A laugh slips out of him, small and surprised. “I have an extra one in my backpack.”
I smile to myself as he drifts to sleep, and a few minutes later, I sneak out of his room, charger in hand, to my room down the hall. In the morning, everything is going to feel loud, so this is the safest way for this to work. This no-pressure pact that I so foolishly suggested.
21
CONNOR
SATURDAY
The boat humslow beneath our feet, slicing through the water in one smooth motion. Rain lingers at the edges of the sky, but for now the clouds are lifting, and faint strips of sunlight catch the ripples in the water, making it look a deep blue I’ve never seen before.
Jack, of course, has made the whole thing into an event. A private chartered boat with cushioned seats, blankets folded neatly in case anyone gets chilly. He’s standing near the bow with a captain’s hat on, pointing out landmarks along the shoreline like a man who’s already adopted this corner of Switzerland as his personal kingdom.
I’m sitting toward the middle, window cracked, the mountain air sharp with the scent of pine and lake, if that’s even a thing. Cash is scrolling on his phone again, and his girlfriend Amelia is napping, head on his shoulder. Somewhere else, Banks and Sterling are swapping stories about some ski trip from years back, the kind of conversation that loops around and around without ever going anywhere.
And then there’s her.
Manuela sits across from me, head tilted toward the window, strands of hair caught by the breeze. Her posture is lightly tense, but she laughs at something Elle says from behind her, soft and low, and the sound makes me ache in a place I didn’t realize was hollow until a few days ago.
I don’t even try to join the conversation. Instead I watch her fingers toy with the edge of her sleeve, watch the way her mouth curves when she smiles. I shouldn’t be staring, but the problem is I don’t want to stop.
Jack claps his hands together. “Alrighty, folks, we’re almost there. Who’s excited for some chocolate?”
“Dangerous,” Manuela says, shaking her head with mock seriousness. “I’ll have to be rolled out of there.”
“Same,” I say before I think better of it. Our eyes catch. It’s a flicker—half a second too long—and I swear her face changes, like she knows exactly where my head went: last night. Her taste still on my tongue, the sound of her falling apart under my hands.
My throat tightens, and I glance out the window like the scenery has suddenly become riveting.
“And to your right,” Jack bellows above the wind that has suddenly picked up. He gestures with his whole arm, playing tour guide. “See that white house? That is Tina Turner’s residence.”
Manuela nods her head a few times like she’s impressed, but then I catch her slipping her phone from her purse. She thumbs something in quickly, lips moving silently as she reads the screen. Fact-checking him. I’d bet money on it. Or maybe googling who Tina Turner even is.
Her focus is sharp, brows furrowed in that way that makes her look like she’s solving something important, like when we were playing Scrabble. I imagine leaning across, brushing my lips to her ear, teasing her about it. Whispering the words justfor her. The picture in my head is so clear I almost feel the warmth of her skin.
I press my coffee cup harder against my knee. Jesus. I need to get my shit together.
“Connie, hello?”
The nickname grates, snapping me out of the daydream. I blink across the boat—Banks is staring at me like I’ve missed something.
“Sorry, what?” My voice is rougher than it should be, so I clear my throat. “Spaced out.”
He smirks. “Clearly. I asked you if you think Athena would’ve hated this little field trip or loved it. Can’t decide which.”
My chest tightens.
The group chuckles, harmless, but it lands like a weight anyway. Everyone’s looking at me now, waiting. My fingers tighten around the cup, the remnants of heat biting into my skin.
“I think she’d…” I pause, then take the easy way out. A shrug. “Depends on the day.”
That earns a round of nods, a few laughs, and the spotlight shifts away, the conversation rolling forward.
But across from me, Manuela is no longer reading. Her phone rests in her lap, and she’s watching the water, jaw set. The muscle ticks once, sharp.
I want to say something—anything—to cut through the tension. But I don’t. Not here. Not with all these eyes and ears.
So instead I sit there, pretending to sip my drink, staring out at the blur of lake and shoreline like it holds answers I don’t have and wait to disembark.
