The Villa(9)

They’d been close last year. Pierce had been the opening act for this American acid-folk band that was touring England, the Faire. They’d had a couple of top-twenty hits, and the shows were the biggest Pierce had ever played. It was a whirlwind of crowded vans and tiny rooms over pubs and late nights, but Pierce was the happiest she’d ever seen him, and every time he stepped onstage, it seemed like there were more people there just to hear him.

She still remembers standing in a field on a cool September evening, her baby in her arms, asleep despite the noise, swaying as people in the crowd sang along with Pierce’s lyrics. Lyrics he’d written for her, songs that had seemed so personal and private now on the lips of strangers.

It had felt like magic. A spell Pierce had conjured up spreading through the crowd, and even after all the awfulness that had followed, the memory of that night—it still gets to her.

He still gets to her.

And now, when he looks over at her and winks, she still feels that little thrill rush through her.

He’s mine.

No matter what, he was hers. And she was his.

The door to the flat opens, and Pierce lifts his eyes.

Mari doesn’t have to turn around to see who it is. She can tell from the way Pierce’s face seems to light up.

Lara.

Her stepsister lives with them, crashing on the very sofa Pierce is sitting on, and when Mari does turn to look at her, Lara is grinning, her dark eyes wide as she waves for Mari to follow her into the kitchen.

Mari untangles herself as Pierce keeps playing, stepping over his friend Hobbes, ignoring the way the man’s hand briefly touches her ankle, his touch hot and slightly oily on her bare skin.

Pierce has told her she ought to sleep with Hobbes.

“He’s fuckin’ mad about you, Mari, and you know you’re free to do what you like.”

She does, and she is, but what she doesn’t like is Hobbes, or the voice in her head that sometimes wonders if Pierce occasionally tosses her at his friends so that he doesn’t feel guilty about his own indiscretions. But then that feels unfair. Pierce has always emphasized the importance of freedom, how just because they choose to be together, that doesn’t mean he owns her or has any say in what—or who—she chooses to do. It’s been that way since the very beginning.

Lara is waiting for her at the counter, a lit cigarette in one hand, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her dark hair is damp from the rain, curling over her shoulders, and her mascara is smudged, but she’s still pretty in that way Mari thinks of as uniquely Lara. Maybe her nose is a bit too narrow, maybe her chin is a little too sharp, but she’s always just so damn excited about everything, and that gives her face a glow even in the dingy kitchen.

Pierce’s song finishes, and now a record is playing again, somehow even louder this time. It’s George Harrison, Mari’s favorite Beatle, but she’s still casting glances at her journal, wishing for a little quiet again. But now that Lara’s here, she knows there’s no chance of that happening. This has the makings of one of Pierce’s all-night parties, the kind that end with strangers sleeping on her floor, in her bathtub.

She already feels tired thinking about it, and wonders how exactly someone gets to be this tired at nineteen fucking years old.

And now there’s Lara to deal with.

“Okay, obviously something has you all jazzed up,” Mari says, reaching around her stepsister to pull a lukewarm beer out of the sink. The ice Pierce had put in earlier has already mostly melted, and the bottle drips water onto the floor as Mari opens it.

“Let’s go to Italy,” Lara says without preamble.

Mari pauses. “What?”

“Italy,” Lara repeats, blowing out a stream of smoke as she props a hip on the counter, her free arm folded around her waist. Mari realizes Lara is wearing her top, the blue one with the flowers that she just bought a week ago. There’s already a tiny stain there on Lara’s right breast, and Mari bites back a familiar irritation.

“We did Italy, remember?” she nearly shouts. Has the music somehow gotten even louder? “It wasn’t that great of a time.”

When Mari had run away with Pierce three years ago, Lara had begged to be included, and even though the idea of taking her stepsister with them had ruined Mari’s vision of a romantic escape, Pierce hadn’t been able to tell Lara no.

And Mari couldn’t tell Pierce no.

So, off the three of them had gone, leaving Mari’s father’s house in the middle of the night, a note hastily scrawled left behind on the kitchen table. Italy had been their second stop after France, and it’s still something of a blur.

Cramped rooms, cramped cars, the smell of her own sweat, the heat that had felt invigorating at first and then slowly grew more oppressive, making her nauseous nearly all the time. Of course, she hadn’t known yet about the baby—about Billy—and later, all her discomfort would make more sense, but at the time, she’d been certain it was some kind of cosmic punishment. Out of money, slinking back to England with nothing to show for their grand adventure except sunburns and a newfound antipathy for one another.

And now Lara wants to go back there?

Lara rolls her dark eyes, standing up straight as she flicks ash into a nearly empty wineglass.

“That’s because we were skint and on our own,” she says. “This time, it’ll be different.”