Page 72 of Backslide
I sit on the deck, where the breeze is so slow and warm that you’d miss it if you blinked. The air smells of jasmine, of whatever the nearby yellow flowers are, of summer coming. Every so often, a chicken bawks. And I balk too.
I’m angry at Noah for sending mixed signals. I’m angry at myself for getting swept up. But most of all, if I’m honest, I amdeeplyembarrassed.
Because I thought I was in a safe place with a safe person. And when he flipped the switch, I felt like maybe I wasn’t.
I know it’s partially my fault—I should have followed my instincts and avoided this situation altogether. Not just because Noah is changeable and only operates on his own terms. But also because, as much as I want to pretend it’s all in the past, I’m lugging enough baggage around for some socialite on a European tour.
As much as I hate to admit it, I realize now—as I inspect my coral toenail polish and relive the spa debacle again and again—that I have to be real with myself: Once upon a time, Noah hurt me. A lot. It was a million years ago and, yes, we were kids. But the sting remains.
In this situation, there is no such thing as a clean slate.
When it comes to interacting with him, I’m never starting at zero. My feelings are already at a fever pitch, my teeth already bared. I’m waiting for him to wrong me.
When my phone pings, I look down half expecting the text to be from him. Which is silly, because does he even have my number? That’s how little we’ve interacted, how little we actually know each other at this point.
Sabrina
We’re baaaaack! Come upstairs and hang out with us! It’s happy hour. Meaning we’re on the deck and we just ordered the whole room service menu—and I’m happy about it.
Oh, thank God. I smile. That sounds like a plan.
Rita and Sab are staying on the top floor, so I climb the winding bleached-wood staircase to their room. Before I can knock, the door swings open to reveal my two friends—already very drunk and with full goblets in their hands.
Sabrina’s usually immaculate bob is in disarray, her shades perched on her head as she has surely forgotten them there. Her black tank top is haphazardly tucked into her black pleated skirt and her purple eyeliner has smudged practically down her cheek. Rita’s free arm is slung around her wife’s shoulders, and her denim overalls are hooked on only one side, like she is the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. And if I thinkmyhair is untamed, Rita’s curls look poised to swallow us all whole.
“Come, come!” says Rita, waving me inside. “There’s cheese! And more cheese!”
Indeed there is. I look around expecting I might find Cara too, but she is nowhere to be found.
Meanwhile, Sabrina did not lie. In the time it took for me to throw on shoes and head upstairs, the room service has arrived. The duo has already started in on a cheese plate so enormous that it takes up half a dining table on their deck. Beside it sits some kind of tuna tartare, deviled eggs, chilled shrimp cocktail on a bed of crushed ice, and a massive order of French fries. Now, the two women plop back down on a love seat to continue gorging their wasted asses. It’s hard not to laugh as I settle in across from them and watch them ooh and ah over the various creamy Bries and hard goudas.
“Holy shit,” says Sabrina, her sunglasses falling crookedly onto her face. Startled, she removes the shades and casts them to the side, so she can return to scarfing, unencumbered. “Sorry, hon. But I think I might leave you for this apricot jam.”
Rita shakes her head, her mouth full. “I can’t blame you. I’ve never been big on the idea of ethical nonmonogamy, but maybe for this almond-stuffed olive.”
“I guess the booze bus was a success,” I say, thinking not for the first time about how lucky they are to have found each other—partners who share a mutual love of salumi and fried food.
“Mm. Kinda,” Sabrina says. “The first few wineries were great—one in particular, Scribe? Super-cute design. Spanish style. Great wine. You would have loved.”
“Ah. Sorry I missed it!”
I was busy getting busy with my high school boyfriend and archnemesis.
“Well, you don’t have to be,” Rita says, “because, by that point, we were super drunk and may have ordered their entire cellar. So, you can have a bottle—orfive.”
Sabrina nods in agreement. “That might have happened. Anyway, after that, things deteriorated a bit. At the next spot, Lydia started cozying up to the winemaker—or she thought he was the winemaker. I think he was maybe just an intern at the tasting room. By that time, Cara started to feel a little woozy and Damien was forcing the driver to blast Wu-Tang on the van’s sound system. It was weird.”
Rita nods, stuffing a shrimp in her face. “But not as weird as how many times Damien asked where you were.”
“So true. After like the eighth time, I started to wonder if all those blunts in the nineties did permanent damage.”
What the hell is up? How bored is he?
“So, what did you do?” Rita asks, all innocence.
“Yeah, what did you do?” Sabrina adds.
They exchange a look in a not-so-subtle way and then, as if choreographed, they look simultaneously back at me.
