Page 34 of Backslide
“Fine like… just fine.” I take a swig of my rosé. Not because I’m stressed. Because I’mthirsty.
“Seeing your first love again for the first time after decades? After you had an epic fight that exploded everything to the point where you won’t even tell your best friends the details to this day? That’s ‘fine like… just fine’?”
“Yup,” I nod, resolved to mean it. “Fine like more than just fine, in fact. Fine like seeing old photos of yourself with a heinous haircut and wondering how you ever thought bangs were a good idea.”
I don’t mention how, despite my best intentions, I spent the late afternoon lying in bed, listening for signs of Noah from his nearby room, or the jolt of illicit pleasure I got when I heard the muffled chords of “Welcome to the Jungle” playing from a distance and knew he was lying in his bed listening too.
I don’t mention how I could feel him near me like radiant heat as we stood in the same circle a few minutes before, which was anything butfine. How it sent pins and needles skidding across my skin. I don’t mention howfinehe looks. And I definitely don’t mention the push and pull thrumming through me now—sadness, anger, humiliation, excitement. Honestly, I couldn’t describe it even if I wanted to. And I don’t.
Sabrina eyes me, pursing her lips. “So Noah is just a bad haircut?”
“Pretty much,” I say, then swivel to grab a spicy tuna canapé off a passing tray to prove how fine I am. “One that grew out eons ago.”
“Um. Okay. Well, for the record, I thought you looked cute in bangs.”
“No one looks cute in bangs.”
I don’t even believe that. And Sabrina isn’t buying what I’m selling. But Rita has returned double-fisted and that’s a lucky distraction for me.
I run a hand through my hair. My current hair. Which I took literal great pains to refresh post-plane. Lifting my arm to use a curling iron was a true feat with my messed-up shoulder. I’m hoping copious alcohol is a cure for muscle strain.
“Who’s the redhead?” Rita asks, gesturing across the deck to where Lydia is hanging off Noah’s arm like a giant bangle. He has the good sense to look uncomfortable. I look away.
“Oh, that’s just Cara’s old friend Lydia,” Sabrina says.
“She looks… shy,” Rita deadpans.
“Demure is the word,” says Sabrina.
“Venomous is the word,” I snipe.
Rita shifts her gaze to me, and I shift under it. Where Sabrina is all sharp eyes and wit, Rita is a horizon line—the most even-keeled person I know. She just sees the thing and says it. Sabrina is dark shadows, copper liners, and bold lips. Rita thinks lip balm passes for makeup. Sabrina is all cat, Rita is all dog. And that combination—of uncanny scrutiny and unflinching honesty—is terrifying, especially if you’re holding back as many secrets as I am. These two can sniff anything out.
“Somebody doesn’t like Lydia,” Rita says, finally.
“Many people don’t like Lydia,” I grumble. “Entire countries probably. Continents. Planets.”
Sabrina turns to Rita with a smirk. “But especially Planet Nellie. Though she’ll never say exactly why. I mean, Lydia has always been kind of a hater. But at some point, Nellie’s irritation ratcheted up to total disdain.”
Rita leans in toward me. “Well, give me the gossip. Why don’t we like her?”
I appreciate theweso much. Rita, as always, is deeply loyal and ready to climb on board. But I can’t begin to get into that history. Not now, when I’m teetering on the brink. “We don’t like her because she’s the worst.”
Dropping all pretense of subtlety, Rita shifts her gaze behind me and openly stares, cocking her curly head to one side.
“So, it’s not because she’s trying to hump your ex?”
I can’t help but turn at that, too. Indeed, Lydia has Noah pinned against the balustrade, her palm creeping up his denim-clad chest. He looks like he’d like to climb over the railing and jump, broken bones be damned. But who can tell for sure?
And fine,yes, I am a little irate at the sight. But it’s not because he’s my ex. Not at all! Why would I care about what he does?
It’s because I am a big fan of that shirt. And it’s too nice for her creepy claws.
I clear my throat. “Nope. Not because she’s trying to hump my ex. That’s ancient history.”
“What’s that thing,” asks Sabrina, bringing a fingertip to her lip in mock contemplation, “about history repeating itself?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But it involves doom.”
