A Good Fit

Gwen and Alan Humbert can't believe it—Patrick actually walked that stage. They crack a stiff smile at each other, proud but already bracing for what's next. Ophelia Brooks. She's packing up to follow their boy to Palm Ridge, and the thought alone makes Gwen's knuckles go white. Her bag's always been lighter than theirs, her table manners louder than the hush of country club linen. Alan watches his son's hand hover at the small of her back and imagines the questions that soft, eager touch will raise once the neighbors start comparing car models at the end of their driveways. Ophelia laughs too bright, reaches a little too high for champagne flutes she hasn't paid for, and suddenly the big house feels smaller with the new scent of cheap lace and the threat of tomorrow's inbox full of her name. No one says it out loud, but they're betting any odds that whatever stripe of sunlit, slow-rolling scandal Palm Ridge keeps in its golden back pockets, she's going to wear it like perfume. Patrick's fingers never leave her waist. Gwen knocks back the last of her gin and wonders how long until one of them snaps.