Page 94 of Is This for Real?
We decide to play Mafia. I write out “villager” on six pieces of paper, “night watchman” on one piece of paper, and “murderer” on the last piece, and then crumple them up and place them in the hat. We each pick a piece of paper. I am a villager.
Aaron is the night watchman. He tells us to close our eyes.
“Okay, you can open your eyes. Nia, you’ve been murdered,” Aaron says.
Now we have to guess which one of us is the murderer.
“I felt a swish of air near me,” Tom says. “So, the murderer is definitely over here.” Rory’s chair is next to the couch where Tom is sitting.
Everyone except me decides it’s Rory, based on Tom’s swish theory.
“It’s not me,” Rory says.
“I didn’t feel a swish of air near me,” I say. I would have felt Rory move. I’m so attuned to his every shift.
“You’re protecting him,” Anne says.
Rory says he is not the murderer. We all close our eyes again. This time, Dan is murdered.
“Did you feel a swish of air this time?” Anne asks.
“Not as much,” Tom says.
“It’s Tom. He’s trying to protect himself with this swish theory,” I say. Rory puts his arm around the back of my chair, and I definitely feel that air gap between his arm and my back. I shift back slightly to rest against his arm.
They all decide it’s me, again based on Tom’s sensitivity to the air movement around him. I am not the murderer, so everyone has to shut their eyes again. This time, Anne is killed. Now it’s just Tom and Jack, each saying it’s the other. The ghost villagers are allowed to weigh in and we all pick Tom. It’s not Tom, it’s Jack.
“Why’d you kill me first?” Nia asks.
“Because you can tell when I’m lying,” Jack says.
I don’t know Rory well enough to tell when he’s lying. Unless the person has a really easy tell, that seems to me to be the mark of a deeply connected relationship—when you know the other person that well. They probably don’t need the elaborate sign language we cooked up when we were fake dating.
We play one more round. And I know when Rory says he’s not the murderer that he’s telling the truth. Rory catches me staring at him and smiles back. We do know each other so well. Does that mean he can tell I love him—or do I need to say it out loud?
It’s now getting late, and we all have to be at Myrtle’s couples’ yoga session in the morning.
We follow the others up to the bedrooms on the second floor and say good night at our doors.
Rory and I look at each other ruefully in the room. I turn away from his glance to put my hat down on the dresser. The room feels even smaller than it did this morning when three of us were in it. Rory has rolled up his sleeves and his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and he just looks so good.
He sits down on the bed and chuckles. “Myrtle. A single bed. What do you think is up with her?”
“I’m not sure, but I saw Bernie smile when you helped her over that log in the path on the hike,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe it creates more passion in their romance—like how women who read romances apparently have more sex.”
“Do they?” Rory looks intrigued.
“So I’ve read.”
“What about women whowriteromances?”
“Based on my years as a single woman writing romances, no,” I say firmly.
“We should rectify that,” he says. “And I can’t let you sleep in this cold room alone.”
Chapter thirty-five
Myrtleclapsexcitedlyaswe all enter her yoga space, which is in a beautifully converted barn. I can’t help but notice it is warmer than our cottage.
