Chapter 43
RAINE
Ishould just keep walking. But there’s a pull on me that makes me sit down.
Why does this curly-blonde-haired woman have an earpiece on?
I pick a table two away from hers and sit facing her.
I take my phone out and stare at it like I’m super busy and should be doing something other than sitting on a glorious deck facing the Alps.
Nope, can’t do it. I can’t pretend. It’s like a bubbling caldron of uncool pulses at me.
“Are you visiting someone?” I ask.
“Just touring.” She picks her pen back up again.
“It’s so pretty here.” Because I have a habit of pushing through social cues of leave me alone. Wren frequently reminds me that I don’t have to be everyone’s friend. But it’s a hard habit to break.
“It is,” she says in what’s definitely an American accent, but I have no idea from where. She’s right back at her crossword puzzle.
I’m saved by a server who comes out of nowhere. “Would you like something to drink or eat?”
“A black coffee would be lovely. Thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I scroll through my phone. And I can’t help but laugh at the apartment group text.
I muted it during the week because it’s no longer my responsibility to order groceries or run to the dry cleaner to pick up someone’s uniform because it’s on the way home from the coffee shop.
But the girls are at it again. They make me laugh every darn time.
Chanda: I just got home, and is it me or does this place smell like the back lavatory of a CRJ?
Kate: It’s not you. Belinda tried to cook again.
Chanda: Belinda! Give up. DoorDash is your friend.
Kate: We need Raine back . . . or a hazmat suit.
Chanda: I vote for both.
Ellen: With matching gloves.
Amy: I’m not giving up any of my closet space for your hazmat suit with matching cloves.
Amy: gloves
Kate: Do you think Raine is hiking through the Swiss mountains while we battle the mountain of trash in the kitchen?
Chanda: Oh, I’m sure she’s skiing down the Alps while we’re over here skiing around Valerie’s dirty laundry.
Valerie: You do know it’s August, and that’s not all my laundry! But if you want to give me your black skirt that’s on top of the pile, Kate, I’ll take it.
Kate: Over my . . .
Chanda: I’m debating sleeping on the couch tonight. Too tired to walk to my room.
Valerie: The couch where Ellen spilled yogurt? That’s bold. You’re practically a hero.
Chanda: Tell my story if I don’t make it.
Belinda: I found a half-eaten sandwich in the fridge. Should I be worried?
Amy: Only if it starts texting you back.
Belinda: I guess it’s a pilot sandwich. Because it’s white bread, stale, and it’s never going to text me back.
Amy: bwaaah
Valerie: Remember when Raine used to leave notes about “being considerate”? Now we just get Post-its that say, “clean your mess or face doom.”
Ellen: We’ve evolved. Or regressed. Depends on how you look at it.
Chanda: I texted Raine to come back. Told her NYC isn’t the same without her.
Kate: What’d she say?
Chanda: She sent me a picture of a chocolate croissant. I think she’s over us.
Kate: I just got home. Holy smell, Batman. Belinda, no more cooking.
Kate: If Raine saw the crash pad right now, she’d cancel her return ticket.
Chanda: I’d pay for her flight at this point. Even give her my crew meal.
Kate: Desperate times.
My fingers hover over my phone. But if I engage, I’ll have to keep engaging.
I need to focus on getting as much of the paintings done as I can.
Every second counts runs through my head.
It’s something one of my professors used to say.
I never took it to heart, but I think I need to, because this could all disappear in an instant.
And I could be on a plane back to the states with nothing but a month’s salary and memories of what sex can be like.
There’s no way I’ll ever have sex like that again.
I glance up at the mountain. While I was reading the text thread, my coffee arrived and I didn’t even notice.
Looking around, the blonde is still there too.
I drink my now cool coffee, then look around for a way to pay, but there’s no one around.
So I head back inside to the front desk.
“I need to pay for my coffee, but I’m not sure where? ”
“Afternoon snacks and coffee are free for guests.”
“Oh, that’s so nice.” I smile. But I don’t remember seeing that on the website, and I’m pretty sure that if I was in charge of marketing, I would list it.
“Thank you,” I say and head out the front door.
I’ll let Wren sleep a little longer and take in the village.
Just not so much that Wren will be disappointed by not exploring with me.
The afternoon sun soaks into my pale skin.
I should have borrowed some of Wren’s sunscreen, or better yet, remembered to grab my own.
But I was thinking about how I’m going to organize the first crate I’ve unboxed into what I’ve already put into the storage unit.
When you’re organizing your own collection of dishes, you can take everything out before you put it away.
Stack things haphazardly on a chair. But not a collection of fine masterpieces.
I pull out my phone and make a few notes on ideas popping off in my head.
People are so friendly as they walk down the street, but it’s interesting.
I can’t pick out many tourists. In fact, the blonde back at the inn, Wren, and I might be the only ones.
I stop at a boutique and step inside. It’s got a lot of interesting clothes.
The clerk greets me and goes back to straightening a table of shirts.
Like most of the rest of the village, the store isn’t crowded.
I pull out a skirt that reminds me of Valerie.
I shouldn’t, but I snap a picture of it and add the caption “You all would love it here,” and put it in the crash pad chat.
I slide my phone back into my pocket before I’m drawn into a thirty-minute discussion of where is the toilet bowl brush and do I know how to get the pan that Belinda ruined clean?
Questions I know the answer to, but they have eyes and the internet, and I can’t keep babying them. That’s what Wren says.
I’m in the back of the store behind a tall stand of dresses when the door bells chime. I lift my head and notice it’s a dark-haired woman. She’s wearing an earpiece too.
I put the skirt back because I don’t need any new clothes—I need to save every last penny for when I go back to New York.
“Danke,” I say to the clerk and incline my head to the woman who’s just come in. Back outside, across the street, I notice the crossword blonde walking slowly.
Well, I suppose I’m bound to notice more Americans than not around here.
It’s not hard to pick us out. I step inside the next store that comes up: a toy shop.
A few of my classmates from high school have kids, but none of my friends from New York City.
But it’s cool, a lot of wooden Montessori kind of things.
I wander into the back and then slowly up to the front. The clerk nods at me.
“Hallo,” I say.
“Grüezi,” the older clerk replies.
There’s a bin of small figurines and things by the cash register. A pile of red and white catches my eye. Mushrooms like the ones in the painting. My insides light up, and I’m passing my card to the clerk.
“Would you like anything else? There’s a ten euro minimum for using a card.”
“Oh, of course.” I eye the other small bin toys but end up just grabbing four more mushrooms instead. I place them on the counter.
“One big, three small.” He arranges the large one in the middle.
Impulsively, I grab one more and place it next to its littler pal. “There, that’s more balanced. I guess I’m taking five.”
“The more the merrier. Bag?” His accent washes over me.
“Please.”
He hands me my card and a small bag and wishes me well.
Outside, there’s a warm breeze blowing up the street. And it takes me a minute, but I find another American woman standing two shops down. She’s as fit as the last two and maybe taller. But something about it feels weird. Not that tall, fit American women aren’t allowed to travel.
But am I being followed?