She presses it with her finger. I wince and knock her hand away. “What the hell?”
“You couldn’t have kept yourself together for one week? You’re a mess.”
She has a talent for making me feel about two inches tall. It doesn’t help that she is actually so much taller than me. I argue, “I was in aplanecrash.”
“What plane crash?”
I shake my head in disbelief. Logan told me he’d given her and my dad some version of what happened, but I’m not interested in sparing her nerves. Steeling myself, I say, “Logan’s plane went down. In a cornfield. I was on it.”
“Logan wasn’t in a plane crash.”
“Uh, yes, he was. I was there.”
“He would have told me.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,what?”
“Okay, believe what you want. You always do.”
“What isthatsupposed to mean?”
“You know what it means.” I snap. Jesus, I’m in her presence for five minutes, and we’re fighting like schoolgirls.
Pearl’s gaze sharpens at my defensiveness, and for a moment, it almost feels as if she can tell what happened between Logan and me. That I had sex with him. Like she can seestraight through me, can see the way my feelings for the man I’ve always claimed to despise have slowly morphed into something significantly more dangerous.
I’m unsettled when her lips curl in smug satisfaction. “I don’t care how you got the cut,” she says, voice clipped. “Just cover it up.” She smooths the front of her dress. “And I want you to leave Logan alone. He had to put up with you for three days straight. He can’t stand you, and pretending to have a headache is a transparent, desperate excuse to make him feel sorry for you and drive you across three states.” She tilts her head, almost sympathetically. “He’s a doctor, Rose. An amazing man. He would have done the same for anyone. Please don’t delude yourself into thinking you’re friends. It’s embarrassing.”
I fold my arms self-consciously, feeling very small and vulnerable in just a towel. “I’m not going to leave him alone just because you say so.” My voice sounds weak to my ears, and I argue softly, “Wearefriends now.”
Pearl’s smirk deepens, triumphant. She makes a dramatic point of lifting her phone, the screen illuminating her face, then she turns it toward me, displaying a series of messages.
Pearl: I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Just leave her, she can get a bus.
Logan: She says she has a headache. Can’t exactly leave her to drive alone, it would be irresponsible. She is a lot, though. Never stops complaining, it’s annoying the fuck out of me.
Pearl: Seriously, are you sure there isn’t something I can do?
Logan: I’ll survive. See you soon.
Pearl: You’re a saint.
Logan: Don’t know about that. Genuinely can’t stand her. And there’s this weird smell coming off her, like a bad combination of menthol, garlic and BO. Can’t breathe in here,she fucking stinks. It’s practically hailing out, but I’m ready to crack a window.
Pearl: I’m so sorry. You’re amazing. I’ll make it up to you
Logan: You’d better. I’m counting the miles
She jerks the phone away before I can check the timestamps. The backs of my eyelids sting, while the little butterflies in my stomach turn to stone.
Yesterday, I might have said the same things to Easton, complained about him. Made fun of him. The difference is that I wouldn’t have meant it. I don’t think I would have meant it.
Do I smell? I resist the urge to sniff myself. The arnica balm is strong, I know that, and I’ve been putting it on constantly. But BO? I wear deodorant. I don’t wear Chanel No. 5 like Pearl, who is always perfectly polished, and yes, I use natural products, lavender, herbs, things that probably smell like a health food store to someone like him. But I don’t stink. At least, I didn’t think I did. And what does he want, exactly—someone like Pearl, who reeks like a department store, who praises him and tells him he’s amazing, calls him a saint for being a decent human being?
Suddenly, I’m ten years old again, at school, pullingbacalhau à brásout of my lunchbox while the kids around me unwrap ham and cheese sandwiches,normalfood, laughing and fake-vomiting because the codfish stinks, and they’ve never eaten an olive before.
I went home that day and threw it in the trash, screamed at mom for making me take gross food to school. I still remember the look on her face. She was horrified. You don’t throw food away in her house. She called me wasteful, said I didn’t appreciate my culture. As punishment, the next Saturday she woke me up early and put me to work in the kitchen—soaking the salted filets, shredding them apart with my fingers, frying them into balls until my hair and clothes, the curtains and the walls all smelled like salt, fish and hot oil.
