Page 110 of False God

I pull the pink elastic off my wrist, twist my hair into a bun, and secure it the best I can without looking in a mirror. Hopefully, there’s not a chunk I missed.

There’s no dishwasher, which isn’t ideal. No dish gloves either. But it’s a small miracle the manicure I had done for Chloe’s wedding has lasted this long. It had to start chipping sometime.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asks as I flick the faucet on and rummage under the sink for a sponge and some soap.

“Washing the dishes.” I let an unspokenduhdangle.

“Leave it, Lili. I’ll deal with this.”

I don’t reply, just continue scrubbing.

“Lili.”

“Those books aren’t going to put themselves away.”

Charlie heaves a sigh before walking over to the couch. I set the first plate in the drain rack, then pick up a second one. It’s kind of cathartic, sudsing and rinsing. Satisfying to set the sparkling, dripping dish down.

This is not my first time washing dishes. But as much as it makes me sound like a spoiled rich girl, it’s not a frequent occurrence.

We clean in companionable silence.

It’s weird.

Not the quiet. That’s comfortable—the rustle of couch cushions and trickle of running water from the tap.

The domesticity is strange. From the club to cleaning.

Every time I think I have Charlie figured out, he surprises me.

He went from barely looking at me on the boat to confiding about the accident that made him decide to pursue a medical degree.

Fucking me on the hood of his car to fluffing pillows.

He acts like a duke—distant, dignified, reserved—one minute, then tosses me over a shoulder the next.

That contrast does something dangerous to me, especially since I’ve only seen that shift take place around me.

I set the last clean dish down, then dry my hands on the towel hanging from the fridge door.

Charlie’s tidied everywhere else. Everything’s tucked or fixed or straightened. He’s in the bedroom now, stripping sheets, so I duck into the bathroom to pee and wash my hands. Wipe the counter and hang up the towels while I’m in there.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Charlie is leaning against the kitchen counter, talking on the phone. I have no idea who he’s talking to or what he’s saying because the conversation is taking place in French.

I had no idea Charlie spoke French. Another hidden facet to this man.

I wander past him and back out to the pool. More exterior lights flicker on, activated by the movement.

The light doesn’t extend far enough for me to see the ocean, but I can hear the muffled crash of water against the shore. I take a seat at the top of the pool steps, swishing my feet in the cool water. It’s lagoon-like, appearing carved into the stone ground like it sprang into a natural existence.

A few minutes later, I hear Charlie’s footsteps approaching.

“Sorry,” he says, sitting down beside me. “Just taking care of a couple of things.”

His arm brushes mine as he slips off his leather loafers and dips his feet in the water too. The hems of his pants dampen in the water, but Charlie doesn’t seem to notice. He stares straight ahead at the main house, seeming lost in thought.

“So … you own this place?”

That’s the only reasonable explanation I can come up with for why his sister would have been here and his apparent unconcern about trespassing.

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