wedding?” Annie says.
    “Dying.” Catherine shakes her head.
    None of them says anything then.
    “I spoke with her a little bit,” Annie offers softly. “Just . . . well, when she left. Moved out.” She raises her head toward Lindy. “But then she was