A bullfrog croaks in the pond. Somewhere, deep in the mud, a giant snapping turtle is lurking. Through the window, I see Peter in the pantry, dishing chocolate ice cream into mismatched bowls. He hands them out to the kids, then picks up the container of pistachio ice cream and considers it for a moment, before emptying the whole thing into his bowl.
10:00 P.M.
I’ve made a pile of corncobs and husks. The back door opens and Peter comes out with a big black garbage bag. He looks into the dark for me.
“Here,” I say, stepping into the light. “It’s a disaster area.”
Peter opens the maw of the bag, and I dump everything in.
“I saw you,” Peter says, his voice withheld, odd. “With Jonas.”
“Saw me?”
“I know.”
My skin goes blush-hot, an adrenaline rush quickening through me. I force away the rising panic, concentrate on picking up damp cigarette butts. “These fucking raccoons.” I move out of the light, pick up a torn egg carton, hold my breath, wait for what’s coming.
“You kissed him.”
My heart releases a millibeat. There was no kiss. I didn’t kiss Jonas last night. He came out of the dark, took me from behind. I breathe a sigh of relief without breathing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Pete.”
“Don’t lie.” His face is hard as river stones, sure in its rage.
“I’m not lying. What do you mean, saw me? Where?” A hideous thought creeps in: did Peter follow us to the old ruin? Did he watch us from the trees? See our raw, open sex?
Peter shakes his head in disgust. “Just now. In the kitchen. At Dixon’s.”
The sea changes in my body, the pure-water rush of Thank God. “You mean when I kissed the burn on his hand? Jesus.”
“It wasn’t just the kiss. I saw the way he was looking at you,” Peter says. “Like he wanted you.”
“Well, yeah,” I say, my voice heavy with forced sarcasm. “How could he not? I’m irresistible.”
“I saw the way you looked back at him,” Peter says.
“I put butter on his hand. I handed him a dish towel.”
Peter takes the egg carton from me. “You know what, Elle? I’m done here. I’m going to bed.” He shoves the bag in the trash can, slams the lid, secures it with the bungee cord.
“For Christ’s sake, Pete. It’s Jonas. He’s our oldest friend.”
“He’s your oldest friend.”
“I ‘kissed it better’ like he was a little kid. You were right there.”
“I was,” Peter says, and walks away from me.
“Wait,” I say, going after him. “Are you seriously upset with me because I kissed Jonas’s burnt hand?”
Peter stares me down. His eyes are cold silver, a mercury streak.
“Fuck it. Think whatever you want,” I say, covering my nerves with self-righteous anger. “Jonas is my oldest friend. Of course he loves me. But not that way. It would be like incest.”
A pause flickers across his face—hope and doubt combined.
We stand there at an impasse, Peter desperately wanting to resolve his suspicions, uncertain; me, terrified, crossing my fingers behind my back, holding my ground, willing Peter to believe me, pretending defiance. I have given up Jonas. I have chosen Peter. I have died for him. I say a prayer to the God I know does not exist. After this, I swear, there will be no more lies.
“Okay,” he says finally, his face giving a little. “But if you’re lying . . .”
I keep my voice level and steady. “Good. Because there’s nothing going on with Jonas, or anyone else for that matter. You’re the only man I love. I promise you.”
“Good,” he says. He comes over and kisses me hard. “But no more kissing other men. You’re mine.”
“I am,” I say.
“Now come to bed so I can make love to my wife.”
“The kids are still awake and Mum is prowling around somewhere.”
“Hush.” He takes my hand, leads me down the dark path to our cabin door. He pushes me up the steps in front of him. “Turn around,” he growls.
I face my body to him, brace myself inside the doorway. He puts his hands up my dress, pulls down my underpants, leans in and licks me slowly with the rough flat of his tongue.
“You taste like the sea,” he whispers.
I close my eyes and imagine the ocean, the beach today, the tent, Jonas. I cum in his mouth, thinking of the other man I love. When the tears come, they are not for what I have lost, but for the truth about Jonas I cannot seem to shed.