Preston makes a beeline for Damien, sitting beside him in Marlowe’s chair. Sometimes I feel sorry for him. First our group lost Michael, then Oliver. I imagine he’s cozying up to Damien now for the extra testosterone exposure. Part of me wants to stay in the cinema, my heart fluttering with excitement for the iconic shower scene to come, but I’m curious to know what Marlowe and Damien are bickering about.
“Trouble in paradise?” I say, once the cinema doors are closed behind us.
Marlowe rolls her eyes. “It’s nothing. Damien’s just a little jealous.”
“Jealous of what?”
“He saw that I’d been texting Michael,” she says, flipping the phone in her hands. “I tried explaining that we’re still friends, but Damien doesn’t get it.”
“You’ve only been dating a few weeks. Are things really that serious with him?”
“Damien’s first marriage was filled with drama. He doesn’t understand that some breakups are amicable,” she says. “It doesn’t help that his first wife cheated on him.”
“He’s been married before, too?”
She nods, eyes darting around the foyer to make sure we’re still alone. “We didn’t actually meet at Huître Maison, although he did complain about his food on our first date.”
“How did you really meet?”
“Online. A website called Second Chance Romance.”
“That sounds like a bad rom-com.”
“I know.” She laughs, never shying away from a self-deprecating joke. Her posture straightens. “I think Damien is embarrassed about it. Meeting online. Being divorced. He thinks it’s easier to tell people we met at the restaurant.”
At our age, people carry a slew of emotional baggage. Oliver did. Divorce is common. It makes me wonder, why is Damien intent on lying about it?
“I hope this won’t spoil your weekend—”
“Don’t even worry about it,” she says, waving her hands. “I’m not. He’ll get over it.”
The doors to the Reading Room open minutes later. Ava exits first, barely raising her eyes as she darts down the hallway in the direction of her guest room.
“Who is next?” Opal asks, emerging from the darkened area.
“Me!” Marlowe says, readjusting her flower crown before following Opal into the room.
I wander down the hall and push open the heavy oak door leading to the Fairy Room. Wallpaper covers the walls, hand-drawn images of pyxies and other flowers and sprawling willow trees. When I was younger, the intricate designs reminded me of being lost inside a forest from a fairy tale, hence the name I gave the room. Ava sits on the antique bed, dabbing tissues under her eyes.
“How’d your reading go?” I ask, sitting beside her.
“It made me emotional, clearly.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Ava’s chin quivers as she decides what to say next. “She brought up children.”
“I wouldn’t take anything she says to heart,” I say, shifting uncomfortably. “Tarot isn’t exactly science.”
“No, what she said was good.” Ava clenches a fist around the tissue. “She said children are in my future, but I must strike a balance between work and home.”
“That’s great,” I say, even though Opal’s prediction carries the same weight as a fortune cookie in my mind. “You should be happy.”
“This past year has been so overwhelming. I feel all this pressure to take on every event, build up my career enough for the both of us. I’ve always wanted a family, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to find space for it in all this chaos.”
“Talk to Preston.” I lean forward, squeezing her hand. “He wouldn’t want you going through all this alone.”
Preston doesn’t see how his own actions, and sometimes words, impact his wife, tonight’s spat at dinner a prime example. He’s going through his own existential crisis, the trees in front of him so dense and overbearing they prevent him from seeing the forest beyond.
