The Lion's Den(72)

“How much?” I ask the shopgirl.

“Très belle,” she says. “And on final sale, alors…forty-five.”

“Okay, can I put it on a card?” Amythest asks.

“No Amex, but Visa is okay.”

“Great. I’ll do it.” Amythest smiles. She rummages in her purse and hands the shopgirl her credit card. “Can you ring it up while I change?”

The shopgirl runs the card through her machine while Amythest changes back into her black cutoff jean shorts and tank top. We still have fifteen minutes to make it back to the boat, which should be plenty. I text Wendy:

Headed back now. You find the shoes?



She replies immediately:

Yes!! See you soon x



I glance over at the shopgirl, who is still looking at her machine. “Is there a problem?”

“Pas de problème. The machine always slow.”

The machine beeps, and she sighs.

“What happened?” Amythest asks.

“It was connect but now is not. I don’t know if it go through.”

“We’re kind of in a hurry,” I say. “Is there any way to speed it up?”

“It will work,” she says, looking at the machine. “I call.”

The minutes are ticking. “Could you take another card?” I ask.

“Le problème not the card. C’est la machine.”

“What about cash?” I ask. “I could pull some cash out if there’s an ATM nearby.”

“You don’t have to,” Amythest protests. “And we don’t have time. Go ahead. I can catch up.”

“No. I’m not leaving you.”

The shopgirl dials a number on the shop phone and speaks to someone in French. She seems to be following their instructions as she punches buttons on the machine. Finally, after what seems to be a decade, the machine beeps.

“Oh! It go through.” She hands Amythest the receipt.

Amythest signs and we dash out of the store. I text Wendy and Summer as we rush down the street, scampering around shoppers:

There in 3 min!



We’re not gonna make it by twelve. There’s no way. But we’ll only be a few minutes late. My sandals are rubbing blisters in my feet as we make it onto the promenade. Boats bob in their slips, glinting in the bright sun. I spy the Lion’s Den a hundred yards away.

“Thank God.” I pant. “Boat’s still there.”

But as we draw closer, I see two of the crew guys lifting the gangplank. They’re in shouting distance, so I yell, “Hey! We’re here!”

Hugo and the burly one whose name I can’t remember look up and wave, then prepare to put the gangplank back in place.

We’re twenty feet away now, and I can see Wendy and Brittani, shopping bags in hand, on the deck with Summer, watching us approach. I look at my watch as we reach the railing. It’s 12:03.

“Sorry we’re late,” I call. “Credit card machine issue. We ran all the way.”

Summer gives an instruction to the crew guys that I can’t hear over the thrum of the engine, then walks inside without a backward glance. The crew guys pause with the gangplank in the air, speaking to each other in low tones, then begin putting it away. They’re going to leave us.

“Brittani!” Amythest shouts. But Brittani turns her back and goes inside.

Hugo catches my eye. “Sorry. Return at five.”

I look to Wendy. “Seriously?”

“Sorry.” I can’t see her expression for the shadow cast by her giant hat, but Wendy gives a nothing I can do shrug and follows Summer and Brittani as the boat pulls away.

Amythest and I watch with dread as the boat chugs steadily into the bright day. Adrenaline surges through my veins. A friend’s knife is always sharpest, but double betrayal is a special torment. I text Wendy:

What just happened?



“I can’t believe this shit,” Amythest says.

“Yeah, ditto,” I fume. “Well, to hell with those bitches. I’m hungry.”

I march across the street to a restaurant that faces the harbor and take a seat at an outdoor table. Amythest slumps into the chair opposite mine, flipping up her menu. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. The cheapest drink on here is twenty euros.”

“My treat,” I say, mentally tallying the small amount of money I have left.

“That fucking cunt,” she seethes, twisting her hair madly around her finger.

“Look, I’m just as pissed as you are right now, but honestly, I’m also kinda stoked we don’t have to hang out with them today.”

Tears roll out from under her big black glasses. I flag down the waitress and order us each a hair-of-the-dog glass of rosé.

“Listen.” I pat her hand. “Let’s just tell them that it’s my fault about being late, okay? I’ll tell them what happened, just that it happened to me instead of you. Sound good?”

She chews her lip, her gaze trained on the boats bobbing in their slips. I quickly text Summer:

Sorry we were late. Was my fault,

was trying to buy a dress and the credit card

machine froze, so I couldn’t leave with the dress,

and couldn’t leave without it. Again, sorry!