“Why don’t you feel like complete shit right now?” I ask.
“Probably,” he says, “because I drank half as much wine as you, and one hundred percent fewer shots than you took off Kimmy’s stomach.”
“That was true?” I say. “I did a body shot?”
“No, you didn’t do a body shot,” he says.
My shoulders relax.
“You did four body shots.”
“Why didn’t anyone stop us?” I ask.
“Probably because Cleo went to bed early, Sabrina and Parth were having the time of their lives, and every time I came near you, you’d rub your ass on my crotch until I left you alone.”
I scoot abruptly back from him. “There is absolutely no way I did that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It was clearly vengeful grinding.”
I rub the heels of my hands over my eyebrows.
Wyn reaches back for the glass on the nightstand behind us. “Drink some water.”
“I don’t need water,” I say. “I need a time machine.”
“I’m not made of money, Harriet. Water’s all I’ve got.”
I swipe the glass from him. As soon as I’ve drained it, he plucks it from my hand and stands, padding into the bathroom portion of our fuck-palace and turning on the faucet. I crawl toward the balcony and push up onto my knees to open the door, dragging the blanket outside with me to swallow some big gulps of fresh sea air.
The sun’s barely come up. There’s too much mist to see much of anything. Everything’s a shimmering gray.
“Here.”
I flinch at the sound of his voice. Wyn’s stepped out beside me and holds the refilled glass out, along with a couple of ibuprofen. Begrudgingly, I down the pills.
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” I say.
“You’ve always made that clear.” He lowers himself to sit beside me on the damp wood, his arms coiled around his knees, his gaze out on the water. Or where the water must be, hidden behind the silver curtain. “Since when do you drink like that?”
“I don’t.” At his look, I add, “Under usual circumstances. But as you’ll recall, these circumstances are less than ideal.”
He pushes his hair out of his face. “Can I ask you something?”
“No,” I say.
He nods, his gaze steady on the invisible horizon.
My curiosity bubbles up until I can’t ignore it. “Fine. What?”
“You’re happy, aren’t you?” He looks at me sidelong, the corners of his mouth tense, thoughtful ridges between his brows.
That exaggerated seesawing sensation rocks through me, only with the added benefit of there being a turbulent ocean of alcohol in my stomach.
There’s no right answer. Tell him he did the right thing, and he gets absolution. Tell him I’m not happy, and I’m admitting that even now, a part of me wants him. That he’s gone back to being my phantom limb, an unstoppable ache where something’s missing.
I’m saved by the bell. Except the bell is an air horn app at top volume, blasting through the hallway, followed by a muffled shriek—Kimmy—of “GROCERY. GLADIATORS. BITCHES!” Parth lays on the air horn again.
Wyn lumbers to his feet, his question forgotten, my answer avoided. “At least someone remembered to hydrate before bed.”
9
REAL LIFE
Tuesday
“I HAVE NEVER loved a grocery store,” I say, “like I love this grocery store.”
“I love all grocery stores.” Sabrina wheels our cart around an endcap toward the Crayola-bright produce section.
“Honestly, I have a hard time with grocery stores now,” Cleo says. “Once you start growing your own fruits and veggies, everything else pales in comparison.”
“Oh, is that so?” Sabrina pauses to feel a couple of mangoes. “I wouldn’t know.”
Something about the way she says it makes it clear it’s a barb. Or it at least suggests that, and then the way Cleo’s eyes flick up but don’t fully roll confirms it.
“I’ve told you,” Cleo says. “You can visit in the winter. Things are too busy now.” She shoots me a look. “Open invitation, Harry: if you and Wyn want to come up to the farm then too, we’d love to have you.”
I focus on checking a box of strawberries for mold. Because this adorable coastal market has been blessed by angels, there isn’t the tiniest bit of fuzz. I check three more boxes, all of them mold-free. “Seriously,” I say. “This is the best grocery store on the planet.”
“You like this grocery store because you don’t have to make any decisions because you’re always with us, and I’m good at making lists,” Sabrina says. “And you hate every other grocery store because I’m not there to meal plan for you. If you moved back in with us, we could fix that.” She turns to Cleo. “And Parth and I are amazing houseguests, by the way. We always bring chocolate babka from Zabar’s.”
She says it flatly, in her unbothered Sabrina way, but I can tell by Cleo’s expression that the little jabs are landing with some force. “We didn’t cancel your visit because we think you’re bad houseguests,” she says. “Things just got hectic.”
Before Sabrina can reply to that, I jump in: “Well, I’m so glad you and Kim could still make the trip work. That means a lot.”
Cleo’s mouth softens into a smile. “I’m glad too.” She brushes a hand over Sabrina’s elbow. “I mean, how often do two of your best friends get married?”
Sabrina grins now too, irritation apparently forgotten. “Well, in this case, at least twice, since we’ll still have to do a big family wedding next year. Plus, if Parth has his way, there will probably be three or four more sprinkled in there somewhere.”
“Well, of course,” I say. “You’ve got to make sure it sticks.”
From the far end of the shop, I can hear Kimmy barking orders at Wyn and Parth like she’s a musher. Their strategy in this pseudo-game is always to go as fast as possible, which means they end up having to circle the whole store like three times, while Cleo, Sabrina, and I lazily meander, testing fruit and sorting through the impressive imported cheese fridge. There are usually even a couple of Cleo’s favorite nut cheeses.
The game’s gotten more elaborate over the years. We are now to the point where Sabrina makes the list, cuts it into tiny oneline strips, folds the strips, puts them in a bowl, and has each of us take turns pulling random grocery items out until both “teams” have an even number.
Another reason I know this is not a real game: Sabrina clearly does not give one single shit about winning, and she is always hypercompetitive.
“Hold on a sec.” Cleo ducks down the row of fridges and returns with three large coconut waters. She drops two into our cart and pushes the other at me. “You’re green.”
Sabrina examines me. “More like chartreuse.”
A flash of memory: Parth shoving green drinks with paper umbrellas into our sweaty hands as we danced around the patio.
I wince. “Don’t say that word.”
Sabrina cackles. “What about puce?”