Page 23 of Backslide
And there is Lydia in all her ginger glory, sucking her teeth from behind bright-red lips. And if I thought Nell’s top was a little low cut, Lydia’s makes it seem church-worthy, dipping down to reveal an expanse of freckled cleavage that commands center stage.
Nell’s expression goes from relieved to pinched in an instant. A shot of something like anger, but maybe even pain akin to when her shoulder spasmed, crosses her face and disappears before it goes stony.
I hate this closed look even more than the angry one. She is shut down. I want to reach over and brush a thumb across her cheek to flip the switch back on. But the instinct is just muscle memory, so I stay put.
She doesn’t acknowledge Lydia’s offer. Or Lydia at all. And I’m grateful. I don’t want to share a suite with her either. Lydia is not a fan of boundaries, and I need space more than anything right now.
“I see Sabrina,” Nell says. To Cara. To Damien. To the people to whom she actually speaks. And then she races away to anywhere else, taking a deep sip of wine as she goes.
We all watch her leave. Damien lets out a low whistle. “Wow,” he says. “It’s like not a day has passed.”
I think he may mean this in a good way. But it is in no way good.
“Except Ben and I are married with kids,” says Cara, desperate to keep things light. “And Sab is with Rita. And Nellie has Alfie, of course.”
I snap to attention at that.
“Alfie? Who the hell is that?” asks Damien. And I’m grateful he asks because it means I don’t have to.
“Her fiancé!” Cara says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like Alfie is the easiest answer onJeopardy!
“Fiancé?” we all say at once—even Lydia.
And now my heart is pounding again. Even though this is a good thing, right? This takes the pressure off. This means Nell will be hanging with some guy the whole time and we can fully ignore each other.
Damien scans the deck. “But where is he? I want to check this dude out.”
“Oh, he couldn’t come,” Cara shrugs, frowning. “He had a work thing. He’s a big-deal political journalist. Nellie’s usual type.”
Her usual type. Brainy. High-achieving. Not like she sees me—the ball boy.
If Cara knows she’s said something triggering, she doesn’t show it. And we all nod like this is no big thing.Fiancé. The word stutters in my brain like a scratched record.
“So, you guys are the single crew!” Cara adds, as if this is a good thing. Damien nods, thoughtfully. Lydia looks up at me, lasciviously. And I just try to breathe.
My normal life, the one in which I feel like a full human and people take me seriously and I have friends and coworkers and successful interactions, is receding further and further from my consciousness, so that I am already having trouble connecting with it.
It’s like I’m aging backward in the worst possible way.
From a distance, I see Nell huddling with Sabrina and Rita, her tried-and-true friends, and I kind of wish I could be there too. There was a time when I would have been. When that would have been my inner circle too. It’s magic hour, and the light is settling over the women in swaths of tangerine. Fairy lights twinkle over their heads, wound around the branches of overarching trees. Maybe it’s just me, but Nell seems to actually glow.
And I am reminded of the first time I saw her, across a crowded club. Like she was my north star, lit from within.
Something wrenches in my chest.
I don’t know why it should matter if she’s engaged. We’re practically mortal enemies. But, for some reason, it does. My insides are glitching. I try to push the feeling aside, remember what a pain in the ass she is, remind myself that I’ve had long-term girlfriends too—but it won’t budge. Sensing my gaze on her, she glances up. Meets my eyes. Gives me a questioning look, like,what?Then shakes her head clear and goes back to her girls.
I feel an icy palm rest on my forearm like a wake-up call. Lydia. Her nails long and sharp. “Single is more fun anyway,” she says. “I can’t wait to get the lowdown on you.”
And in that moment, I know for sure it’s going to be a really long week.
6BOTHBACK IN THE DAY
The smell of weed permeates. The air—if there is any remaining—is cloudy with smoke. The room, a hotbox.
Though it’s the middle of the day on a Saturday, the space is dark, shades pulled down to block out the sun.
Nellie has only tried pot once before, with a camp friend on the girl’s family farm in Wisconsin. There, they’d been perched on grassy knolls surrounding a placid lake in summer. Dandelions abounded at crooked angles in place of people. It was peaceful, serene, silly.
