Page 16 of Bittersweet

He doesn’t need to be told twice. We race from the clearing, bolting through thebush.

“Wait! You better not have that on film,” Matthew’s voice followsus.

“Hurry!” I call desperately, brushing past trees, bushes, leaves. A branch scratches my face, but I don’t care because we need to get out of here, now. Elio’s footsteps thunder behind me, his grip tight on myhand.

“Stop!” Matthew calls, and now Kenna’s voice shrieks too. “Please! I’ll pay you whatever you want. Juststop!”

“Shouldwe—”

I whirl on Elio as we reach the main path. “Just. Keep.Running.”

“Got it.” He takes thelead.

We careen down the trail. My side tightens with a stitch, but I push through it, push past the pain. All the while, the desperate screams of Kenna and the angry cries of her lover echo down themountain.

When we’re near the trail’s end, a group of six men in black, all carrying various bags and pieces of equipment, block thepath.

“Excuse me,” Elio says, darting left around one. I follow him, my hips knocking the tiny guy with the big camera, and hestumbles.

“Hey!”

“Sorry!” I call as we race out ofsight.

We reach the parking lot, and I fumble in my bag for my keys, clicking the damn button until finally, the lights flash. Doors open. Doors slam. Seat belts click and the engine coughs into life before I gun it out of the parking lot, the wheels spinning over the dirt. In the rearview, I spot a few members of the camera crew as they run after us into theclearing.

I try to brush the hair away from my clammy forehead, but it sticks. My top is plastered to my chest, drenched in sweat. My eyes sting, the kind of pain caused by expensive eye cream running into them, thanks to excesssweat.

I don’t need the mirror tocheck.

I’m adisaster.

“Well, that . . .” Elio pauses. His voice sounds a little strained, as if perhaps I’m not the only one suffering after our cross-country marathon. “That could have gonebetter.”

Five.

They’re only five small words, but somehow, in this ridiculous moment, this afternoon that once held so much promise—the promise of a work exclusive, the promise of moving on, the promise of kisses, and sex-appropriate lingerie—they seem sofitting.

I laugh. I laugh long and loud, and Elio laughs with me, his grin splitting hisface.

This doesn’t feel like the end of adisaster.

It feels like something’s justbeginning.

7

Elio

The bellabove the shop door jingles and I glance up just in time to see my oldest friend, Nico, enter the building.Ah shit. I surreptitiously glance at Romy, who’s been huddled in the corner by the fire so long she looks as though she’s almost asleep, and then back athim.

“There’s my boy,” Nico booms from the doorway in an overly exaggerated Italian accent—the way our fathers do when they greet one another. Several patrons turn to glare at him. I can’t help but smile, because no matter how many years have passed since we were kids, Nico Beneventi has been my one constant friend. He’s sharp-witted and he can stir shit from two counties away without a stick. He’s a cocky asshole and a bad influence, and that’s exactly why I keep himaround.

I may be reliable, the kind of guy who’s good at getting shit done and stepping up to the plate, but sometimes, I need reminding that I’m only twenty-eight and not fifty. I guess that comes from being a singledad.

“Oh joy, Nasty Nico is here,” B says with an eye roll as she wipes down the pastry displaycabinet.

I laugh, because my sister has never been a fan of my best friend. It probably has something to do with the fact that he kissed her and copped a feel at the winter formal in junior high and then pretended like it didn’t happen immediately afterward. I lost my shit when I found out, but to be fair, we had consumed a bottle of his dad’s scotch and scoffed a whole bunch of mushrooms from his backyard in the hopes they were hallucinogenic. Theyweren’t.

I beat his ass for kissing my sister, and then the two of us proceeded in puking up our guts in the guy’s locker room.Goodtimes.

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