I told him I was fine, through chattering teeth. He stepped in closer, slowly, and pulled his sweatshirt down over my head, pinning my arms to my sides and making my hair wild with static.
Better? he asked. It terrified and thrilled me how, with that one quiet word, he could make my insides shimmer, shake me up like a snow globe.
When we were with the others, I could still barely look at him.
But because Wyn and I had been the last to arrive, or maybe because the others had decided our friendship should begin with a trial by fire, we’d been sharing the kids’ room all week, and every night, when we turned off the lights, we’d trade whispers back and forth from our beds on opposite sides of the room. Talk for hours.
I rarely said his name, though. It felt too much like an incantation. As if it would light me up from the inside, and he’d see how much I wanted him, how all day long my mind caught on him like a scar in a record. How, without even trying, I knew exactly where he was at all times, could likely cover my eyes, get spun around, and still point to him on the first try.
And I couldn’t want him. Because my best friend did. Because he’d become an important part of Sabrina’s and Cleo’s lives, and I wouldn’t mess that up.
Besides, I told myself, my reaction to him didn’t mean anything. Just a biological imperative to procreate, setting off little fireworks through my nervous system. Not the kind of thing you could build any kind of lasting relationship on. I told myself I was too smart to think I was falling in love with him. Because I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
If only I’d been right.
Now Wyn pulls the itinerary out of my hands, his gaze traveling across the open page.
“I genuinely love how organized Sabrina is,” I say. “But there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. And when you’re mentioning bowel movements on your group vacation schedule, I think you’ve hit it.”
Wyn returns the folder to the end table. “You think this is bad, but it’s nothing compared to the packing list Parth sent me. He told me how many pairs of underwear to bring. So either my ‘personalized surprise’ on Saturday is going to end badly, or he thinks I’m incapable of counting my own underwear.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” I say. “I’m sure it’s a little of both.”
As he laughs, his dimples flash, little dark pricks in his scruffy jaw. For a second, it’s like we’ve come unglued from the timeline, tumbled back a year.
Then he steps back from me. “The next fifteen minutes are scheduled for relaxing before lunch,” he says, “so I’ll leave you to it.”
I nod.
He nods.
He moves toward the door, hesitates there for a second.
And then he’s gone, and I’m still frozen where he left me. I do not relax.
6
REAL LIFE
Monday
THE “BIG BEDROOM” is a disaster. A beautiful, amazing, nightmarish disaster. The kids’ room is at the front of the hallway and thus is part of the original house. This is at the back, in the behemoth extension. There are no wonky doors that get stuck, or windows you have to prop open with books, or floorboards that snap and groan when no one’s even touching them.
This room is pure luxury. The king-sized bed has four-zillion-thread-count sheets. A set of double doors opens onto a balcony that overlooks both the saltwater pool and the bluffs beyond it, and there’s both a massive stone tub and a two-person shower made of dark slate and glass.
However, if I could make one minor interior design suggestion, it would be to put one or both of the aforementioned amenities behind a door. As it stands, they’re out in the open.
Sure, the toilet gets to hide in a shameful little cabinet, but if I plan on changing my clothes at any point during this week, my options are (1) accept that I’ll be doing so with an audience of one, namely my ex-fiancé; (2) stuff myself into the shit-closet and pray for good balance; or (3) find a discreet way to sneak down to the infamous outdoor shower stall over by the guesthouse.
All this to say, I spend my fifteen minutes of “relaxation” taking a private shower while I can. Then I pull on a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt. One of Wyn’s and my few areas of overlap is our complete absence of personal style.
His work has always required him to dress practically, and most of his clothes quickly get beaten up, so there’s no point in having anything too nice to begin with.
For me, though, the overreliance on tight Levi’s and Tshirts has more to do with the fact that I hate making decisions. It took me years to figure out what kind of clothes I like on my body, and now I’m sticking with it.
Another solar flare–bright memory: Wyn and me lying in bed, lamplight spilling over us, his hair a mess, that one obstinate lock on his forehead. His mouth presses to the curve of my belly, then the crease of my hip. He whispers against all my softest parts, Perfect.
A shiver crawls down my spine.
Quite enough of that.
I knot my hair atop my head and trudge back downstairs.
Everyone’s moved out to the wooden table on the back patio. Four feet worth of charcuterie runs down its center, and because Sabrina is Sabrina, there are place cards, ensuring that Cleo and Kimmy are seated in front of the vegan offerings, while I’ll be face-to-face with a Brie wheel so big it could be fixed to a wheelbarrow in a pinch.
Wyn looks up from his phone as I step onto the patio. I can’t tell if the momentary splash of anxiety across his face is wishful thinking on my part, because as soon as I clock it, he puts his phone away, breaks into a smile, and reaches out to collect me around the waist, pulling me in against his side.
Rigidly, I drop into the wrought iron chair next to his, and his arm rearranges, loosely crooking around my shoulders.
Sabrina rises from her seat at the head of the table. “I’m not sure if you had a chance to look at your itineraries yet . . .”
“Is that what that was?” Cleo says. “I’ve been using it as a doorstop.”
Kimmy, with two gherkins sticking out of her mouth like walrus tusks, adds, “So much of it was redacted, I assumed it was a deposition.”
“Those are just a couple of surprises,” Sabrina says. “The rest of the week will be our usual fare.”
Wyn takes a hard chomp of carrot, the force of which rattles down my body. I can’t get a good breath without hundreds of the nerve endings along my rib cage and chest pressing into him, which means I’m barely getting any oxygen.
“Grocery Gladiators?” Kimmy squeals right as Cleo says hopefully, “Murder, She Read?”