Page 51 of Sunburned

It was Laurent, his voice husky in my ear, his hand coming to rest lightly on my hip as I turned toward him, grazing his chest as I kissed him on the cheek. My breath grew shallow at his scent, a scent I now realized wasn’t just his cologne but the unique blend of his skin, fresh out of the shower, and his aftershave.

Hormones and pheromones,as my mom used to say.

My cheeks grew hot. I definitely couldn’t tell him what I’d been thinking about. “How do you know I’m thinking?” I asked instead.

“Your eyebrows go like this,” he said, imitating my furrowed brow.

I laughed, fishing for something I could say without showing my hand. “I was just trying to remember which philosophy says life has only the meaning we give it,” I said. A bit pretentious, but close enough to the truth.

He raised his brows, pulling out a chair for me.

“You are thinking of existentialism,” he said as he sat next to me.“The confrontation of meaninglessness, in which you are the artist of your own life.Life does not give us meaning, we give it meaning.”

The noise of the restaurant retreated to a quiet hum as he laughed. “Don’t look so shocked,” he said, his eyes dancing. “I am French. Also, I specialized in philosophy in university.Which is of course how I ended up in hospitality.”

I liked how he flipped back and forth from English to French when he talked to me. It made me feel like we had a secret language. I smiled. “No, it’s—I don’t think I’ve ever heard it defined so simply. I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever really understood it before.”

“Ah, yes. It is a very misunderstood philosophy,” he said with a glimmer of a smile. “Many people confuse it with nihilism, the belief that nothing matters, and life has no meaning. But existentialism gives us responsibility, whereas nihilism removes it.”

“Was it Sartre who said that every man is condemned to be free?” I asked.

“Yes. Because he is responsible for everything he does.”

I nodded, pointing. “Existentialism.”

He shrugged. “But within existentialism, there are many different interpretations. I prefer this humanist view, it is the more positive way to look at it.You can go very deep and things become not so clear.”

“The murky depths.”

He took a sip of his champagne. “Yes.”

I thought I might like to explore the murky depths with Laurent, and the way he was looking at me, it seemed that he might like it as well. But we were at a table with five other people, so that would have to wait.

As the champagne worked its magic, everyone loosened up, egging Allison on as she regaled us with tales from the Olympic Villages in London and Rio, where she’d learned to play poker between events and won jerseys off athletes from five different countries.

I’d been looking for some weakness in Allison, but the more I got to know her, the stronger she seemed. She was smart, focused, driven to succeed. Perhaps a shade too driven. Maybe that was her weakness.

“Talk about a walk of shame,” she concluded a story that had featured a late-night strip poker game. “I had to wear an Italy basketball jersey home. My shirt never did turn up.”

“Allison, I have never seen this side of you,” Samira said.

Her cheeks reddened. “This is why I don’t drink champagne.”

“Everyone should drink champagne,” Gisèle declared, and we all clinked glasses.

I’d begun the evening responsibly, imbibing slowly and drinking a glass of water after each glass of wine, but by the time we finished dinner, I’d stopped counting how many times my glass had been topped up. I’d learn more about this group the closer I got to them, I justified. Besides, without Tyson there to sour the mood, I was actually having fun.

Until I opened my phone to see a text from Rosa:

FYI just heard from Deanna they’ve officially opened a murder investigation into Ian’s death. I told her you were out of the country but expect a call from them tomorrow. They’ll want a statement when you get back.

Suddenly the room seemed too crowded. I needed air. Swiping my wineglass from the table, I pushed back my chair, mumbling something about the restroom.

Of course there was going to be an investigation,I reminded myself as I wove through the restaurant, swigging wine to dull the shockwaves radiating through me. I knew that. And of course I was going to be interviewed.

I pushed open a side door and stepped into the balmy night. Thankfully, the small patio overlooking the street behind the restaurant was deserted. I leaned against the stone wall, taking big gulps of air.

I’d been through this once before. The difference was that now I had a lot more to lose. And now Tyson was threatening to—how did he put it?—“change his story,” if I didn’t prove I wasn’t the one who’d sent him that damn article.

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