But for some reason, I find myself craving the cramped, dingy motel from last night where there wasn’t enough space at all. The dark room and the tree branch scratching precariously on the window. The lumpy mattress that dipped in the middle.
And Rose in my arms.
A knock on the door draws my attention up. I cross the room slowly and open it, the pit in my stomach growing heavier when I see Pearl.
“Oh my god, darling, what a week you’ve had!” She throws herself into my arms before I can think. She smells like expensive floral perfume—something thick and sweet, assaulting almost—and I instantly hate it. Before this trip, I wouldn’t have hesitated to hug her back. I’d have pulled her in tighter.
But over the last few days, Rose has quietly dismantled everything I thought I knew about Pearl, and now I can’t unsee it all.
My hand finds Pearl’s waist and I ease her off, giving her a half-pat on the back, wondering if that felt as awkward to her as it did to me. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything—she just slips past me into my room.
“I’m glad you’re here, actually,” I tell her. “We need to talk.”
She’s already at the balcony doors, waving her hand in airy dismissal. “Can you believe this weather? You promised me a picnic, but there’s no way we can walk to the beach in this. But there’s this gorgeous greenhouse on the east side of the property. I already called ahead, the kitchen is putting together a basket.” She glances down at the watch draped on her thin wrist. “If we leave now, we’ll still have plenty of time to make it before the rehearsal.”
“Ah, I don’t know, Pearl. I just got in. I’m pretty wiped. I need to unwind, shower. Catch up on some emails.” Figure out what the fuck I’m going to do about Rose.
Her lip juts out, but only for a moment—then something shifts behind her eyes, and she’s back across the room to me, wrapping her small, manicured hands around my arms, nails digging in slightly. “Well… tonight, we could do a midnight swim instead. There’s an indoor pool. Just you and me?”
“Pearl, I—”
“Oh, Logan.” She pouts. “We never get to spend time together anymore. I miss you.” I’ve seen this woman pout athousand times—her lower lip pursed out just so, blue eyes wide and watery, chin tilted down at that exact angle. I’ve always reflexively felt the urge to fix whatever it was that caused her distress. Our friends love Pearl, but they’ve never had quite the same patience for her sensitivities.
I could never explain why I did, except that she’s always reminded me a little of my mother, who also adores Pearl. They go on shopping trips together, have high tea at The Baccarat. Since Pearl started her event planning business, she’s been bending my mother’s ear to get introductions to the charity circuit.
My mother comes from old money, and her parents had strict expectations of her. She spent her early twenties locked into an abusive arranged marriage with an oil tycoon before she finally left, and still, after all these years in a loving and stable relationship with my father, something in her never quite healed. She moves through life as though she’s still bracing for that next blow. Small and delicate, she’s fragile in a way that instinctively makes you want to shelter her—and I suppose Pearl has always reminded me of that. A woman who had been wronged. Easily breakable.
But right now, all I see are her lies.
There are so many things in my head, I don’t even know where to start. The picture she sent me seems insignificant now, next to the fact that I apparently nearly gutted Rose’s career by signing something I never even bothered to read.
Pearl drifts to the bar cart and lifts the Blanton’s. She knows it’s my favorite. She knows a lot of things like that about me. I watch her pour two fingers and wonder how much I really know about her.
She turns with the glass extended. I don’t reach for it. I don’t even know where to begin, but I just can’t hold it in any longer. Not any of it.
“What was with that picture, Pearl?”
She frowns, arm still outstretched with the glass. When she realizes I’m not taking it, she takes a sip herself. “What are you talking about?”
“The picture you sent me. Of yourself in that dress.”
Her face lights up. “Oh!” Her hand comes to her chest—not seductive, exactly, but her fingers linger there. There’s a look on her face I can’t quite decipher. “You didn’t respond. Did you like it?”
“Pearl, the picture was a little…”
“A little what?” she asks innocently.
“Your nipples were—” I gesture my hand. I can’t believe I have to spell this out. “On display.”
“What are you talking about?” She snickers. “Don’t be ridiculous. The dress is a little risque, I just wanted a second opinion.”
I roll my eyes, then walk to the bar cart, pouring my own drink. “And you couldn’t ask Harlow?”
“Why are you making such a big deal about this?”
“You have a boyfriend, for starters.”
“Tommy is—” She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “I don’t think things are going to work out between Tommy and me.”
