Sheets of Egyptian Cotton #2
They spent all night walking the streets.
They laughed. They talked. They watched the sunrise together.
They simply enjoyed each other’s company.
She even once said, with a self-deprecating laugh, “I think I fell in love with him a little. Silly, I know.” Then, they slept together, and then, he disappeared the next morning—and we never spoke about that night again.
But I always wondered if she ever saw him after that.
“Something on your mind?” I asked her.
“Oh.” She quickly shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” she breathed.
I sighed heavily, glancing at her, contemplating my next words. “Alright, alright! I’ll do it. I’ll go out with Blake.”
“Really?!” She beamed momentarily.
“Just once. If he asks. But that’s it. If it doesn’t work out, or I simply decide I don’t want to do it again, you are not going to beg me.”
“Oh!” She quickly jumped to hug me, almost throwing us over the swing. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I promise!”
“God!” I laughed. “You’ll kill us both before your wedding. Speaking of which, are you and Mark okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And what about his brother?”
A beat of silence. “Still coming,” Jo sighed, slowly releasing her arms.
“You better not pair me up with him either.”
“Oh,” she scoffed, “absolutely not! He’ll be seated as far away from you as possible.”
“Where are you going to put him?”
“Aunt Roberta.”
We both winced at that name.
Aunt Roberta was the most horrid woman alive.
And my evil mother did not even come close to her.
Every time she visited, something would mysteriously disappear from our house.
You name it: fancy soap, silverware, mum’s favourite candle holders, or, like last time, right at the breakfast table—porcelain coquetiers, for God’s sake.
“You must really hate him, huh?”
“I do.” She paused for a moment, then gently pulled me by my hand. “Let’s go change.”
“Ah, right.” I smiled. “An elegant soiree with a three-course feast.”
As we walked inside the house, I glanced at my sister. “By the way, how is Chantelle?”
“Better. Miles looked after her.”
“Oh. He did?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Um, that’s very nice of him.”
“It is. Though,” Jo’s lips suddenly curled into a smile, “I think she exaggerated a little just to get him to hold her up.”
“Well, he’s got nice arms,” I said, my eyes drifting towards the ceiling as I remembered my palms frantically roaming over his biceps just a few hours ago.
“He does, doesn’t he?” Jo laughed. “That whole wet, shirtless show on the yacht was my highlight of the day.”
“Huh? Aren’t you to be wedded soon?” I teased.
“I can still watch, can’t I?” She laughed again.
As we approached my bedroom, we hugged each other one more time.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m sorry too.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more,” she softly whispered into my hair.
“Impossible.”
***
“Um,” I breathed, glancing at the large bed of crushed ice in front of us. “Oysters?”
“Belon oysters,” my mother replied.
Louis’ face lit up. “C’est un vrai go?t de chez nous, merci!” he exclaimed, then muttered something under his breath. I only really caught the word ‘merci.’
Noticing a few confused looks around the table, my mother, who spoke fluent French, explained, “Louis says they’re a true taste of home.”
“Ah.” The same few people sighed in understanding. Me included.
Francine, reaching for a lemon wedge and the mignonette sauce, murmured, “Oysters have a reputation as an aphrodisiac, you know.” She expertly garnished it then lifted the shell to her bright lips and slurped it down with a satisfying, “Mmm. I can feel the pure ocean energy flowing right through me.”
Ocean energy, huh?
Blake hesitantly reached for one too. “Well, it’s not universally proven, the whole aphrodisiac theory.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “There’s no concrete scientific evidence. And even if there were, how many oysters would you even need to eat to get…you know, in the mood? ”
Miles leaned in with a sly grin. “Asking for a friend?” He winked.
I kicked him under the table. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Ouch!” Jo yelped, rubbing her knee.
A beat of silence fell at once.
Then she glanced at me. “What was that for?”
Heat immediately rushed to my cheeks. “Oh, sorry!” I blurted out. “The…the damn spasm.” I quickly reached for my ankle.
On my second kick, I successfully hit the target. Miles winced, then shrugged. “Sorry.” He rambled an apology. “Must be…another spasm.” His eyes met mine, lingering for a brief moment.
“By the way, where’s Chantelle?” my mother asked. “Is she still feeling unwell?”
Jo nodded. “Yeah, poor thing.”
“Even the thought of food makes her sick again,” Mark added.
“Well, it’s probably best she skipped dinner then,” my father suggested, examining an oyster in his hand. “This might not be very…appealing to her.”
No kidding. When your dish looks like sea mucus nestled in its shell, ‘appealing’ wasn’t exactly the word I’d choose.
My mother’s eyes landed on me. “You haven’t touched yours?”
I forced a smile. “Um, yeah, about that…sorry, Mum. Not really feeling like getting romantically involved tonight.”
Miles snorted a chuckle. My mother’s face, however, immediately tightened in disapproval. “Well,” she said, her gaze sweeping over the table, “oysters are very nutritious. They’re good for you.” To which Francine eagerly nodded a few times.
I sighed. “I know, Mum. I know.”
She continued, enunciating each word as if addressing a particularly dense child. “Rich in protein, omega-3, and iron.”
“B12 and zinc,” Blake chimed in, siding with her.
“That’s great,” I nodded, “but I just don’t enjoy the taste. Or the texture.” I took a long sip of water.
My mother frowned. “What’s wrong with the taste?”
Well, it’s a bit too…shellfish?
Ugh!
Do not say that, Florence. Seriously, do not say that.
Miles suddenly spoke up. “I find them to have a slightly metallic undertone, not really my gastronomic delight either.” His eyes flickered toward me before returning to my mother.
“My apologies, Elizabeth. I should have mentioned that earlier.” But he hadn’t, which meant he was perfectly fine with oysters. Which meant he just did that… for me?
“Oh, that’s quite alright,” my mother assured him. “I bet you’ll enjoy the main course.” She glanced around the table, beaming. “It happens to be Miles’ favourite.”
She meant casserole, of course.
“Oof,” my father exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “Can’t wait to dig into that!”
Oh my God. I winced, heat creeping up my neck. My ears! My ears!
“Are you alright, dear?” my mother asked. “You seem a little flushed.”
“Just warm,” I mumbled, fanning myself with a napkin while gripping a glass of water in my other hand.
Miles cleared his throat, holding back another chuckle, but his smirk widened, his dangerous eyes glistening as he licked his lip. It was the same look he gave me that one time while doing his other favourite… activity .