13
Syd sits in the designated smoking corner, having her morning cigarette.
She’s groggy, a little hungover. She shouldn’t drink vermut.
It’s stronger than wine, and she always pays for it the next morning.
Recently, she’s been drinking too much alcohol, grasping onto the frivolity and joie de vivre of their young guests.
But last night was different. Last night, she’d been trying to blunt her fear and anxiety.
Taking a drag, Syd rubs at a sandy eye. She hadn’t slept well, her phone conversation with Brian Hale replaying in her mind.
A man was dead. His family thought it was her fault.
Of course she was upset. How could Curtis dismiss it so easily, blame it on her medication?
He may as well have asked if she was on her period.
Brian had been circumspect as he recounted the call from Jameson’s father, Teddy Drew. “He was angry. He called you some nasty names and made some vague threats.”
“Like what?”
“He wants to make you pay for what happened to Jameson, but he didn’t mean it. But we recorded the threats just in case.”
“Am I in danger, Brian?” Sydney’s voice sounded thick.
Her friend sighed down the line. “If you still lived in the city, I might suggest a restraining order, but Teddy Drew is probably all talk. And he has no way to find you in Spain. He doesn’t strike me as a big international traveler.”
“I hope not.”
“Since you’re no longer practicing, you should check that your professional liability insurance has a tail that covers you. Just in case Teddy can find someone to represent him.”
“He’s going to sue me now? For what?” But she knew. For negligence. For being so broken by her mom’s death, her husband’s betrayal, that she sent a man to prison who may have had a case for self-defense.
Stubbing out her cigarette, Sydney stands, prepares for her morning dip.
Hopefully the chilly water will perk her up, but she’s doubtful.
If they didn’t have guests, she’d crawl back into bed, but she doesn’t want to appear indulgent or lazy.
Last night, she’d tried the guided imagery exercises Ellen the therapist had recommended to calm her racing thoughts.
“Change the channel,” Ellen had advised, like the traumatized brain was nothing more than a TV.
Finally, she’d been able to push Teddy Drew from her mind and drift off, only to be woken by muffled sounds in the house.
It had scared her at first, until she remembered Bianca and Damian were just down the hall.
Eyes open in the darkness, Syd had listened to their gentle murmuring.
A soft feminine gasp, a deep guttural groan.
Her guests were making love. She felt both awkward and a little aroused.
Syd had glanced over at her husband to see if he heard it too, but Curtis was asleep, mouth open wide, snoring wetly.
She felt a swell of disdain at the sight (and sound) of the man she’d married, though she knew it wasn’t fair.
She nudged him with an elbow, and he rolled over with a muttered “Sorry.”
As she wades into the cool water, Syd’s breath catches, and her pulse begins to race. Her thick head clears a little. She’s waist-deep, about to go under, when Bianca wanders onto the deck.
“Morning,” the woman says, stretching tanned arms over her tousled honey head.
She looks tired and puffy, but on her it’s sexy, devil may care.
Bianca’s wearing a large T-shirt, the one Syd remembers Damian had on yesterday.
The sounds of their lovemaking revisit her, and she feels her cheeks warming.
“Morning.” Syd dips under the surface, swims a few strokes, allowing the cold water to bring her back to life.
She emerges just as Bianca strips off the T-shirt to reveal tiny bikini bottoms and nothing else.
Casually, the Australian lowers herself to the edge of the pool, dunking her feet into the water.
“Remind me not to drink that red cough syrup stuff,” she says, shielding her eyes with her hand. “What’s it called?”
“Spanish vermouth,” Syd replies, averting her gaze. She’s in Europe. Boobs are everywhere. Why does she feel so uncomfortable? “I feel a little rough myself.”
“Who’s ready for breakfast?” Curtis walks out on deck, stops short at the sight of Bianca’s bare C cups.
The blonde leans back on her hands, perfect breasts thrusting toward the sky. “I’m not sure I can eat,” she says. “That vermouth did a number on me.”
Curtis seems mildly stunned by the sight of their topless guest, his eyes darting around her perimeter, but he composes himself. “I made ham and eggs. A greasy breakfast should settle your stomach.” He turns to Sydney. “You ready to eat, babe?”
“Sure. I’ll be in in a minute.”
“Okay.” He turns back to Bianca. “Do you want me to make you some plain toast?”
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I’ve got granola, too.”
“Ugh.” She makes a face.
Curtis chuckles. “Vermut is kind of strong. And it has a lot of sugar. Recipe for a brutal hangover.”
“Now you tell me?”
As Syd watches her husband chat and joke with their nearly naked roommate, she feels something dark and ugly sprouting in the pit of her stomach.
It’s jealousy, a toxic blend of insecurity, fear, and anger.
She doesn’t want to make a scene, doesn’t want to lose her temper, but how can Curtis not see that his casual banter with Bianca’s tits is wildly inappropriate after what he did?
She breathes deeply through flared nostrils, trying to calm her ire.
How would Ellen suggest she handle this issue?
As though he senses his wife’s upset, Curtis turns to face her. “I’d better get back in the kitchen,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Come on in before the food gets cold.”
And then he scurries away.
When Syd enters through the French doors, the aroma of coffee and Spanish bacon is enticing, but her stomach is tight and queasy.
Damian sits at the table, eating a massive plate of food.
“Morning!” he calls, half standing as she enters.
He’s in a tank top, sinewy muscles on full display, but Syd barely notices.
“Morning.” She tosses the word in his direction, approaches her husband. “Can we talk for a sec?”
“Eat first.” He grabs the frying pan. “The eggs will be rubbery.”
“This won’t take long.” Her frosty delivery stops him short. He sets down the pan and follows her to the bedroom.
“What’s up?” he says when the door is closed behind them.
Sydney knows how this will sound—pathetic and petty—but she has to articulate her feelings. Open communication is essential if they’re going to rebuild their trust. “I’m not comfortable with you hanging out and chatting with Bianca when she’s practically naked.”
Curtis snorts. “I asked her if she wanted breakfast, Syd.”
“You were flirting and laughing with her. And her breasts.”
“I was not flirting with her,” he says, calm and indignant. “I offered her food, and then I made small talk. She’s our guest.”
Syd’s cheeks are getting hot, but she employs the language she learned in therapy.
“I’ve been working very hard to trust you again.
” Her voice tightens as she goes off script.
“Maybe you could respect the fact that I’m still feeling less than secure in our marriage after you had sex with your client. ”
Curtis’s response is a low rumble. “Of course I respect that. Everything I’ve done for the past year has been to make you feel more secure.”
“Then stop ogling Bianca’s tits and laughing about her hangover!” Sydney whisper-shrieks.
“You invited her to stay here,” Curtis says through gritted teeth. “Why don’t you tell her to put a shirt on if it makes you uncomfortable?” He storms back to the kitchen.