CHAPTER 1
April 14, 2022
If I kill myself, I don’t have to go.
The rays of the early-morning sun are filtering in through the cheap, gauzy curtains that are one of the few things remaining in the bedroom, and the hangover is threatening to push its way up my throat. Whisky is never kind to the system, and cheap whisky even less so. But it helps me sleep, these days.
I don’t think I’m an alcoholic. Not yet, at least. But with some more practice, who knows?
As I sit up in my bed, I catch sight of my suitcase on the floor, still gaping suspiciously empty. I’ve got less than forty minutes before it’s time to go. I had intended to pack last night, but wallowing held more appeal, and so far all I’ve managed to fit into it is an old, worn pair of jeans and a few pairs of underwear.
Don’t go, then. It’ll be horrible. Humiliating.
Just make up an excuse and stay here.
Anneliese probably doesn’t even want you to come.
Oh, but the appeal of my worst self is tempting.
A four-day yoga-themed bachelorette party on a tiny island in the middle of the archipelago would not have been high on my list of wants even at the best of times. And the last few months have been very far from the best of times.
When Anneliese first invited me to be part of her bridal party, I’d felt all the emotions I was supposed to feel. Pride, and joy, and nostalgia. All that stuff.
But, sure. There was a pinprick of something else.
I have known these women half a lifetime, and for most of those years, I had been the fuckup. The one who was never going to amount to anything. The one who dropped out of college, the one who couldn’t hold down a partner, the one who skipped from job to job while endlessly having to move back home over and over again due to lack of funds.
And then it finally happened for me. I made something of myself. I created something people liked, and it started growing, and I found myself someone who was, if not admired, then at least respected.
When Anneliese told me she wanted me to be a bridesmaid, it seemed like an excellent opportunity to show everyone what kind of person I had become.
The memory has a bitter taste to it now.
The plan had been to drop out of the wedding. Drop off the face of the Earth, actually. Anneliese called me and begged me to participate, and even the voice of my oldest, if not closest, friend would not have been enough to convince me.
Until she told me where the bachelorette party was going to be.
I’ve been trying to get access to Isle Blind for years now. But it’s privately owned, and the owners always refused to answer my emails.
This could be my chance. My one, final chance to take back what was lost, to re-create what I’d ruined.
So I’m going, no matter how little I want to.
My phone beeps, and I pick it up.
Lena
I’ll be at yours in 30. Ready to go?
I stare at the message for a couple of seconds before I send her a quick thumbs-up back. Then I start picking stuff off the floor and throwing it in the suitcase. Hopefully my truly god-awful yoga skills will distract from my threadbare exercise wear.
I’ve got less than two hundred kronor in my bank account. I’ve missed my last two mortgage payments. I’ve had to sell most of my furniture just to be able to buy food and cheap booze.
And I’m about to go on a luxury yoga weekend at a private hotel in the archipelago.
As I pack, I can hear my own podcasting voice in my head—slightly deeper than my speaking voice, to add some much-needed richness.
“They thought they were going to spend the weekend celebrating their friend’s upcoming wedding. They had it all planned out; ninety-six hours of yoga, cava, and female bonding. What could possibly go wrong?
“Welcome to The Witching Hour. This is Tessa Nilsson, and today we bring you the story … of the Bachelorette Party.”
CHAPTER 2
April 14, 2022
The sun is bright in that very specific way that only seems to happen in Stockholm in April, a light so strong it almost seems to have its own smell. The sky is high and painfully blue, the sidewalk full of new moms strolling with their beautiful babies, shiny ponytails bouncing and takeaway coffee cups held high.
I wish I hadn’t had that last drink last night.
I wish I had a drink right now.
Hangovers always make me feel at odds with the world. I’ve never felt quite at home in Stockholm, even though I grew up here. It always felt like a club that was slightly too cool to let me join, satisfied to have me hanging around the edges but not quite generous enough to let me in.
Minna always used to say that nothing marked me more as a child of Stockholm than the fact that I didn’t feel like I belonged. Her theory was that people like her, who’d moved to the city as adults, took to it immediately, while people like me who were born and raised here never managed to figure it out.
I remember telling her that didn’t make any sense. She laughed at me, her teeth glinting in the dim light.
I can’t remember which bar we were at. I just remember that we were happy. Celebrating something or other.
There was so much to celebrate, back then.
I was drunk on success, drunk on her, drunk on the champagne that always seemed to be flowing like water. There was always somewhere to be. Someone to be.
God, but the memory hurts. I pull back from it, force myself to focus on the headache that’s building behind my left eyebrow.
Where is Lena?
She’s usually so punctual. She’s always been the well-organized sister, the high achiever. Usually she’s the one scolding me for being two minutes late. I wish I could look forward to making fun of her for not being exactly on time, but if Lena is late, then she’s got a very good, very important reason to be late, and I will end up looking like an idiot for ever having questioned her.
And then I see her.
Her little, black, electric BMW takes the corner and pulls up neatly to the sidewalk. Even the car is so perfectly Lena.
I drag my sad little wheelie bag to the trunk, check the license plate to make doubly sure that I’m not stuffing my luggage in some stranger’s car, and pop it open.
“Hey,” I call out while I put my bag next to Lena’s Louis Vuitton–emblazoned carryall.
“Hey, yourself,” she calls back, and immediately follows it up with, “Come on, hurry up, we don’t want to miss the boat.”
Copyright © 2025 by Camilla Sten
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