“Hayes Philip Campbell is not the culture vulture he makes himself out to be.”
“Solène”—Hayes tightened his grip around my waist—“do I make myself out to be a culture vulture? Or do I mostly just sit in awe when you talk about art?”
“You mostly just sit in awe.”
“Thank you.” He beamed before turning to Oliver and sticking out his tongue. Lest I forget I was dating someone half my age.
“What are you? Twelve?”
“Sometimes…”
“All right,” I laughed, “I’m getting more sangria.”
I was already out of the spa and wrapped in my towel when he called out to me. “And see if they have any more crisps, please.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Oliver? Anything?”
“I’ll help.”
Oliver followed me up to the house, snatching a towel and wrapping it around his narrow hips en route.
“I didn’t know your mother collected art,” I said as we headed beneath the loggia and through a set of French doors leading to the kitchen.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
I stopped then, turning to look at him. Golden hair wet and swept back off his brow, hazel eyes piercing, serious mouth. He was beautiful, in a certain unattainable way.
“I suppose that’s true.”
He slipped into the pantry to find a bag of “crisps” then while I headed across the kitchen to one of the two Sub-Zeros on the far wall.
I was grabbing the pitcher of sangria from the refrigerator when I felt it: a cool fingertip tracing the span of my back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. And then it was gone. For a moment I could not move, and when I finally turned around he was on the far side of the room, bag of chips in hand, heading out.
I stood there, shaking. Not knowing quite how to react. Because it was so subtle he could have easily denied it. So faint, I could have imagined it. But I hadn’t, and there was no mistaking his intention.
I returned to the pool eventually and dropped off the pitcher before making some pathetic excuse about needing a break from the sun and retiring to our room. He and Hayes had been laughing about something, and I could not even bring myself to look at them.
I felt sick.
Within half an hour Hayes appeared at the bedroom door. “Hey, what are you doing in here?”
“Reading,” I said, barely looking up.
“You all right? I missed you.” He planted himself at the foot of the bed.
“I just wanted to be alone for a little bit.”
“You sure everything’s all right? ’Cause I can’t really leave you alone,” he said, wrapping his hands around my feet. “I mean that kind of defeats the purpose of you being here.” He lowered his head then, kissing my ankles, my shins, my knees.
“I can’t have half an hour to myself?”
He shook his head, forced my knees open. “Nope. What are you reading?”
I held up the book. Adé: A Love Story by Rebecca Walker.
“A love story,” he said, planting kisses on the inside of my thigh. “Is it any good?”
“Yes.”
“Very good?”
“Very good.”
“Is it as good as ours?”
I laughed at that. He had my attention. “Is ours a love story?”
“I don’t know. Is it?” He took the book from my hands then and placed it on the night table, before peeling off the bottom of my bikini.
“What are you doing, Hayes?”
He smiled. “I brought my mouth.”
The thought occurred that it might not be the most opportune time to mention Oliver’s transgression.
*
In truth I did not know how or what exactly I would say to Hayes about what had happened. Because their relationship was already so peculiar and complicated and because what Oliver had done was relatively benign and because I did not want to be stuck in the same house with the two of them if and when things were to blow up, I kept it to myself. I managed not to be alone with him for the remainder of the weekend. And Oliver went back to being his occasionally charming, occasionally disdainful, amusing, aristocratic self. And all was well, on the surface.
*
On Sunday, Hayes and I took a long bike ride before having lunch in Sag Harbor and then returning for a swim. The others were elsewhere, and we relished the solitude.
“How is it I don’t tire of you?” he asked. We were drying in the sun, our lounge chairs drawn in beside each other, cozy.
I laughed at that. “Do you tire of people easily?”
He nodded, his fingertips tracing over my back. I’d untied the straps of my swimsuit to avoid tan lines but taken care to shade my face with a large hat, and he’d managed to wedge his face in next to mine beneath it.
“But not you,” he said, soft, his lips against my temple. “I never tire of you.”
“And yet…”
“And yet?”
I said nothing.
“This is about yesterday, isn’t it?”
“Here’s what I’m going to say. Once…” I rolled into him. He reached out to finger my nipple, and I stilled his hand. “Are you listening to me?”
He nodded.
“I understand you’re in this unique position, and girls are constantly falling in your lap, but you always have a choice. At some point, one way or another, you make a choice. And I’m not inclined to let this go on much longer without you making a choice. I trust you’ll let me know when that happens.”
He nodded again, slow. “I’ll let you know when that happens.”
los angeles
On the Wednesday of the second week of September, Daniel and I attended Windwood’s Eighth Grade Back-to-School Night. All summer our exchanges had been civil, perfunctory, business as usual. But there was something about him that evening that I could not quite put my finger on. He was oddly charming, attentive. After the welcome and the walk-through and the mediocre coffee, he insisted on escorting me back to the parking lot. And as we neared my car, he came out with it. “Are you seeing someone?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You just seem happy.”
“I can’t just be happy? I have to be seeing someone?”
“That’s not what I said.” He smiled.
I watched him wave to Rose’s parents across the lot. So polished, controlled, Hollywood. The very qualities that had drawn me in that first year of grad school. He, the cocky Columbia Law student with the intense eyes and perfect pedigree. He, who had wooed me over Viennese coffee at the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam. How quickly I’d fallen.
“Do you remember Kip Brooker?” He turned back to me. “He left Irell a few years back to go in-house at Universal? I had lunch with him the other day … His wife’s family has a place in the Hamptons. They summer in Sag Harbor every year. He told me he could have sworn he saw you there, at a restaurant, with one of those guys from August Moon. Like on a date. Which seems crazy, because…” He shook his head then, laughing. “That would just be crazy, right? For a million reasons that would be crazy.”
I smiled at that, deflecting. “Is there something you want to ask me, Daniel?”
“I thought I already did.”
“He’s a client.”
He stopped. He was not expecting confirmation. “A client?”