Chapter Twenty-One Nate

We board a Venetian-style taxi boat from Portovenere across Le Bocche strait to Palmaria—a tiny triangular island with marble caves and apparently abandoned bunkers from the Second World War. It’s evening now, too dark to see any of that, though, and our mission is food, in a charming trattoria apparently beloved by celebrities from Spielberg to Streisand. The atmosphere on the boat is tense, almost bizarre—we’re different people than we were on the trail through the five towns, and I’m trying with my best Fabrizio Salvatore impressions to pierce Rory’s stony silence, the grim set of Caro’s jaw. To no avail.

We dock on a long wooden walk lit up with votives, and a waiter seats us on the upper terrace at the rail overlooking the sea, romance oozing from the place’s every pore. The waves lap the shore below, I can practically taste the salt in the air, and the lights of Portovenere twinkle in the distance.

Perfection, or a veneer thereof. Everyone busies themselves with the menu, avoids each other’s gaze. What happened? What has made Rory so clearly angry all over again? It’s like the possibility that sizzled after I told her I wanted her back was all in my head.

Could she possibly think that I took the books?

Could she think that—?

No. No.

But then again, Rory is sitting next to Max, giggling almost pointedly with him about stuff that happened when they were kids, asking him if he wants to share the bollito di crostacei, with lobster and shrimp, as their main, when she well knows that Max is finicky about shellfish and I would have happily gone in on that. Sure enough, Max says no, but does she want to share the grilled fish; and Rory hesitates for a moment, but then shuts her menu and says yes. When I know—know—that she’d never forgo lobster for simple grilled fish unless she was avoiding speaking to me.

“Hey, look,” I tell Rory, fishing for an opener. “There’s Mr. Pom-Pom. His face has gone from red to purple at this point.”

“Wonder what tirade I can arrange for him today,” Rory says, no ironic smile to be found.

Still, we watch him at his neighboring table for one, struggling with an object, a blue and white china canister. He mutters something unintelligible into the wind. Suddenly, he hitches open the canister, stands, and begins to scatter gray dust over the rail into the sea.

“Is that…?” Rory asks.

“Oh my… pfffff,” I say, as some of that dust flies at me. I recoil, immediately brush at my face. I spit a few times into my napkin. When I surface, I say, “Ashes.” I duck.

“What?” Max asks, not having yet cottoned onto the scene, and then he gets some himself. I stay low, below the table line. “God, you look straight outta the coal mines, Maxie.”

The waiters have now glommed onto what’s happening, and hasten over to have words with Mr. Pom-Pom, who, by his sharp, skewering tone, does not sound pleased to have his ceremony interrupted.

We’re all a mix of horrified and laughing, scrubbing at our faces with wet napkins. “Still think he’s a minion paid by Ginevra Ex?” I ask Caro.

She rolls her eyes. “He’s unlikely, that’s for sure.”

“But if he’s Ginevra’s lackey, shouldn’t he be operating more on the down-low?” Max asks.

At that we all erupt in laughter. Something unfurls in my chest, and I find myself laughing the hardest. Maybe this dinner is going to be all right, after all.

Our waiter brings out our antipasto, crowding the table with a veritable feast on plates covered in pastoral lemon prints. There’s stuffed mussels, anchovies, shrimp salad, penne with scampi, and spaghetti with the local ripe pesto, all artfully arranged, with sprigs of herbs and citrus wedges. The waiter uncorks a bottle of crisp Ligurian white wine and swishes it into all of our glasses—well, except Caro’s. She’s not drinking this trip.

I know why that is. Why her alcohol intake lately has been nil.

“So how was everyone’s afternoon postbeach?” Rory asks, her tone no longer imbued with any lightness from the ashes-in-our-faces absurdity.

I push down the anxiety in my chest. “Good! I was dead, though. All that sun and wine and limoncello. I needed a nap after.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rory asks, and now I know for certain I’m not imagining it, her unmistakable subtext. Like she knows I am lying.

Dumb answer, Natey-boy. The woman dated you for ten years. She knows you don’t nap.

“And what about you, C? A nap, too?”

My unease grows as I realize Rory could have heard us arguing. Fucking hell. How dumb of us to speak so publicly in the hall. Heat creeps up my neck as I consider what that means. That Rory could have heard my words, but even worse—seen what was written on my face.

But it’s not like Rory passed by—I know she didn’t. We’re not that oblivious or idiotic.

“No, I didn’t nap,” Caro says. “I had to deal with the office, take care of a few work things.”

“Oh, the office. You had to take care of stuff with the office. Right.”

“I did,” Caro says, looking genuinely surprised. “That’s what I did, after you came by and borrowed that dress.”

“You mean, after I saw The Cabin on the Lake in your bag.”

“What?” I sputter.

“What… you saw what?” Max asks.

“Mm-hmm, news flash. Caro took the books. I saw a copy in her bag.”

“When you were searching in my room,” Caro says in a strange, high-pitched tone. “And you don’t know what you actually saw.”

“Are you saying I need to get my eyes checked?” Rory asks, her tone so scathing that I feel whiplashed. “Because last appointment, I’m pretty sure I was told I had twenty-twenty vision.”

My eyes bounce back and forth between them. This isn’t what I expected. Not at all.

“I’m saying… things are not what they appear.”

“Well, that’s the first honest thing you’ve said. Because you are definitely not what you appear, C.”

I suck in my breath. “What’s up, Ror?” I finally venture. “What are you trying to say?”

Her eyes flare with anger. I have been twirling a forkful of pasta but now I stop and hover my fork over the plate, my appetite vanished.

“Well, let me tell you… yes, let me tell you all. I had a really interesting afternoon, even before I saw the book in Caro’s—”

“You’re wrong, you’re so wrong, Ror.…”

But Caro is silenced by Rory’s skewering gaze. “When we got back from the beach, I talked to Papa, which was… you know.”

No, I don’t know, I want to say, but I want to know, want to be there for her. I want to say it forcefully, so she understands how much I care, how much I love her, but that would be a demonstration for me more than for her. She doesn’t want me to be the one who comforts her now—it’s blazingly obvious.

“And then I saw the book. Whatever. I’ll get another copy from Ginevra.” Rory shakes her head. “And I know what’s in it, Caro. I know.”

“What?” Caro asks, pushing back. “What are you talking about? What’s in it?”

Rory glares at Caro. “Please. Like you don’t know.”

“I—I don’t.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “Just stop. We’ll do this later. There’s another thing—another betrayal—that’s cut ahead in the line.” Now she moves her eyes to me, a hard, level gaze that makes me shrink back. “Because, after my talk with Papa, I went for a walk to clear my head and while I was out, I ran into Gabriele’s daughter.”

“Gabriele?” I ask, surprised. Maybe she doesn’t know. My heart surges with preliminary relief.

Rory rolls her eyes. “Yes. Gabriele. The guy who’s arranging our whole trip. Who set this whole evening up.”

“Right.” Him. “I forgot his name.” Goddamn it, that annoyingly competent guy who looks like an Italian Tom Cruise in his prime. I know Rory slept with Gabriele, because she told Caro, and Caro told me. When we were both drunk, in a hotel bar with so many gold surfaces it put the Orient Express to shame. In Dubai.

“Anyway, his daughter, Chiara, ran away from the train this afternoon. It was this whole thing. So there I am, talking her down, and she happens to tell me how when she was leaving the train, she saw a couple arguing.”

My chest constricts with fear. Shit. Holy shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Fuck.

“Yes,” Rory says, looking straight at Caro. Defiantly. “You and Nate.”

Max shakes his head. “Caro and Nate arguing? That’s what she thought she saw?”

“Not thought, Max,” Rory says. “She definitely did.”

“Okay.…” Max swipes a clump of pesto from his lower lip. He’s clearly puzzled but not finding the information catastrophic like his sister does.

I can’t speak. Move.

“Chiara recognized them obviously. She saw us all the first day in the bar car. But she heard them say Rory can’t find out.”

“Rory can’t find out,” Max repeats skeptically. “Rory can’t find out what?”

“It had to do with Dubai,” Rory says, quietly now. “That’s all Chiara heard.”

“Dubai.” Max frowns. “Who went to Dub—I don’t get it. What does Dubai have to do with anything?”

A table behind us erupts in cheer—I instantly recognize the mealy laugh. It’s that big brute of an Italian man whose family took our chairs and possibly also our books, who boated over with us for this dinner, and seems to be in peculiar lockstep with our group. But he’s a blip on the scene right now because, Dubai. Rory knows. Or she doesn’t know everything, but she knows enough. My fingers finally detach themselves from my fork, but it doesn’t feel like I am running the show, operating my appendages.

“Oh God,” Caro says, her face now one giant plea. No, I’m beseeching Caro, but words refuse to follow. We can save this. We can turn it around. However, I’ve glimpsed the car crash, and it’s all four of us in the crash. Already pounded, scorched, limbs twisted in agony.

“You were in Dubai.” Max claps his hands in realization. “For that conference.”

“And Nate was, too,” Rory says, her voice venomous. “On May twenty-fourth.”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“Nate was there, too?” But Max’s face is still placid.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Caro says, and now she’s speaking only to Rory. “I’ve been wanting to tell you ever since. I’m so sorry, Ror. I never meant to do it, or keep it this long.…”

“Do what? Keep what this long?” Max asks. “I really don’t get it.… Nate… bro—What is she talking about?”

Caro keeps her eyes fixed on Rory, doesn’t look at Max—shit, I can’t look at Max, either. Max—who has loved Caroline since I first met them both. Who has pined after her, his gaze ever fixed on her, following her with lovesick obviousness, whether she has a boyfriend or boy-something by her side, or whether she’s single, just flirting with a bartender, trying to get a rise out of him. I’ve known—always known—that Caroline loves Max, too. That for whatever strange reason, she’s held herself back from being with him.

Max has always called me bro, a moniker that early on I found flattering, albeit a bit contrived, because he started using it soon after Rory and I started dating, before we were even close. I grew up with brothers, but Max, of course, didn’t. He didn’t have many male friends, still doesn’t, but we got along. He’s the smartest guy you’ve ever met, has interesting things to say, interesting perspectives, and he’s a great listener. Immediately, Max adopted me into his fold, drove me to the airport each time I had a job interview, was my biggest champion to Rory. Treated me like his real brother, and I came to feel the same about him. We’ve been in touch, too, since the breakup, with Max always telling me he was sure Rory and I would find our way back together.

Max loves me, and I love him, and I’ve been torn up in agony over betraying Rory, without realizing that I’ve betrayed Max, too.

Now I do realize it. I’ve betrayed Max, too.

I take a deep breath, summon words, but Caro gets there first.

“Nate and I slept together when we were both in Dubai a couple of months ago. It was a huge mistake! A total—”

“A total mistake.” Fucking hell! My body flushes with heat, the fire creeps up my neck—onward to inferno. “After we broke up, Ror. It happened after. Even though that’s not an excuse.”

“It was after,” Caro says quietly. “You guys weren’t together. Not that it makes it any better. I was at such a low point, Ror. I—I can’t even explain it. Nate was on a work trip, too, totally random that we happened to coincide, and I—I was in such a bad place, and I…” She coughs, doesn’t laugh her inappropriate stress laugh. “I’ve never regretted anything more.”

Her eyes beam me daggers.

“Same,” I say. “Deeply same.”

Rory is silent, staring out at the calm, black sea.

“We were broken up,” I say again, hearing myself plead, trying to regain some moral ground. “And I was in a horrible place, too. It meant nothing. It meant less than nothing.”

Although on that note, I know I’m still lying. It didn’t mean nothing. Not to me. But it should have meant nothing. My girl’s best friend. It should have meant nothing. But I guess I always had a little crush on Caro. Meaningless. And when we slept together, maybe I hoped it would be forgettable. But it wasn’t. Not for me, at least. Which is the worst part. Not that I’d confess that now. I’ll take it to my grave, unless—unless Ginevra Ex knows. Unless she put it in the book. My chest tightens again, contemplating that inconceivable thought.

“It meant less than nothing is for sure,” Caro says.

“I see,” Rory finally says in a voice that is terrifyingly void of emotion. I’m still blazing hot all over, furious that Caro’s confessed it, furious even more that it happened. Why did this have to come out? Why couldn’t our one horrible, stupid night stay private?

I know why. All roads lead back to fucking Ginevra Ex. Spinning out, speculating whether she knew. Whether she put it in the book—and how much. Mine and Caro’s whispered conversations, trying to discern if we needed to get ahead of it coming out.

“You slept with Nate.… You guys actually hooked up?” Max’s eyes flicker over to me, his face white and still.

“It meant nothing,” I hear myself say weakly, again. Even though you can’t sleep with your ex-fiancé’s best friend—with the girl your essentially brother loves—and have it mean nothing.

“It’s why—one of the reasons why—Caro took the book,” Rory says briskly. “Because she thought Ginevra found out about their affair and put it in her story.”

“It wasn’t an affair! It was… once. And I didn’t take the books. Literally… that’s not what… It didn’t even cross my—Ror, I didn’t.” Caro stares at her hands like they are foreign objects of which she can’t make sense.

“Mmm,” Rory says. “Right.”

“Ror…” I stretch out a hand. She jerks back. I retract my hand, feel utterly pummeled myself.

“I can’t believe you both… I just…” Rory’s voice rises, and she half stands. For a moment I wonder if she’ll do something crazy, like flip the table over.

Then the man who flung his ashes all over us swivels around from his neighboring table. “Some of us are trying to have a pleasant evening without your hijinks.”

“Without our hijinks?” I can’t help but shout. “You just covered us in—” I stop as he recoils, suddenly looking haggard and sad, and I regret my outburst. I hear murmurs from the patrons nearby and hang my head. God, this is all spiraling. I wish I could melt through the floorboards.

“Sorry.” Rory nods an apology to all our spectators, and when everyone returns to their food, she takes a shaky seat. “Caro, I can’t believe you,” she says in a whisper. “You above all.”

Caro above all. My breath catches at my place in the ranking.

“I never would have thought this could be possible.” Max blinks rapidly. “Aliens landing, a meteor striking… sure… better chance than Caro and Nate… than Caro and Nate…”

“We’ll explain,” I say. “You have to hear the whole story. You’ll understand, if we tell you the whole story—”

“I don’t want the whole story!” Rory fires back in a quiet hiss. “What, you think I want the details? When you reached for her hand… how you fucked her nice and slow…”

“It wasn’t like that, Ror,” Caro says quietly. “It wasn’t like that at all. It was… bad.”

“Horrible,” I agree, feeling punched in the stomach from Caro’s assertion. “The stupidest thing I ever did. And least satisfying.”

“For me, too,” Caro says defiantly. “For me, most definitely, too.”

“Sure. Uh-huh,” Rory says. “I still have one question, though. And it doesn’t have to do with which one of you satisfied the other, and how, because, gross. Seriously gross.” She mimes a finger down her throat.

Max frowns, presses his lips together; and I find myself holding my breath, hoping he won’t cry. Max can’t cry. Somehow, that out of everything I can’t handle. Now I regret all the stuff I said, going down that road. Better not to get into any details at all. We were supposed to keep this quiet. No one was going to ever know. We could have lied our way out of it. I’m so… angry, even though I know I’m not entitled to be. But Caro and I… we had an agreement that we wouldn’t expose this! We could have gone to our graves without anyone the wiser. And I could be with Rory, and Caro could be with Max.

Life could slot us into the pairs that are basically ordained. And now everything is messed up. And I can’t imagine how I’m going to reverse this level of damage.

“You can ask me anything, Ror. Of course. Oh God, I’m so sorry.” Caro’s cheeks stream with tears. “You can’t imagine how sorry. I swear, I was always going to tell you, but in person. I couldn’t do it on the phone. I’ve been sick over it. Seriously sick. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything. Literally anything.” Caro’s relief is blatant—relief at being out with this secret, relief that Rory hasn’t gotten up and exploded and declared their friendship over. She and Caro are best friends, but more like sisters—closer than any best friends I’ve ever seen. Genuinely there for each other, supportive, not the jealous types.

But it doesn’t really matter that we were broken up or that we’re sorry, does it? There are things you can’t undo.

“You’re pregnant, Caro, aren’t you?” Rory asks.

“Pregnant?” Caro asks quietly.

“Pregnant?” I ask, because—oh, no. No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. “You’re pregnant? But… no… you can’t be.”

“Actually, she can,” Rory says in a scathing tone. “Wake up, Nate. And you’ve lost weight,” Rory says, returning the brunt of her anger to Caro. “You’re hardly eating. You’re definitely not drinking. Ordering mineral water at lunch. If you’re pregnant, and you guys are hiding it for some later, like, revelation, just tell me now. Rip off the fucking Band-Aid now.”

“I’m not pregnant,” Caro stammers. “Definitely not. You’re wrong. I mean, I get why you think I could be, but you’re totally wrong, Ror. I’ve been so torn up about what I… what we did. Maybe I’ve lost a few pounds from the stress. Not that I’m trying to make you feel sorry for me. Not at all. I—I don’t trust myself with alcohol anymore. Not since… but no, I’m not pregnant. Definitely not.”

“Definitely not,” I add, eyeing Caro. She shakes her head at me, which is a huge relief. Huge. I gulp in air.

“So not pregnant.” Max raises his glass, drowns it. “Just sex. Just Caro and Nate having… sex.” He laughs, a strange laugh that bumps across my bones.

“I’m really sorry, Max,” Caro says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too,” I say. “Guys… I… shit. I’m—”

“A piece of shit?” Max volunteers. “Yep. I’d say so.” Then he waves over our waiter with aggressive hand motions.

“Well, I don’t care who’s joining me, but I for one am gonna need another drink!”