The Lion's Den(33)

“See ya later,” she coos with a little wave, and I follow her down the stairs, speechless. I mean, hell, it’s the Riviera and topless sunbathing is de rigueur, but could that tête-à-tête in any way be construed as appropriate? It’s a good damn thing it was me who walked up to that deck and not Summer, or Amythest would be on a plane home.

My wits return as we reach the main deck, and I grab her hand. She turns expectantly as I say in a low voice, “Friendly advice. Be careful. With John. Summer can be a little jealous, and you’re very young and pretty. Maybe keep your top on when he’s around?”

“Oh,” she says with an air of innocence, “I’m sorry. I figured it’s the South of France. Or, I guess, Italy? Whatever.” She giggles.

“If everyone else is doing it, that’s one thing. But don’t be first. And not when John’s around.”

She nods somberly. “Thank you. Funny thing, I told John what great taste he had in picking out Summer’s canary diamond, and he said it wasn’t a diamond. It’s a sapphire.”

She’s searching my face for a response, so I raise my brows. “Oh?”

“I mean, sapphires are nice and everything. It’s just, she told us it was a diamond worth, like, two million. So, she lied.”

I nod, less than surprised. “Between you and me,” I whisper, “she does that a lot.”

“Oh!” she exclaims. “And you know how we don’t have Wi-Fi?” I nod. “They do. Like, John and his guys, I guess. Probably Summer, too. He was totally getting notifications on his phone the entire time we were in the hot tub and, like, responding to emails and stuff.”

I shake my head, once again unsurprised. “Sounds about right.”

“Amythest!” Brittani yells from the deck. “Get over here. Your champagne is getting warm!”

Amythest flounces over to the manicure station, and I trudge back up the stairs to the upper deck, where I find Wendy just finishing up a sickeningly sweet Skype call with her boyfriend on one of the computers. I hang back so as not to interrupt as they make kissy noises at each other and profess their undying love before ringing off. Wendy turns to me, her eyes full of tears.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say.

“It’s okay.” She shrugs. “We were almost done.”

“You really miss him, huh?” I ask in reference to her tears.

“Oh.” She wipes away the tears. “No, not at all, actually. That’s why I’m—” Her eyes overflow again. I take her hand and sit next to her. “I really wanted him to be the One, you know? But…” She sighs. “He’s soooo sweet. It just—it kinda goobs me out TBH—I know that’s bad—”

“No it’s not,” I assure her. “If it doesn’t feel right, it’s not right.”

“And he’s terrible in bed,” she confesses. “He licks my pussy like he’s a kitty lapping a bowl of milk. It’s…”

I try to hold back a laugh and it comes out as a snort. I quickly cover my mouth, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but she starts laughing, too, which only makes me laugh harder.

“Like—” She sticks her tongue out and imitates a cat cautiously licking.

Now I’m laughing so hard I’m crying, and her tears have turned to happy ones. “Jesus, Wendy,” I say. “Get outa there!”

“But I’ve wasted a year with him, and I think he’ll pop the question soon,” she protests.

“Then you better hurry,” I say. “Do you honestly wanna only sleep with him for the rest of your life?”

She shakes her head vehemently.

“I don’t know where you got this shit about needing to be married, but it’s not true,” I continue. “You’re smart, successful, beautiful—you have it all, and you don’t need a man. If you find one you can’t live without, then awesome, but you don’t need one just to have one. And you can do better than Wes. I promise.”

She nods. “You’re right. I have to break up with him.” She takes a deep breath. “Not here, though. I’ll do it when I get home. I just—I really do want a family.”

“And I’m sure you’ll have one,” I say. “You have lots of time! But how are you gonna meet the man of your dreams if you’re with Mr. Pussycat?”

She laughs and gives me a hug. “Thank you.”

Once she goes downstairs in search of lunch, I install myself at the computer under the vigilance of John’s likeness.

I sneak a glance at the camera positioned behind me, pointed directly at my screen. Of course I don’t know how sharp the feed is or whether someone is currently watching, but it makes me uneasy—though I have to assume the computer is being monitored anyway. I also don’t want anyone to think I’m up to something because I’m angling the computer away from the camera, so feeling a bit silly, I put on a big show for the phantom watchers, pretending that the reflection of the sun in the monitor is too much. Then I angle the computer away from the watchful eye of the camera and quickly log in to my email before anyone can make me return the screen to its rightful position.

I scroll through my in-box to find only one new email worth opening:

Hey sis,