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“Don’t.”
Spitting and rinsing, he strips off his shirt and wanders into the bedroom. “Why would you agree to it, anyway?” I call after him.
“Because you didn’t want me to.”
I throw up my hands. “That’s the thanks I get for coming to get you?”
“That’s the thanks you get for thinking you have any right to me just because you jacked off in my bed.” He’s sitting tense on the edge of the mattress in blue striped boxer briefs, like a sleek, skittish seal in the silvered moonlight, poised on the edge of a rock, about to dive in and disappear.
I lie down and yank the covers up. “Be careful. Just because you got me off doesn’t mean I’m on your side. I’m not losing my two million just because you’re a crazy fucker with no soul.”
He doesn’t answer.
As I stare at the ceiling, struggling to wind down, his words ring in my head.Unless you think you can fix me. When Werner hired me, he tried to make me think this could be fate, that I was somehow destined to be the one thing Victor needs.
But I’ve heard the wordfateway too many times in the past two weeks, always from people trying to get me to do something for them. I’m starting to think the universe is just a pinball machine with eight billion balls going at once, flying around at random, hurting and being hurt with no reason and no purpose. The last few days—my whole life, in fact—would make a lot more sense that way. I can stop trying so hard to make anything I do matter.
After I fall asleep, I dream. I dream that I’m cuddled up to the big black lab I had as a kid, but she’s shivering like crazy and making awful whimpering sounds. She’s thin and beat up and no matter how tight I hold her, she won’t calm down
When I open my eyes, I’m sweating and the room smells like smoke. It’s still dark, the gauzy curtains swaying gently over the open window with just the occasional sound of a motor in the distance. I throw off the covers and look out the window to the balcony.
He’s there in nothing but his underwear, sitting on the iron railing and smoking. When I open the door, he glances up and his eyes look ghostly under the shadow of his brow. Smoke slips between his lips as he studies me like he’s never seen me before. I realize he’s sitting so far back on the railing that one tan foot hooked around an ornamental iron swirl is the only thing between him and a nine-story drop into the middle of the street.
I stop, holding my breath, not sure if I’m overreacting. The atmosphere feels off, dangerous, like all his smugness disappeared along with the coke high. Watching me, he deliberately takes his hand off the railing and crosses his arms, the cigarette held up between two fingers. “You know the Bible?” he asks. His voice sounds reckless.
“...do Iknowthe Bible? Shit, it’s a little obscure, but I think so. Or maybe I just saw the movie.”
His lips twitch, but his eyes stay dull. “It says man is made from dust, to work the earth, and in the end he’ll return to dust.”
“Ok. So?” If he’s talking, he’s not falling.
“I’ve always believed I came from the water. It speaks to me. It keeps me alive, and I always thought it would take me back.” He looks over his shoulder, at the sea, and I risk a couple of steps toward him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“When I go, I thought it should be by drowning. That’s why I don’t breathe when I swim, because if the water wants me, it can have me. But maybe this is better—”
When he turns around, I’m standing directly in front of him and he sucks in a quick breath. I take the cigarette from his hand and put it out on the railing. “Are you going for lung cancer instead?” We both look at the empty pack balanced next to him. “Should we walk down the street and get more?”
“God.” He rubs his palm fretfully against his forehead like a tired little kid. “I don’t smoke.”
I want to grab him, but something tells me he should come down on his own. I wish he would tell me what happened at that party.
“I saw some weird shit in here.” Almost tripping over furniture in the dim room, I head for the minibar. I switch on a lamp, creating a pool of yellow light, and pick up a bottle of something labeled in Italian. “I have no idea what it is. Let’s try it.”
The corner of his mouth tilts, but his eyes don’t change. They’re like the burn you get from pressing your skin against ice. I force myself to look away. Even though I just decided it isn’t my fate to save him, even though he tries to convince me he isn’t worth saving, I can’t help myself because I’m not sure there’s anyone else in his life who would.
I pop the cap on the bottle I’m holding and dig up some glasses. “I don’t see any ice. I can go find some.”
“For God’s sake.” Relief floods me as he slips down from the balustrade, every movement smooth and fluent like he’s made of water, and walks on bare feet across the carpet.
He takes the bottle, and tips it straight to his lips. A second later he starts coughing and shoves it at me, splashing my t-shirt. “It’s just sparkling water, you fucking idiot.”
“Oh.” I examine the label again. Victor throws himself into a chair and rests an arm over his eyes. “Acqua minerale.” The way he snorts into his elbow tells me my pronunciation is as poor as my translation. “Do you want something else? There’s plenty to choose from.” I guess his father’s paying for it all.
He puts his feet up on an ottoman and refuses to answer. The arm that’s not over his eyes lies open on his lap, the vulnerable inside of his wrist exposed where it flows into his wide palm. I can imagine the soft, sensitive skin if I put my fingers there, the relentless pulse of someone whose body keeps fighting even when he doesn’t want to live.
Forcing myself to look away, I lie down on the bed and reconnect my phone to the hotel Wi-Fi. One new email:Have you bought our souvenirs yet?Despite everything, it makes me smile. Peyton informs me that she’ll accept anything in Italian leather and that the weather has been surprisingly excellent, sunny most days. We came up with a slapdash code language to describe my mother’s condition as Peyton helped me pack.
