Page 19 of Backslide
My stomach drops and begins to churn like an ancient washing machine.
With alarm, I turn to Cara as she points her fingers in opposite directions. “There are two rooms,” she says. “Separate rooms. Like totally separate.”
Ben scurries over to stand by her side, either in her defense or out of fear. The two of them eye us like we’re rabid raccoons. They are more powerful together.
The silence in the room is deep as Noah and I absorb this information—and it extends until Cara can’t take it anymore.
“The thing is, I’m so sorry and I know neither of you want to share a suite, but you’re our best friends and we really want you close by us and this is really the only option unless we give Sabrina and Rita one of these rooms—but then it’s a smaller bed and that doesn’t seem like a good solution for a couple. So, I totally understand if you don’t want to do this and, if either of you want to switch with someone who’s in a separate bungalow on the grounds, you totally can. We really understand. And I am so, so sorry!”
She pauses to catch her breath like she has just run a sprint.
I truly cannot believe my best friend would put me in this situation. Knowing how I feel abouthim. It’s a total nightmare. As much as it can be a nightmare to be in a beautiful suite in wine country—which, to be fair, isn’t that much of a nightmare. And I am about to say all this out loud when Ben puts his arm around his wife, looks from me to Noah, and says pointedly: “Cara did her best. And she’s beenreallyworried about this.”
And that instantly takes me down a notch. Because, of course, I catch his drift. This is Cara’s week. Ben’s week. And here I am already causing them unnecessary stress.
Against my better judgment, I steal a look at Noah. And though he is tense enough to be running his fingers continuously over his hair, I can see him processing this the same way I am. Begrudgingly, I catch his eye. We always had solid silent communication and that has not changed, even after all these years. I know we’re in agreement before he speaks.
“Please don’t worry, Cara,” he says. “We’re grown-ups. We have one hundred percent got this.” He looks at me. “Right, Nell…Eleanor?”
Everything in me wants to turn around and do the whole journey in reverse. Call John back to the estate and have him whisk me in the opposite direction through the rainbow tunnel—perhaps to a pot of gold—and across the bridge to the airport, where I will take off like a rocket, never to return. But this is Cara’s trip. Ben’s trip. And I will not be the one to ruin it. So, instead, I clear my throat, gather my strength, and will the corners of my mouth to curve into a smile.
It may look terrifying, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“Yes. Don’t worry. We are all good. It’sallgood. We got this.”
Even using the wordwegives me agita. But I grin my way through it so hard that my face starts to hurt. When the happy couple finallyleaves the suite, Cara glancing back three hundred times to check to see if I am truly okay, I am relieved to see them go.
The door clicks shut. I let my face fall. And then it’s justhimand me.
Noah. Me. Alone. Together.
There’s a moment of silence as we consider each other, resigned.
Then, he opens his mouth to speak and I put up a hand. Like I am a crossing guard and he does not have the right of way. It’s my right hand and, as my shoulder rotates, I involuntarily wince from pain.
I don’t need to know what he’s going to say to know that I don’t want to hear it. No thanks.
“Don’t,” I bark before he makes a sound and, without a glance back, I cross to my room, the Jolly Green Giant rolling close behind.
5NOAHTODAY
These days, I never drink heavily. It’s not worth the three-day hangover.
But tonight I’m tempted to skip the glass and stick my head under a wine barrel’s faucet instead, so I can mainline the stuff more quickly. Not because the wine is good—though it is. And not because I’m psyched for my friends and a much-needed vacation—which I was. But because I am desperate to get out of my fucking head.
Oaky. Full-bodied. Notes of cherry and tobacco. I don’t give a shit. I just want to numb out.
It’s never fun to hang out around someone you have beef with, but this is more than that. It’s… shit I don’t even want to consider. What’s going on inside my brain right now is some kind of twisted mental time travel. It’s like I’m falling down a black hole into that tempestuous period when I was eighteen, with as little perspective as I had in that actual moment.
It’s like my hindsight has evaporated.
To make matters worse, Ben and Cara are loyal, dedicated. So many of the guests at this gathering will be people they befriendedback in the day, people I’ve also known for years. It’s all making the past feel more present.
If it was possible to shake myself and remind myself that I’m an adult, even a functional semi-happy one, I’d slap some sense into my stupid ass. But that’s not a thing.
So… alcohol.
When Nell emerges, I’m into my second glass of some local pinot noir, but it does nothing to quell the strumming that riots through me at the sight of her. After the harrowing discovery that we’re going to be roomies, we managed to avoid each other. In the afternoon, I spent more time than made sense scanning “Cara & Ben’s Un-Wedding Itinerary”—printed and placed at my bedside—as I grasped for a foothold in reality. Mostly, it included detailed attire suggestions and QR codes that linked to songs representing each of the six days’ themes. (Day 1:Arrival!Song: “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses.)
