Noel gives an exaggerated grimace, but Mari thinks he’s actually a bit relieved, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Okay, so you don’t reciprocate young Johnnie’s feelings then. I didn’t think you did, but you’re a very hard girl to read, Mistress Mary. Still waters and all that.”
Coming from him, Mari suspects that’s a compliment, but she’s still slightly bemused. “What does it matter to you if I did?” she asked, and he glances up at her, one eyebrow raised.
“For one, there’s quite enough sexual intrigue in the house already, don’t you think? And two … well, to be frank, if you want to step out on Sheldon, you could do much better.”
For a moment, Mari wonders if this is Noel making some sort of play for her himself. They haven’t talked about what happened that night, and Noel’s behavior toward her hasn’t changed. But she suspects that if he were declaring himself, he’d be a great deal more forward about it. “I couldn’t ‘step out’ on Pierce,” she tells him. “It isn’t like that with us, we’re … open. Free. Which you should know better than most, frankly.”
Noel makes a rude noise at that. “Please. Sheldon may tell you that, may certainly practice that for himself, but something tells me that if you were ever to act on any attraction or desire without him present, it might be another story.”
Mari has sometimes thought that herself, but she doesn’t want to give Noel the satisfaction of agreeing.
“In any case,” she says now, “I’m not interested in Johnnie. Or anyone besides Pierce.”
“Wound to the ego, balm to the mind,” Noel replies, then sighs, shaking his head. “He’s a good lad, Johnnie. Sweet and loyal. Bit like a spaniel, really. Sadly, a rubbish musician.”
“I haven’t heard him play,” Mari replies, and Noel flicks that away with an elegant gesture.
“You haven’t missed anything, believe me. He’s desperate to get in on the studio time I have booked when we’re back in London, but he just doesn’t have what it takes. I keep him around because he’s gorgeous to look at, and he has a surprising talent for finding any kind of … let us say, recreational substance a man might desire, no matter where one is in the world. Last year, he managed to get hashish in the Outer fucking Hebrides. Otherworldly, I tell you. Honestly, I thought about letting him play on the album just as a reward for that alone, but Sheldon is right—if one element is out of place, the whole thing falls apart.”
Mari’s first reaction is relief that Pierce and Noel have been talking about music at all. But then she thinks about how kind Johnnie was to her earlier, and her heart aches for him. She knows what it’s like to want something and feel like it’s close, but just out of reach. How much it must sting, watching Noel and Pierce play together and being shut out. To see Noel turn his attention to Pierce, to give Pierce the opportunity that Johnnie himself has been craving.
The well, which had felt magical and soothing earlier, now feels too small, too narrow, and Mari is intensely aware of the layers of rock and soil above her, around her, below her.
She turns and begins trudging back up the stairs, her breath harsh in her ears, her eyes fixed on her sandals, and she doesn’t see Johnnie sitting on one of the steps until she nearly trips over him, a startled, “Oh!” flying from her lips as her hands land awkwardly on his knees.
He’s holding himself stiffly, and Mari knows, immediately, that he heard every word Noel said. Maybe it didn’t come as a surprise, but thinking a thing and having it confirmed are different beasts, as she well knows.
“Johnnie,” she breathes, and he stands up quickly, his hands taking hers as he helps her up onto the next step.
“What did you think of hell?” he asks, and tries to give her that bright smile she’s used to, but it falters just the littlest bit.
“Hellish,” she replies, trying to match his fake cheer as Noel comes up behind her, slightly wary.
“John-o,” he says, but Johnnie only smiles at him, too.
“Got everything,” he tells Noel, patting his pockets with a knowing look. “We should be set for the next week or so at least.”
“Good man,” Noel says, clapping him on the shoulder, and if Mari sees something flicker in Johnnie’s eyes, she blames it on the light.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, Chess is waiting for me.
She’s wearing a bright red sundress over the striped bikini I’ve seen her wearing at the pool, and there’s a massive picnic basket on the kitchen table, a big gingham ribbon tied around the handle.
“What’s all this?” I ask her, and she comes forward, enveloping me in a hug.
“Please let me take you on a fabulous adventure today and assuage my guilt for being such a ‘See You Next Tuesday’ last night.”
This is another classic Chess move, the Extravagant Apology.
Thing is, I’m always susceptible to it, desperate to get back to “normal.” Although part of me is starting to realize—maybe this is just who we are with each other, who we’ve always been. Maybe this is our normal. We push each other, and, inevitably, we fight. Maybe I need to start remembering that.
“I like that you don’t use the C word anymore,” I tell her.
“It’s bad for the general image, but please know I use it in my head on the regular.”
I laugh again, then nod at the basket, which looks stuffed to the brim. “So, you’re taking me on a picnic?”
“It felt like the one big summer in Italy cliché we hadn’t checked off yet,” she says, and I can’t argue there.
It’s not long before we’re situated by the pond on a big blanket, Chess pulling out white plates with little strawberries on them, the sun shining down on us. We’re under one of the trees, so there’s a nice bit of shade, and I lean back on one elbow, looking out over the pond. The water is a dark, murky green, but it’s pretty to look at with its small dock, a decrepit rowboat tied to one post.
“In the spirit of honesty, this is yet another thing I didn’t actually make, just paid for,” Chess tells me as she starts unloading cured meats and wrapped cheeses onto the blanket, followed by two bottles of Orvieto wine.
After last night, I decide to pass on the wine, but I open a chilled bottle of mineral water and take a couple of pieces of bread.
For a long while, we just sit in silence, looking out over the water. It’s another perfect day in a perfect place, which makes it easy to forget last night’s ugliness. Soon we’re chatting like normal again, laughing and joking, back to being Em and Chess.
“How goes Swipe Right on Life?” I ask, and she tears off another hunk of bread, wrapping it around a little piece of mozzarella.
“It goes. It slowed down for a while there, but I’m finally feeling a little more inspired. It’s just that there’s only so many ways to say, ‘let go of your shit.’” She sighs, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head.
“Maybe that’s what you should call it instead,” I tell her. “‘Let Go of Your Shit.’ I’d buy that before ‘Swipe Right on Life.’”