Chapter 31 Manuela
MANUELA
TUESDAY
“Ugh, look at it,” Elle says, pushing her large sunglasses up her nose and into her hair as she stares at the view from where we are. “It’s perfect.”
The path climbs gently behind the house, gravel crunching beneath our shoes, the air so clean, it almost stings.
Bells clang faintly in the distance, and I can see brown cows scattered across the hillside like someone—the resort, most likely—placed them there just for the ambiance.
Banks veers off to take a selfie with one and yelps when the cow noses at his ear, trying to lick at him.
Of course everyone bursts out laughing. My smile comes a second later, like always.
By the time we reach the overlook, the scene looks curated—tables draped in linen, chilled bottles of wine beading in the hot sun, platters of cured meats, cheeses, figs, olives. Umbrellas cast striped shadows, and the lake glimmers far below, framed by mountains jagged enough to look unreal.
After the rain we had last week, the weather has turned, and it feels like an absolute summer day in the mountains.
I take a seat at the edge, grateful for the space, and watch the group splinter into smaller pockets. Elle floats around like a conductor—directing who should pour, who should sit, where the sun is best for photos.
Connor is across the table, sleeves rolled, hair mussed in the casual way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. I drag my gaze to the cheese platter, then the lake.
Anywhere but him.
George sits stiffly near Jack, and I catch a piece of their argument slipping between bites of fresh bread.
“What are our parents going to say?” Jack hisses, barely containing himself.
George leans back in his low chair, smirking like he’s rehearsed this. “They’ll live.”
“Reckless, that’s what it is. You’ve outdone yourself this time, brother.”
George pops an olive in his mouth and doesn’t bother replying.
Elle pretends not to notice, but her hand trembles when she lifts her glass.
Her expression is a pleasant one, but she’s hiding behind those oversized sunglasses again, and I can’t read her.
The silence that follows is the heavy kind, the one that sticks even when someone changes the subject.
I reach for my water as Camila slides into the empty seat beside me, as poised as if she’s walked straight out of a magazine spread. The breeze catches her hair, loose today, softening the sharpness I usually associate with her.
“You knew I was in Switzerland,” I say, keeping my voice low. This whole thing with George is still an enigma to me, and I’m trying to understand what is happening here.
Her mouth curves. “I did.”
I turn, frowning. “A heads-up would have been nice.”
“What are the odds it was the same wedding?” she replies, sipping from her glass.
That perma-smile is back on, almost performative, because she knows all eyes are on her.
Maybe she’s feeling the same way I do on the regular—observed and a little out of place—and the shock is still running rampant through her system.
“What are the odds it was the same country, Cami?”
She tilts her glass toward the lake, watching as the sunlight breaks into shards against the surface. She says nothing, just lets the silence stretch until Nicole calls for more wine and Camila drifts away with a shrug, moving back towards her husband as if our conversation never happened.
Connor moves then, coming up behind me with a plate in hand. He leans close to set it down, his fingers grazing my shoulder so lightly it could be nothing. But I feel it everywhere, an impossible spark that shoots through me.
“Here you go, baby,” he murmurs, soft enough that it could pass as casual but not soft enough to miss.
I freeze, smile pasted on, praying no one saw or heard—until Nicole’s eyes flick up, sharp and glittering, watching.
My throat tightens, but I laugh at something Elle says, too bright and too late. Connor catches my gaze and holds it for half a breath too long. It’s enough.
For a few hours, plates circle, glasses clink.
Banks launches into a story about losing his wallet on the subway, and Amelia nearly chokes on her fig tart, laughing.
Elle eggs him on, fanning herself dramatically.
The mood lightens, but it feels thin, stretched like fabric that could tear with one wrong tug.
Elle sets her glass down with a little flourish, the sun catching the rim, and claps her hands once. “Okay, new game. No one leaves this table until they share their favorite part of the trip so far. And no repeats, so be creative.”
A chorus of groans rises from the picnic table, good-natured but dramatic, the sound drifting out over the wide sweep of sky and down toward the lake.
Elle, of course, looks delighted. She waves the complaints off like the benevolent dictator she is.
“I’ll start,” she says, then pauses, eyes sparkling.
“Actually, no. I’ll go last. Camila, George—you don’t get to play. You just got here.”
Camila laughs, leaning back on her hands on the picnic blanket next to the table, her bracelets catching the sun.
George mutters something low, jaw tight.
Jack’s head snaps toward him, sharp, his reply too quiet for me to listen to but edged with warning.
The tension slices through the edges of the group, a private argument wrapped in hushed voices—stop making a scene—until everyone else looks down at their plates and pretends to be absorbed in bread and cheese.
Banks doesn’t even wait to be called on.
Still chewing, he raises a hand and points at the spread in front of us—platters of cheeses, cured meats, bread still warm from the oven.
“The food. Every single meal. I mean”—he gestures with a hunk of bread—“this is the best picnic I’ve ever had in my life. No contest.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the circle.
Amelia leans forward, giggling before she even speaks.
“The spa. Obviously. Those facials? I’m still glowing.
” She fans her cheeks, nails glinting a fresh pale pink.
“Also, the shopping.” Her grin is wicked, like she’s in on an inside joke I’m not privy to.
Sterling stretches out on his elbows, tan arms gleaming in the late-morning light, and smirks. “The hotel gym’s pretty great. Haven’t missed a single day, thank you very much.”
Cash groans, tossing a grape at him. “Of course you’d say that.” He waves his phone like proof. “Mine’s the Wi-Fi. Strong enough to stream football in the middle of the Alps? That’s a gift from the heavens.”
The laughter this time is louder, looser, folding into the warm air.
Elle, queen of the circle, points across with a perfectly manicured finger. “Nicole. Go.”
Nicole sets her wineglass down carefully, like the moment requires gravitas.
“The house,” she says smoothly, voice soft and deliberate.
“Obviously. It’s spectacular. And thank you to our generous hosts.
” She tilts her chin toward Elle and Jack, gracious, but then her gaze flicks sideways—barely a beat, but enough that I feel it—before returning to her glass.
“Feels like the kind of place you’d want to share with someone special, doesn’t it? ”
The words hang there, sweet on the surface, but my skin prickles under them. I smooth the hem of my dress over my knees, focusing on the fabric instead of her tone.
Elle, unbothered, barrels on. “Connor?”
He shifts slightly where he’s sitting, gaze tipped out toward the mountains. “The waterfall.” His voice is even, but something in it carries.
A soft hum moves through the group—impressed, curious, maybe a little envious. Elle grins. “Good one.” Then her eyes land on me. “Manu, your turn.”
The air sticks in my throat, just for a second. I force my voice to be casual. “The fondue. It was… unexpected.” My cheeks burn anyway. Out of the corner of my eye, Connor doesn’t move, but I see the subtle tap of his finger against his knee, steady and restrained.
Across the table, Nicole scoffs—audible, sharp, meant to cut.
The smile slides right off my face, and my skin burns even hotter. “I’m sorry, did I say something that offends you?”
Her head jerks up, brows arched like she’s the one being attacked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say, voice steady even though my pulse is hammering. “You’ve been sniping at me since we got here. What is your problem?”
I’m nonconfrontational to a fault, more so since living in the United States, where communication styles are different than what I’m used to—less direct and more… worked around. So my words make my chest tighten, a rush of blood running through my ears, and it’s the only thing I can listen to.
Her glass clinks against the table as she sets it down. “I don’t have a problem with you. This trip is about Elle and Jack, not… whatever this is.”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve been nice, polite, and tried to fit into your circle ever since I met you, and I can never get the same treatment in return.”
A ripple of silence moves through the group. No one looks directly at us, but everyone’s listening. From the corner of my eye, I can see Elle’s parted lips, her hand flattened on the tabletop.
Nicole parts her lips, shocked, but I don’t let her answer.
“If you’d actually looked closer, you might have noticed we have a lot in common.
Starting with our love of thrifting, of collecting things that feel unique, that feel like they belong to us.
But you’ve been too busy being bitter over who knows what to really see it. ”
Elle shifts, ready to jump in, but the damage is done.
Nicole blinks at me, stunned for half a second, and then her jaw sets. “Bitter? Don’t flatter yourself. You’ve made this trip about you since the second you got here. And we’re supposed to be celebrating our friends.”
My chest goes tight, anger flashing hot. “That’s bullshit. I’ve done nothing but try to be included, to show up, to be polite even when you’ve been dismissive and smug. If that looks like me making it about myself, maybe that says more about you than me.”
Her mouth opens, closes, a faint flush creeping up her neck. “I don’t know what fantasy you’re living in, but I don’t go around being rude for no reason.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “No reason? You’ve made it very clear what the reason is.
You’ve decided I don’t belong here, so you don’t have to bother being decent.
But news flash, Nicole: not everything revolves around who you grew up with and who you deem worthy of your approval.
Just because I’m an outsider doesn’t mean I’m less. ”
The air feels thinner, every breath catching. No one moves. Elle’s smile is frozen, her hand clamped tight around her glass stem. Even Banks has gone quiet.
I push myself to my feet, brushing crumbs from my dress, my pulse a roar in my ears. “If you’ll excuse me.”
For one suspended second, no one speaks, but I catch a faint twitch in Connor’s mouth. Then he is up, too, his chair scraping against the stone. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at anyone else. Just follows me, leaving the circle behind.
I don’t glance back, but I can feel the weight of eyes on us—Nicole’s sharp and simmering, Elle’s worried, the rest uncertain. Let them watch.