24
Curtis watches his wife sleep, her head curled into her chest like a little bird, her breath shallow and uneven.
Morning light sifts in through the blinds, but she doesn’t stir.
She’s going to feel like shit when she wakes up.
Syd’s not a big drinker, despite their plans to get into the wine business.
He’s never seen her so out of control, even when they were younger.
He wonders if Bianca had convinced Syd to take something last night, a party drug to make her drop her inhibitions.
Or Bianca might have slipped it into Syd’s drink without her knowledge.
Will his partner even remember what she did at the nightclub?
How close she came to ruining everything?
His mind drifts to Damian, his role in last night’s debauchery.
The two men had had a few beers, Curtis had grilled some steaks and veggies.
They were getting along for once. Without the women to impress, Damian had dropped the annoying macho act.
He’d been interested and interesting. Maybe he’d gotten the guy all wrong? And then Damian had checked his phone.
“The girls are having drinks in Cadaqués,” he’d said, reading a text message. “They’re heading to a club.”
“Really?” Curtis had scoffed. “Sydney doesn’t go clubbing.”
“I told you Bianca’s convincing.” He’d taken a swig of beer. “Let’s go meet them.”
Curtis had retrieved his phone, but there was no message from Sydney and certainly no invitation. Would she welcome her husband’s surprise appearance? Or did she want to be alone with Bianca?
But Damian had been insistent. “They’re probably drunk,” Damian continued. “They might need help getting home.”
That argument won Curtis over. The car was parked somewhere in town.
If Curtis stopped drinking now, he’d be able to drive them back up the hill, ensure everyone got home safely.
Before anything regrettable happened. And so he’d agreed to hike down the darkened trail, using their phones as flashlights.
Damian brought a beer for the journey, but Curtis was intent on sobering up.
When they’d reached the nightclub—dark, dank, and sweaty—Curtis had gone directly to the bar.
“Agua sin gas,” he’d ordered, thirsty from the hike.
He’d turned to see if Damian wanted a drink, but his companion had evaporated.
With his bottle of water, Curtis had pushed his way through the throng, moving toward the dance floor. And that had been where he’d seen them.
He had no right to be angry at Sydney, not after what he’d done to her.
In fact, he’d sometimes wondered if his wife leveling the playing field might allow them to move forward on more even footing.
But last night, he’d watched Bianca kiss Sydney on the dance floor, pass her onto Damian like some kind of human present.
Curtis had felt sick, angry, and jealous, but he’d pushed down those feelings, stayed motionless on the periphery.
And that had been when Bianca’s gaze had found him.
And she’d smiled, a smug fuck-you grin. She wasn’t falling in love with Sydney.
She was getting off on hurting Curtis. Why?
When Sydney spotted him, she’d extricated herself from the threesome on the dance floor, had stumbled toward him. “Y-you’re here,” she’d stammered, collapsing into his arms. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He’d held her for a moment.
She’d been trembling and sweaty—from adrenaline, drugs, or guilt, he didn’t know.
And then he’d led her through the press of bodies, out of the dank club.
Somehow, he’d coaxed the location of the car from her, found the keys in her pocket.
He’d driven her home, put her to bed, had lain awake simmering with anger and hatred for their houseguests, who were still out clubbing.
They’d have to show up at some point: Their van and all their belongings were here.
He would confront them then, tell them to pack their shit and leave, arrange a tow for their van.
But eventually Curtis drifted off, exhausted from the mix of intense emotions.
The Aussies must have crept in while he was asleep.
Sydney stirs then, rolls toward him. Her eyes flutter open, and he sees the blankness, even confusion in them. It takes a few moments for realization to dawn, the memory to revisit her. Her face crumples. “Oh, Curtis…”
“I’m not angry, Syd. I know I have no right to be.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she says. “I was so drunk. Bianca said…” She trails off, pressing two fingers between her eyebrows. “It’s all fuzzy.”
“Go back to sleep.”
She nods, drops her head back onto the pillow. He leans over, kisses her forehead, and slips from the room.
The house is silent except for the hum of the fridge, the wind rustling through the trees outside the windows.
Curtis makes himself a coffee, drinks it standing at the kitchen counter, gathering his courage.
The Aussie couple has worn out their welcome.
They’re too wild, too flirtatious, too promiscuous.
And he can’t forget the look on Bianca’s face last night as she kissed his wife.
She was fucking with him. She’s a sadistic bitch.
Curtis strides down the hall to the guest room, knocks on the door.
Silence. Tentatively, he pushes it open and peers inside.
It’s empty, and the bed hasn’t been slept in.
For a moment, he thinks the pair has taken off, left all their belongings behind.
But it’s wishful thinking. They wouldn’t abandon all their clothing, a sentimental locket, birth control pills.
Outside, the midmorning heat is already stifling.
As he moves down the driveway, he smells burned grass, baked soil.
The van is still and silent, but they’re in there.
They must be. Curtis knocks on the panel door and waits.
There’s no response. He’s about to knock again when the door slides open.
Damian emerges, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Fresh and alert.
“Morning, mate.” The greeting is without warmth. Subtly mocking.
“I need a word with you two,” Curtis says.
“Bianca just headed to the pool,” Damian says, sliding the panel door closed behind him. “But you can talk to me.”
They will have this out, man-to-man. Curtis prefers it this way. He doesn’t want Sydney to witness this conversation, and he doesn’t need Bianca chiming in either.
“Last night was pretty fucked-up,” Curtis begins.
“It was just a little fun. Relax, mate.”
“I’m not your fucking mate,” Curtis snarls. He’s so sick of the idiom, and Damian’s overuse of it. “I’d like you two to leave.”
“Why? Because we danced with your wife?”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Curtis’s voice is shaky with repressed anger, but he pushes through. “This is my house, and I want you gone.”
“But we’re still waiting on our fuel pump.”
“You can call a tow truck for the van. You can take the bus to Girona.” The adrenaline rush of Curtis’s rage is almost a high. “But you two need to get the fuck off my property.”
For a moment, Damian is speechless. Bullies often respond this way when a target stands up to them. Curtis waits for him to cower and apologize, to admit that what happened last night crossed the line. But a slow smile takes over Damian’s face, and his eyes narrow.
“We’re not going anywhere, buddy.”
There’s no trace of an Australian accent.