Mystic Summer by Hannah McKinnon

She’sbeen on the phone all day. So has mine. They’re both freaking out.”
    There is a knock at the door, and no sooner have I unlocked it than Peyton bursts in with an oversize Tiffany-blue box. She rushes past me to Erika and the two embrace.
    â€œYou poor baby!” Peyton sets the box on the table and with one hand removes a carry-out carton of two coffees, and with the other, a bottle of wine.
    â€œCaffeine or alcohol?”
    Predictably, Erika points to the bottle. Well, I could’ve told her that. Peyton looks at me meaningfully.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWineglasses.” She looks impatient.
    â€œOh, right.” I turn for the kitchen but Peyton brushes past me.
    â€œI’ve got it. I need a bottle opener, too.” Her efficiency in my own place wears on me. She returns with two wineglasses and hands one to Erika. Am I invisible? Peyton pops the cork matter-of-factly and pours. She watches as Erika takes a big gulp, like a nurse administering cough syrup. “Better?”
    Erika nods gratefully.
    â€œI’ve brought the binder.”
    â€œOh, thank God.” Erika looks relieved.
    â€œWhat binder?”
    They both stare back at me. “Peyton’s wedding binder,” Erika says. As if this is something everyone should already know.
    â€œOh.” I watch as Peyton reaches into the bottom of her magic blue box and plucks a large embossed book from its depths. “How much stuff did you bring?” I joke, peering over her shoulder. But no one laughs.
    â€œOkay, so here’s the section on venues.” Peyton flips methodicallyto a tabbed section. “Do you still want outdoor or can we look indoors?”
    Erika thinks. “Start outdoors. But I don’t think we’re going to have any luck.”
    â€œNonsense.”
    I watch in silence as Peyton sifts through glossy folders of brochures with one hand and flips open her laptop with the other. It’s no wonder she’s climbed to the top of her firm so quickly. Just her confidence is intimidating. Maybe I should put her on the task of finding me a new job.
    â€œLet’s begin with a thirty-mile radius of Boston.”
    I can’t help but let out a laugh.
    â€œWhat?” Peyton asks.
    â€œNothing. It’s just that you two sound like you’re launching an FBI search.” I put on a mock voice of authority. “Thirty-mile radius of downtown. The suspect must have a liquor license. And an outdoor patio that can seat three hundred!” I can barely get the last part out, but neither one of them cracks so much as a smile.
    â€œMaggie. This is serious.” Peyton places a sympathetic hand on Erika’s back.
    â€œJust trying to lighten the mood.” I trudge into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.
    Two hours later, the radius has extended to seventy-five miles and beyond. The patio requirement has been scratched. Peyton’s bottle of wine is empty.
    â€œWell, we have a few options,” I say, trying to sound hopeful. With all of Erika’s first-, second-, and third-tier choices reserved, we’ve only been able to find two places that were available, an Italian hall in the South End and a loft space outsideBack Bay that had been renovated into a trendy gallery with a rooftop deck.
    Erika covers her face in her hands. “Vinny’s Trattoria is not an option.”
    â€œNor is the loft,” Peyton says sadly. “Four flights of stairs. No elevator.” We all sigh.
    â€œI don’t know, Erika,” Peyton says wearily. They were now working on their cold coffees. “Maybe you should consider changing the date. At least you get exactly what you want. And it’s only a few months later.”
    If I have any hope of going to bed tonight and not being late for school again in the morning, it’s my turn to talk some sense into Erika. “What about the Cape house?”
    Erika shakes her head. “Trent’s mother