Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Elise breaks in before the discomfort gets too intense. “I’m glad we got that out of the way. I remember all of you from ten years ago too, and I will admit, you were all a bunch of annoying, pimple-faced, selfish teenage brats, and I do not miss your childish selves.” She winks at me and drinks from her martini. “Though some of you have changed less than others.”
“I’ll have you know I am a very mature man now,” Gavino says, fanning his face dramatically. “I only went to the bowling alley three times this week.”
“Four,” Fynn corrects. “Five if you count—”
“I don’t count it.”
“Then four.” Fynn shrugs and looks at Olivia. “I don’t remember much from back then. I wasn’t too involved in what was happening.”
“Fynn was more interested in girls and cars than he was in the business,” Karah says, laughing. “You wouldn’t know it, but he’s a playboy.”
“It’s true,” Fynn says, nodding. “Ladies love me.”
“Oh, god,” Gavino says, rolling his eyes.
“Enough about the past,” I say stabbing some broccoli with my fork. “What’s done is done.”
“Easy for you to say.” Olivia raises her head and sips her wine again. “You won the war. You didn’t get thrown back into a country you barely knew or understood. You didn’t get exiled.”
More awkward silence. I sigh and rub my face. “Is this how it’ll be forever? Are you going to litigate that war until the day we die?”
“Ideally, yes, and if I’m lucky, it won’t take very long.”
Gavino snorts a laugh and I glare death at him and he only shrugs a little apologetically. “What? It was a good burn.”
“This was a mistake,” Olivia says and stands up.
“Wait,” Karah says, looking desperate. “Hold on. Please, stay. We can eat a civil meal, right? Why don’t you tell us about life in Mexico? I’m sure Casso’s interested.”
“Very,” I say, arching an eyebrow. I am not remotely interested.
Olivia takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and calms herself. She sits down again, opens her eyes, and sips her wine.
She talks about her father’s estate. About the vines and bushes and cacti growing along the adobe walls, the tiles around the pool, the cool breeze that smelled like wildflowers and honey, the bees and butterflies that congregated around a massive old tree. She talks about TV and movies, and things she missed from America, and the few friends she made. Karah asks questions, and soon the tension passes and we’re all eating like there’s nothing wrong here at all.
Except it’s all a mess.
There’s a gloss and a sheen over the evening. Gavino jokes and Fynn laughs quietly and Karah keeps Olivia engaged while Elise throws out the occasional wry remark, and I sit there watching them wondering how they don’t see that this meal is held together with glue and duct tape. There are cracks everywhere, and something bad leaks through. I don’t know how they can’t see it or why they’re pretending like it isn’t there, but the more I eat and listen and feel the undercurrent of uncertain anger buzzing beneath the chatter like an underground tunnel, the more I’m sure this is my future. This right here, this strained dinner, is what my life will be if I don’t do something to fix it.
We get through the meal though. The group disbands: Elise to the pool to drink more and lounge, Fynn and Gavino to the game room to drink at the bar, and Karah to watch Antonio. I’m left with Olivia, and she won’t look up.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I say, leaning back in my chair. I toss my napkin down on the empty table in front of me.
She pours the last of her wine into her mouth and stands. “For you, maybe.” She turns and leaves.
I grind my teeth. I hate that she gets the last word, so I stand and hurry after her. My heart’s racing and my head’s a brutal mess. I catch her in the hall and grab her wrist before she can escape. She tries to wrench away and I see the rage in her eyes, usually dimmed by her self-control, but now unleashed by the heightening and loosening effects of the alcohol. I push her to the side and against the wall, and she’s breathing hard, her breasts moving up and down rhythmically, and fuck, why do I keep looking at her chest, at her lips, at her hips? I should be better than this. I should be able to split myself into pieces and compartmentalize those that don’t serve me, the pieces that want to take this girl, to taste her, to luxuriate in her beauty.
Why does she do this to me, when all I want is to dominate her, own her, destroy her?
“We don’t have to hate each other,” I say, my mouth inches from hers. “You don’t have to act this way.”