“Exactly.” He still doesn’t let go of the key, and for some reason, I don’t, either. “So, I think it would be best if we don’t mention it to anyone.”
“There’s nothing to mention.”
“It’s just that Simone was convinced we were in here showering together, and then Phoebe started talking about that pact again.” He shakes his head and lets go of the card. My arm drops to my side. “It’s amazing to me that we’ve all managed to stay tight for eleven years without any rules, and now, suddenly, swearing under oath is required to keep the peace.”
“So, Phoebe made you say it, too? That you wouldn’t hook up with me?” My breath catches as I wait for his answer. A part of me hopes he didn’t say it, because I like that Deiss doesn’t adhere to social rules. But another part of me hopes he did, because bending to something like that would be a sign that, like me, he needs this group. He’s always felt like the most tenuous of the five of us. Every time he appears at Third Thursdays, I find myself breathing a sigh of relief.
“Yep. Me and Simone both.” He grins wryly. “I had to hold up my hand and repeat after her. I told you she becomes a dictator on vacation.”
I exhale a laugh of relief. “I hope you feel bad now for teasing me about saying it on the patio.”
“If I feel bad,” he says seriously, “it’s because I seem to have just joined the one cult in the world that bans communal fornication.”
I stifle a laugh and roll my eyes instead.
“Let’s go to dinner,” he says.
I shake my head. “I need to blow-dry my hair.”
“Please, Liv.” He makes his eyes unfairly soulful. “I need food.”
With a sigh, I toss my brush on the dresser and follow him toward the door.
* * *
—
“I can’t believe Deiss never came back last night.” Simone pushes her plate away from her like the sight of the fresh, vibrantly colored fruit she’s chosen from the breakfast buffet disgusts her. We’re on the restaurant’s patio, despite the clouds and smell of rain in the air. Phoebe has insisted we soak in every bit of St. Lulia we have left, which was also the excuse she used for forcing Simone and me out of bed and dragging us down here before I’d fully even woken up.
“I can,” I say. The real mystery is who Deiss ended up with. Obviously, it was one of the women on the birthday trip we met at the hotel bar last night, but which one? My vote goes to the sultry brunette with the husky voice. Her name was Zoe, and even I was entranced by her. We talked about graphic design for a while out by the pool before her attention turned to Deiss. After that, she seemed to forget about me completely. It was unfortunate, as she’s been doing freelance for some time, and I really wanted to pick her brain. Apparently, she’d rather get laid on vacation than talk shop.
“We got ditched,” Phoebe says, scowling into her coffee.
“Mac didn’t sleep in your room, either?”
“He did.” She sighs. “But he walked Lara the Birthday Girl to her room first.”
I pause in peeling my naartjie and study her. Like Simone, Phoebe has barely eaten any of her food. There’s something tight about her that makes me nervous. Usually, she seems to flow like water, but today she’s choppy with waves.
“Can I ask you something?” I lift the round citrus fruit in front of my face like a shield.
“Of course.”
Despite her permission, I hesitate before saying, “Are you jealous?”
Her eyebrows lift, but then her head tilts. “I don’t know,” she says, looking perplexed. “Probably a little. I mean, it’s so easy for him. It’s not like he’s looking for a mental connection or anything. He just gets to jump on anyone who gives him the go-ahead. And he’s got this job that pays tons of money and requires absolutely nothing of him. And he gets to live by himself, while I’m stuck living with a roommate who labels their food and accuses me of taking too long in the shower.”
“No—” I try to interrupt, but Phoebe barrels on.
“Like, how does she know, Liv?” Phoebe throws out her hands. “She’s never even home in the mornings, but she acts like she’s got a timer on the showerhead and is counting the chips in her labeled bags. She’s so confident in her accusations.”
She looks at me like she expects an answer, but I shake my head.
“I didn’t mean jealous of Mac,” I say. “I meant jealous of Lara the Birthday Girl.”