The night settles into a rhythm—courses arriving one after the other, more stories, more references I don’t fully follow. I keep my head down, my smile polite and practiced. Part of me wants to fade into the background completely like I usually do.
7
CONNOR
There’san expensive hush to the air. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the lake, and the mountains are barely visible in the moonlight. Dinner dragged for hours until the bravest of them all finally called it and got up to go to bed. The itinerary the next few days is insane—very much fitting Elle and Jack’s personalities.
Boat rides and hikes and day trips to waterfalls and ice caves and potentially a (mandatory?) whitewater rafting excursion… a little bit overwhelming, but I’m hoping it’ll help me escape, relax, forget about the dumpster fire that is my life back in New York.
The job that eats every waking hour and still feels hollow. The apartment that’s too quiet without Athena but was suffocating me with her in it. The inbox that refills the second I clear it, like scooping out water from a sinking boat. The friends I barely see anymore because I keep canceling plans at the last second. The recurring feeling of having a life I don’t want at all, but also not knowing what the fuck I want out of my life either.
I pad barefoot down the stairs and through the hall, the polished wood cool against my skin, aiming for the kitchen andhoping for any warm beverage that could help me sleep. Tea. Or water. Or something to settle the low buzz behind my eyes that has me seeing slightly double.
Everything’s been wiped down. Marble counters gleam, the citrusy-cleaner smell still faint in the air. The built-in fridge—somewhere on the far wall of the kitchen—hums softly. For a house this big, this scene feels surprisingly still.
I reach for the cabinet and nearly jump when I see her.
“Sorry,” I mutter because I really should have seen her. But she’s curled on a stool by the island, half-hidden in shadow, barefoot and wearing a pair of soft pajama pants and a T-shirt that keeps sliding down her shoulder. Manuela’s blonde hair is loose, a little messy, and she looks exactly how you hope to look when you don’t expect anyone to see you—comfortable, cozy, and somehow still a little magnetic.
Maybe it’s the alcohol speaking, but I really can’t stop looking.
She smiles like she’s been caught but doesn’t mind. She lifts one of the mugs already set on the counter. “I was about to make tea.”
“Same.” I nod toward the kettle, already filled.
We move without talking, finding spoons, picking out bags from a wooden box filled with blends I’ve never seen before. Basil and hibiscus flower with cardamom notes. I’m not a huge tea connoisseur, but that really doesn’t sound very appealing.
There’s a rhythm to it that I wasn’t expecting, unspoken and easy. She slides a mug toward me as the water starts to boil, and I hand her a teaspoon before she even asks.
It’s domestic, almost. Foreign, in this strange house.
When the tea’s steeping, she turns on the stool and leans back against the counter, facing the lake. “This place doesn’t feel real yet.”
I get it. The glass, the magnificence, the view. The way everything looks designed up to the tiniest detail. Manufactured in a way that can make you feel cozy. “Feels like at any point, we’re going to realize it’s really the set of a movie.”
She grins. “Right? I keep expecting someone to yell ‘action’ at any given point.”
That makes me laugh, and I let the sound fill the space. Being with someone who doesn't pretend this is normal. That’s what makes it different. I grew up around this—outlandish vacations, spectacular homes, scenes pulled straight from Nancy Meyers movies. It was always there, expected. But it never felt real to me. Not common. Not mine.
Maybe because I knew the price tags that came with them, not just the dollar amounts but the pressure—the constant push to prove we belonged, to keep up, to want more, more, more. My parents certainly thrived on it, but I never did. I never learned how to look around a room like this and feel at home in it.
We take our tea into the sitting room off the kitchen. Couches built for sinking into and potentially falling asleep, windows wide enough to make the lake feel like it’s part of the room as it glitters in the moonlight… There’s a floor lamp in the corner casting warm light across the room, making everything feel cozy.
We sit, mugs in hand, a little apart. Not distant. Just… careful.
After a while of staring out, she says, “I think we’re the only ones not sharing a room tonight.”
I tilt my head toward her. “You sound surprised.”
She shrugs. “Not surprised. Just… watched? I don’t even know that’s a fair conclusion of what’s happening. Sometimes…”
She drifts off mid-sentence with a deep sigh. I want to probe, to know more, but I leave it, letting her look out onto the lake and the slow darkening of the mountainside as the houses around us start shutting off for the night.
“You could’ve brought someone.”
“I don’t really know anyone that well,” she says, sipping her tea. “At least, not enough to share a bed for a couple of weeks.”
“Fair.”
