The Lion's Den(40)
I’m feeling much more myself this morning after finally having had a good night’s sleep last night. I’d intended to stay awake to see whether our door was locked during the night again, but I guess I was so worn out from the sun and swimming and Jet Skis that I couldn’t keep my eyes open and passed out during the movie we watched after dinner. I’m normally a pretty light sleeper, but apparently it took Vinny five minutes to wake me when it was time for us to go to our rooms, and my limbs were so heavy I could hardly make it down the stairs.
I feel Wendy’s nails on my arm and turn to see the others exiting the gate behind her. “We’re leaving,” she says.
“Why?” I ask, confused. John’s still on the field.
“Don’t be obvious because she’s staring at us, but see that woman over there in the big ugly hat?”
I surreptitiously glance over her shoulder to see a Waspy-looking woman in her forties wearing the biggest, bluest hat I’ve ever seen.
“Take my arm; let’s go,” she says. And then, as we walk through the gate, “That’s John’s wife’s best friend. So we have to leave.”
“Wait, John’s still married? But he was getting a divorce when he and Summer met, what—six, eight months ago?”
Saying it out loud reminds me just how quickly Summer has adapted to her new lifestyle. Wendy wrinkles her brow. “It’s been longer than that.”
“No,” I say. “It was after Christmas when they met.”
“Huh. Well, it seems like longer. Anyway, it’s complicated. Something about divorce being too expensive right now. So they’re still technically married. I mean, she’s like his fourth or fifth wife or something, and he only sees her once a month or whatever, and she knows about Summer, but there’s an agreement that she and Summer don’t share space. And the wife gets priority, or she’ll make his life hell. So whenever she or her friends are around, Summer can’t be there.”
The first of our two black Suburbans peels out of the dirt lot in a cloud of dust as we approach, leaving us covering our faces.
Claire, Wendy, Amythest, and I are all lost in our own worlds as our Suburban pulls away. I gaze out the window at the brilliant day while we speed along a road that hugs the coast, my thoughts completely out of step with the tranquil setting. I shouldn’t be surprised that Summer lied about John’s marital status—it’s the least of the lies she’s spun, and yet somehow I’m thrown by it. When I think of the vicious tactics she’s employed to maintain her place…The fact he’s still married somehow makes it worse. And that Wendy knew and I didn’t? I have to do a better job of paying attention.
I realize I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into, agreeing to come on this trip; I probably should have stayed home, gone to see Grannie with Lauren. We’d be doing water aerobics with the biddies right about now, which sounds absolutely wonderful. But it’s certainly too late to turn back at this point.
I briefly allow myself a fantasy about what a trip like this would be like if I were here with Lauren and Hunter. There would be more quiet reading time involved (Lauren), and more dancing (Hunter). And certainly no one would tell us where to sit or what to talk about. That’s the problem with being on someone else’s dime: you serve at their pleasure. At least I’m only here for a week. I can’t imagine choosing to live my whole life like this, the way Summer has.
I take out my phone, frustrated that I still have no new messages. But as I’m putting it away I notice the little airplane icon on the top and remember I’d put it in airplane mode to save power since we have no service on the boat. I turn on data roaming and immediately am hit by a flurry of notifications. I scroll through, looking for one in particular. And there it is, a message from @drl1991, sent two hours ago. It’s only one line:
Where are you?
I bite my lip. So my posts did their job. But now what? I’m nervous about actually seeing Dylan. It’s been so long since we were in the same room, and so much has happened.
Somewhere off the Ligurian coast,
headed to Saint-Tropez. You?
Wendy peers over my shoulder. “Who ya writing?”
I hesitate for a moment before answering her. “Remember Dylan? Eric’s brother. We spoke to him on the phone after Eric—Oh! You met him. At the fairy party, like, two years ago.”
“Oh my God, the night someone drugged me.” She shivers. “I don’t really remember him, but I know he saved my ass.”
“He’s out here for the summer, somewhere near Saint-Tropez, I think.”
She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “You guys are still talking?”
“I mean, sort of.” I shrug. “He lives in London, so we haven’t seen each other or anything, but yeah. I’ve talked to him a few times, since the news about Eric.”
“How’s he doing—after everything?” she asks.
“I really don’t know. That’s why I want to see him.”
“That’s so sweet of you.” She gives me a little hug. “He’s been through a lot. I’m sure he could use a friend right now. Wait, he was superhot, wasn’t he? And, like, successful? Hmmm.” She looks me up and down with a smirk. “No one ever said you weren’t smart.”