How the hell does she know all this?
I watch in fascination as Juliette chats with everyone at the table, asking about their job at the fire station or their dad’s gout flareup. Meanwhile, I’m over here wishing everyone was required to wear name tags because I’m finding it difficult just to keep up with them all.
My girl is so fucking beautiful my eyeballs go dry from staring at her. I wish I could stow away in her suitcase and go home with her on Sunday.
The conversation turns to some big party that’s taking place on Saturday night, but I’m only vaguely listening. I’m too busy watching Juliette eat her burger and fries like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. Though my ears perk up when one of the women—is that Stephanie or Donna?—squeals, “Juli, you and Renohave tocome.”
“Oh, I love karaoke,” Juliette gushes.
Ugh. I fucking hate karaoke.
“And the best part is that it’s costume karaoke,” Brittany chimes in.Great. Even better.“We were here for it last year, and it was a blast.”
“It was,” her wife, Melissa, agrees. “The drunker we got, the braver we got with our singing. I mean, we were terrible, but that’s what made it so much fun.” Everyone laughs at the memories.
Juliette’s pretty aqua eyes dart toward me, and she puts on a smile I can tell is fake. “Oh, I’m not sure—”
“We’d love to come,” I interrupt, my stomach flipping over when her smile turns up to full wattage. If my dream girl loves karaoke, I guess we’re going to fucking karaoke.
“Really?” she asks me.
I brush a tendril of hair behind her ear and lie. “It sounds fun.”
The look of pure happiness on her face would be worth every second of torture I’d have to endure. But under no circumstances would I be singing.
“I picked out the most amazing costumes for us,” Juliette gushes as the sea breeze sways our shared hammock behind cottage four on Saturday afternoon. “The resort has a little rental shop for guests.”
“What are the costumes?” I ask, trying not to let the trepidation seep out through my tone.
“It’s a surprise,” she sings, kissing my bare chest before resting her head there. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
Juliette traces her fingers over my chest. “Why don’t you have any tattoos? Not that I’m complaining. You just seem like a guy who would have some ink.”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never found anything important enough to want on my body permanently. It would have to mean something.”
“I get that,” she says, smiling up at me.
I trace the script E over a small purple flower tattoo I’d noticed on Juliette’s wrist. “What’s this about?”
Her smile turns wistful. “That’s for my friend Evie. Lilacs were her favorite flower. She disappeared about seventeen years ago during Spring Break.”
Something niggles at the back of my mind before making its way to the front. “Wait. Are you talking about Evie Bouvier, the fashion heiress who went missing in Mexico?” Juliette nods. “She was your friend?”
“My best friend. We were from totally different worlds, but when we met at summer camp as little girls, it’s like… our souls connected.” She smiles. “I know that sounds weird, but that’s the best way I can explain it. We became pen pals. Then when we were old enough to have phones, Evie and I talked or texted almost every day. We went back to that camp in Arkansas each summer and decided we would go to the same college and be roommates one day.”
“I remember when she went missing. It was national news.” I roll until I’m facing Juliette so I can trace her face with my fingertips. A tear meanders down her cheek, and I swipe it away. “I’m so sorry, baby. I can’t imagine how hard that would be.”
She nods and sniffles. “It was awful. I was the one who called her dad and told him we couldn’t find her.”
The truth hits me hard and fast. I’ve always thought nausea was reserved for the stomach and digestive tract, but suddenly, it’s like every cell in my body is nauseated at the realization.It could have been Juliette.
“You were there? On that trip?” I rasp.
“Yes, there were six of us in total. The local police weren’t very helpful. They kept telling us she was surely around somewhere, probably in a guy’s room.” Juliette’s nose scrunches, leaving little wrinkles above her mouth. “But I knew Evie wasn’t the type to have random hookups, so I called Paul Bouvier. With his money and influence, he was able to get the authorities to get off their asses and take the situation seriously.” Anger flushes her cheeks.
“But by then, it was too late,” I surmise before kissing the tip of her nose. “From what I remember, there wasn’t much to go on.”
