I may be avoiding my best friends, but when Amara texts me as I’m about to leave for my latest walk-through of the new Stella Margaux’s and asks what I’m up to today, I don’t hesitate to send her the address and tell her to meet me there.
We’ve talked about as much as Thomas and I have, which is to say not much at all. She, Joshua, and I all flew back to the UK together from the Maldives, but we’ve only exchanged a few texts here and there since, usually just holiday photos and memes we thought the others might find funny. Her reaching out feels like something I shouldn’t ignore.
“This place isgorgeous,” Amara gushes as she turns around the space, neck craned to take in the nearly finished mural on the ceiling. “How do you manage to make all your stores look like a dreamscape?”
“I hire people with more creativity in their pinkie finger than I have in my entire body,” I reveal. “I tell them my ideas, and they bring them to life.”
All of the Stella Margaux’s locations have a similar vibe with their soft pastel decor, bespoke art reminiscent of Renaissance portraits, and pastry display cases where the sweets look like they’re floating on little clouds. I want anyone who steps inside to feel transported to somewhere magical and dreamy, maybe even a little otherworldly.
“Smart woman,” Amara commends as she lowers her chin to look over at me. “Thomas told me you’ve been working on the summer menu. Said he missed being your taste tester now that you’ve been working here instead of at home.”
I try not to wince at his name and the heavy-handed hints she’s dropping. I knew he’d come up in conversation eventually, but I hoped it would take slightly longer than this.
“Just finalized the menu, actually,” I say, choosing to ignore the mention of him. “I’ll send you home with somesamples. There’s this key lime pie one that I know you’re going to love.”
“Thomas said his favorite was the blood orange and vanilla cream one.”
This time, the comment comes with a pointed look as she says his name. I can’t believe I had the nerve to think she reached out just to be friendly, because that’s not what this is. This is a fact-finding mission. And as much as I hate it, I respect it. I’d do the same for my friends.
I sigh and drop onto a plush powder-blue settee pushed against a wall. “We’re going to have to talk about him, aren’t we?”
Amara sits next to me, fingers playfully flicking my knee to get me to make room for her. “We wouldn’t have to if you talked to him yourself. But it sounds like you’re set on avoiding him.”
“I’m not,” I protest, even though we both know it’s a blatant lie. “I’m just busy, as you can see. This has been taking up all of my time.”
“So busy that you can’t say more than a few words to yourhusband?”
I scrunch my nose, hating that she knows all of this, but she’s one of Thomas’s best friends. Of course he would have told her. If I weren’t avoiding the judgment of my own friends, I would have told them too.
“We don’t really have anything to talk about,” I say weakly. “We’re a strictly platonic married couple who live in the same house and have separate lives.”
“You’re a terrible liar, babe. Try again.”
Groaning, I let my head fall back against the wall. “Okay, fine. Thomas told you about our last night in the Maldives, right?” I wait until she nods, and my face goes hot at the ideaof her knowing anything about my sex life, but I’m certain Thomas wouldn’t share any explicit details. “Well, we agreed beforehand that it was going to be a one-and-done situation, then we’d go back to following our rules. Which is exactly what we did.”
Amara assesses me, dark eyes narrowed. “And is that what you wanted?”
“It’s what we agreed to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I bristle, tempted to tell her to mind her business. “Does it matter?”
Her furrowed brow softens. “Of course it matters. How do you feel about him?”
No one is forcing me to answer her questions, let alone tell the truth. But I’ve been pushing it down for too long and I’m ready to burst. “I like him, Amara,” I whisper. “A lot.”
She reaches over to squeeze my arm, pleased with my answer, though I know her blossoming smile is going to be wiped away when I finish my thought.
“But I can’t risk this all going wrong.” I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. “This marriage being anything but fake can’t happen.”
She draws her hand back like she’s been burned. “You’re taking the piss.”
“I’m completely serious,” I declare. “I had my entire life turned upside down by the last man I was with. If that happened again, especially so soon after, I don’t think I—” I cut off, choked by impending tears that I have to fight to keep back. “I don’t know if I’d ever be okay again. And I’m…scared. Fucking terrified, actually.”
Amara sighs softly before gathering her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She’s silent, lettingmy confession settle in the room with us, and stares up at the mural again. I join her in it, grateful for the distraction as I admire the amount of work the artist has put into it. They aren’t finished yet, but the work they’ve done thus far is magnificent—a beautiful work in progress.
“I know we’re still learning about each other,” Amara finally murmurs, “but I get the distinct feeling that you’re trying so hard to be perfect. And I get it, because I used to feel the same way—that I had to be perfect in order to prove to people that I was worthy of their time or attention or admiration. To make someone want me.”
