Brief content warning: this chapter contains references to alcohol and binge drinking. Also, since GG is a YA series, I thought I would mention, that I am in no way condoning binge drinking in this chapter. All of the drinking in this chapter is done responsibly by intelligent and responsible adult women, in the spirit of celebration.

"I. Feel. Great." I proclaimed, stretching my arms out and taking wider strides town the sidewalk. Behind me, Abby, a half a dozen of my friends from Gallagher and from work, and Grace Baxter walked together, but they were walking too slow. The music from the club we had just left was still echoing in my head, and I could feel myself walking in time with the beat.

Tonight was a night of celebration and fun—I could do what I wanted.

"Grace!" Abby shouted, linking her arms with Christine's and Linda's. "What's the future Mrs. Morgan up to?"

"Three shots of tequila, two shots of vodka, four shots with clever innuendos for names, and a bottle of champagne since tonight's festivities began after dinner. Also, plenty of water."

"I love champagne." I said, walking backwards so I could see all of my friends and sisters. They were all laughing and flushed and happy, and I was glad we'd found the time out of all of our schedules to get together. "Hey, Linda? Jenn? Remember when I smuggled in an entire crate of champagne into Gallagher just before graduation?"

"How did you even manage that?" Linda asked, shaking her head and laughing. I could see her breath in the night air—it was early November, and it had snowed a few days ago—but none of us could really feel the cold.

"I impersonated the chef and ordered it on the phone, then knocked out the guard at the gate when they made the delivery."

"That was all?" Abby asked, looking totally betrayed. "There wasn't a flock of pigeons, or an elaborate costume in involved? The Rachel Cameron that I know and love—the Rachel Cameron I claim as a biological sister—has never developed a straightforward plan in her life!"

"Hey!" I protested. I was ready to defend myself when I stumbled over an uneven paver in the sidewalk—I caught myself at the last moment, because not even my heels and the alcohol I'd consumed were a match for my reflexes, but it was enough to derail the conversation.

"Rachel, love." Grace stepped forward, and offered me her arm. Even though I wasn't that drunk—I would admit that I was definitely drunk, but I wasn't drunk enough to be completely unreasonable—I accepted her arm. It was only polite—Madame Dabney taught me that. "You don't want to show up to your wedding with a broken ankle, now do you?"

"Hey Grace, have I ever mentioned that I think you're the best? You're just soooo—" Abby trailed off, trying to find the right word as we waited at a crosswalk. "You're so thoughtful. And reasonable. And I heard what you and Abe did in Marrakesh and I was really impressed."

"Thank you, Abby." Grace said. She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. "After hearing about that extraction that you and Solomon pulled off in Istanbul a few months ago, your opinion means a lot to me."

"Thanks! Also," Abby continued. I turned my head around to see that she was gesturing sharply toward Grace. "Thank you for volunteering to be our sober escort tonight. As Maid of Honor, that was going to be my job, but I'll be honest—I'm hoping that, because Rach is changing her name, that I'm going to get fewer people asking 'Oh, are you Rachel's sister?' whenever they're introduced to me and I really wanted to celebrate that."

We rushed to cross the street together, and as we did, a brief thought flashed into my mind.

"Hey Grace?" I asked as we all returned to our normal walking speed. "Are you pregnant? Because you said you weren't feeling well, and you're not drinking—"

"No, I'm not pregnant." She answered. Her voice was tart, but her smile was teasing. "I'm on antibiotics for a sinus infection, nothing more. But, for the record, Abe and I have decided we'd like to have a baby soon."

"That's great!" My own excitement was echoed by the gaggle of our friends walking behind us. "I think you and Abe would be wonderful parents. I remember that time that you and me and Abe found ourselves in the middle of a schoolroom in Nairobi when we—"

"Ah ah ah." Grace chided. "That's classified."

"Sorry!"

"What about you and Matt, Rach? When do I get to be called Aunt Abby by a mob of young Morganites?"

"Well, we don't want to wait long to start a family—you know, there's never really a good time with our jobs, but neither of us want to be old parents. But Matt and I agreed that we would only have one."

"You sound disappointed." Grace said, looking up at me concernedly.

Was Grace always this short? Or was I forgetting how tall my going-out heels were?

"Well, Matt and I both have siblings—he's not close with his brother, but I have Abby—"

I heard Abby scamper up behind me, and she threw her arms around my neck.

"I love you too, Rach."

I continued.

"Anyway, just having one seemed like the most fair—fairest?—fairest thing to do. As we all know, our job doesn't exactly pay well and if we needed to support two kids, we'd need to work more, but if we only have one, we can be a little more selective with our missions and then we can be home with them more."

"I understand." Grace murmured.

"I mean," I continued, "Maybe someday, when we're older and we've both settled into analyst jobs or adminim—administrative jobs, maybe we'll have another. Or adopt." I was rambling. I knew I was rambling, but that seemed like a good moment to share that information with my friends, to let them know what I was thinking and feeling. It was my bachelorette party, after all, and it was all totally unclassified, above the board intel and they could all be trusted. "I know I'm not at all objective about this, but I think Matt and I would have a really cute kid—"

There were enthusiastic agreements from my sisters and friends on the sidewalk behind me.

"So maybe we'll decide I want more. But, I mean, it's just really weird, you know? To imagine myself growing old with Matt. We've had kind of a short engagement, but Matt and I have been pretty serious about each other since we met, and I just can't imagine—" Why was I so breathless? We weren't walking that fast, was I just talking really fast? "I can't imagine being old and gray and bickering with Matt over things like what to watch on TV after dinner and what temperature to set the thermostat to. Maybe it's because—well, dad wasn't exactly young when we lost mom, but there was such a big age difference—but mom was pretty young when she died, so maybe it's because I don't know how old married couples really act. Or maybe it's because—"

"I think it's because you're so bad at everything domestic." Abby said, swatting at my arm with her clutch bag, while rolling her eyes.

"Hey!" I insisted. "I can—I can sew. And I can clean."

I was drunk. My feet were aching. I was tired. I had six days, fourteen hours, and twenty-two minutes until my father was supposed to escort me down the aisle, my sister would hold my bouquet and make sure the train of my dress was in order, and I would say my vows to and kiss the man who was so perfect for me that I could not have invented a more perfect husband in any universe (even the universe where there were no ethical boundaries to keep Dr. Fibs' from making that build-a-man cyborg-production machine he designed my senior year.)

None of that was enough to distract me from recognizing that I was getting maudlin. And it certainly wasn't enough to distract me from the fact that Abby had just employed one of the most basic distraction techniques in the book (and one that she had always been pretty good at)—annoying me.

And I let it work.

It was my bachelorette party, after all. I deserved to be happy.

As we arrived at the final bar of the night, and I was greeted at the door by a chorus of congratulations from complete strangers who knew nothing about me or my life or my groom, I decided that I was going to be happy.