“Nonsense, have a drink,” he says affably. “A beer?”
“I’m sober,” I say flatly.
This is not something I would normally announce to a stranger, but I hate being pressured to drink. Especially by a charming all-American golden boy who isdearfriends with the woman I—
I what?
Fucked?
I remind myself I don’t have a claim on her. I shouldn’t be pugnacious.
“Oh, sorry,” Gabe says.
“No worries. I’ll have a Coke, actually,” I say, straining for an ease I don’t feel.
Gabe flags down the bartender and orders a round.
“I thought you guys were zip-lining today,” Hope says.
Yes. Clearly.
“We tried,” Pear says, “but it was ghastly. Rickety ropes two hundred feet in the air? No thank you. I insisted we leave.”
“Prue and I were enjoying ourselves but dear sister here threw such a fit that it was more pleasant to go,” I say.
I’m not feeling particularly chatty, but I decide it’s better to make conversation than to stand sullenly off to the side and let Hope think I feel threatened.
“I did notthrow a fit,” Pear says primly. “I imposed a boundary. Anyhow, our guide recommended this beach club for lunch. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet,” Hope says. “We attempted to surf, but neither of us could get up on the board, even on land. Never made it into the water.”
I dislike her use of the wordwe. I also dislike that she seems slightly tipsy. A thing I have no business disapproving of, but which deepens my sense of unease about this whole situation.
My sisters ask Gabe where he lives and what he does, and he says he’s a book editor from New York.
My forced chill deserts me.
How many book editors from New York could one woman have dated? This must betheguy. The ex who broke her heart. He’s here, and he seemed on the verge of kissing her when we ran into them.
I feel absolutely shattered. I’m barely following the conversation—I’m wondering, in fact, if I can come up with an excuse to leave—when I hear my name.
Pear is telling Gabe about my pubs. He reacts as though she’s told him I own Noma, and starts peppering me with all sorts of questions about the cuisine and locations with a seeming genuine interest and friendliness that makes it hard to dislike him as much as I’m inclined to.
“Do you happen to know Matthew Reynaldo?” he asks. “We’re good friends.”
Matthew Reynaldo is a three–Michelin star chef and the owner of Schoolmarm, the most difficult booking to get in town.
“Afraid we haven’t met,” I say.
“Greatguy,” Gabe says. “If any of you ever need a table send me a word, any time. Hope has my number.”
“Yes,please,” Pear says. “I’ve been dying to go, but they’re booked out five months.”
“Oh God, you must go,” Gabe says. “The nettle-smoked mackerel terrine is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Another round of drinks is ordered, and Gabe suggests we all sit down for lunch. Since lunch is the reason my sisters and I came here, I don’t have a plausible reason to say no.
We migrate over to a table with a view of the sea.
