“You sound like someone who needs a vacation,” she says softly.
“Or a personality transplant.” Or maybe a new group of friends.
She smiles again, tucking a leg beneath her. “For what it’s worth… I think you’re doing okay.”
It’s a simple thing to say. But something about the way she says it makes my chest ache.
We sit there a while longer, letting the tea cool. The laughter and flirtation from earlier lingers, but quieter now. Like we’re both aware that something shifted.
She glances towards the stairs. “I should probably sleep before someone else starts up.”
“Let me know if you need earplugs,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“Only if you snore,” she throws back, already walking away. “Don’t we share a wall?”
I watch her go, her steps soft against the floor.
Then I lean back on the couch and take a long sip of lukewarm tea.
I don’t know what this is becoming. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like nothing.
8
MANUELA
TUESDAY
There’sa knock on the door. Before I can stretch or even utter a single word out of my mouth—a customary “I’m coming” or even a “just a second”—it swings open.
Elle stands in the doorway, framed in her sheer white robe, sunlight behind her haloing her figure. She tips her head forward dramatically and groans, like she’s in a classic nineties rom-com, waking late for a wedding brunch.
“Buenos días,” she says in her most theatrical voice yet. She has consistently practiced Spanish with me at work for the past year or so, ever since we started sitting next to each other. She says it’s because she needs to be able to talk to her housekeeper turned dog sitter turned master of her home, but I think she does it so that I feel closer to home. “You look alive.”
“Good morning,” I return, squinting at her and stretching diagonally across the bed. The other side feels cool and welcome in the heat of the room. I swing my legs out of bed. “You slept well?”
“Tried,” she replies, pulling open the blinds. Outside, the terraced landscape glows—the maples turning gold, the aldersfaint red, the sky a sharp blue behind the mountain peaks. “Gorgeous morning.”
The light is soft and golden—not harsh but just enough to make waking feel like an invitation were it not for the abrupt presence of Elle. There’s the lake again, smooth as glass, and a hint of mist pooling over the surface that wasn’t there yesterday.
Last night felt oddly important, even though nothing major happened. I don’t feel self-conscious, remembering what I said about missing sex. Mostly, I feel surprised Connor agreed, casually. And how honest it felt. There’s something quietly comforting about that.
The floor is cool on my feet but not cold. The house feels quiet even though I’m almost sure everyone is up and moving and getting ready for the planned excursion.
“You good?” Elle asks casually, sitting on the mattress next to me.
I nod. “This mattress is amazing. And I’m excited for today.” I stand and take a slow sip of water from the glass I left on the nightstand. “A waterfall hike feels like a perfect plan to start the vacation.”
“Duh,” Elle says, eyes flitting around. “We’re headed to these caves with, like, interior waterfalls?” she says like it’s a question. “It’s, like, a twenty-minute bus ride from Interlaken, but we have to get going because that is two hours away by train. And we have lunch reservations, and it’s, like, a three-kilometer hike to get to the restaurant. Totally peaceful.”
I grin. “Sounds like a postcard.”
“Exactly the point.” She smiles. “Alright, get dressed and meet us downstairs for breakfast. We roll out in half an hour.” Then she glances over with that familiar Elle grin that I’ve gotten to know so well in the past three years. “Coffee first.”
I watch her close the door, and for a moment, I breathe. Outside, I hear chairs shifting on the terrace below—people stirring. Soft laughter, someone shaking an iced coffee.
I pull on leggings and a cozy sweater—one of those light but warm basics that travels well and is aesthetic enough for this crowd. My hair’s thrown into a loose knot. I let the glow settle around me as I slip into socks and quietly leave the room.
Downstairs, the open concept kitchen is already awake and moving. Steam curls from a huge French press on the island, and there’s yogurt and fruit, bowls of granola and honey, fresh bread, a plate of sliced cheese and cold cuts. Someone from the house staff is quietly placing fresh croissants in a basket.
