Chapter Thirty-Two Nate

I’m sitting in the bar car, nursing my second Casamigos on the rocks. No one’s around—none of my group. Those three have seemingly placed my existence outside their periphery, but still, not ordering a vodka neat felt like some kind of knife to them all. The Aronovs, at least, for whom vodkas neat are basically a religion.

Screw them, Max and Rory! For turning on me, when I didn’t actually do anything wrong. It’s not like Rory and I were together when the dumb thing with Caro happened. It’s not like Caro and Max were together either! Ever, in fact. So screw them all—and to top it off, screw Caro, too. For outing our stupid fling. The most regrettable night of my life.

All that anger flitters around, then shoots back like an arrow at my heart. Screw me! That’s who I’m really angry at, if I’m honest with myself. Max and Rory have every right to be enraged. And in spilling things, Caro was only trying to be a good friend. An honest person. The way I should have been.

Screw me. I’ve always tried to live with integrity, and now I’ve betrayed the people I love most.

I appraise the now-familiar patrons: the lady with the yardstick posture, swathed in purple silk; the Italians from the beach who are either Ginevra’s spies or a picture-perfect family, the kind that laughs too much, making you doubt it could possibly be real.

God, get me off this train. If I never have to see any of this lot again in my life, I’ll be a happy man.

I stare into my tequila, my ears buzzing with my own agitation, my silent self-attacks, my eyes stinging from sudden tears that reignite the traces of sunscreen that caught inside them earlier. Serves me right. I saw Rome in a hot, lonely blur—pacing from ruins to ruins, aggressively trying to distract myself from reality, attempting to take in all there was to see, in what was supposed to be a romantic city. A destination Rory and I had flirted with for our honeymoon.

I rub my eyes, blink several times, trying to dislodge the sunscreen, and the room sways a bit, like I’m on a cruise ship instead of a train. Are we moving? No. The itinerary says we don’t start moving until midnight, and it’s still light outside. Hours left to occupy. All alone…

I shake my head. How could I do it? How could I do it to—

Rory! She’s appeared at the door, in all her gorgeous Rory-ness, her eyes bright and her hair long and wavy like I love, her top a bit more skin baring than usual. I feel myself ache for her, arch toward her, like a plant starved of sun.

I watch her scan the place for a spot. It’s packed, like the entire train jammed into one carriage, even as people have slowly started to filter out to dinner. And I watch her eyes latch onto me—disappointment flashes in them. Transfers to me.

But then to my surprise, Rory walks over and plops down beside me. When I muster the courage to look over at her, it’s not disappointment I read on her face, but something else. Not friendly, exactly, but more relaxed, her lips straight, if even a little upturned. I feel something in my chest settle. She eases her tote bag off her shoulder, and a surprising item spills out onto the sofa—a copy of The Cabin on the Lake.

“You got the book back?”

“Oh.” She slips it back inside her tote. “I found another one. Long story.”

“You saw the author in Rome?”

“No. Not exactly. I—” Her face darkens. “Does it bother you that I have the book?”

“No!” I realize what she’s inferred. “I didn’t take them, Ror.”

“Yeah. I know. Caro did. But you worried the affair might be in it.”

“It wasn’t an affair! It was one stupid night.”

“Whatever. Whatever you say.” She raises her hand, flags over a waitress. “Vodka neat, per favore,” she says.

“With Zyr, if you have it,” I say with her, as it comes out her mouth.

She rewards me with a tiny smile.

“You’re staying? You’re gonna have a drink with me? Not banish me to Timbuktu? Tell me to get the hell out of this carriage, off the train? Out of your life? Because I would understand if you do.”

She crosses her legs and a kneecap pops out of the slit in her skirt, then the rest of her leg slides out, even the top up by her hip, not golden from the sun like the bottom part. My heart lurches. Rory quickly shifts her skirt around so it covers everything again.

“We were broken up when you slept with Caro. I don’t have much of a leg to stand on.”

That throws me. “Yes, but… I mean, you—”

“I’m still mad at you both! Don’t get it twisted. If you were going to sleep with anyone, why her? And why did she pick you? It’s… messed up.” She shakes her head. “But honestly, there’s so much going on right now that I…” She looks down at her hands.

“What’s going on? What are you talking about?”

When Rory looks up again, her eyes are shining. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say they were on the verge of tears. “I just could use a friendly face right now, Nate.”

“You have me. You always have me.” My arm budges, wanting immediately to sling itself around her shoulders. I’m so overwhelmed with relief that she’s said what she said, that she doesn’t despise me.

“Yeah?”

“Of course,” I say, and then unexpectedly, she burrows herself into me for a hug that recollects thousands of others—a hug my body remembers. I smooth her hair as oceans of relief and love overwhelm me. What I had with Caro was fleeting, a hot flame, yes, but it’s all flickered out. I want Rory. She’s the one. The love of my life.

And yet still, as I rock her in my arms and as all the familiar ways I am soothed by this amazing woman flood my senses, I can’t help the niggling sense that there is space between us that didn’t exist before. Not miles. Not feet. Perhaps not even inches. Maybe a little centimeter that has wedged itself in there, and yet as I’m marinating in the rightness of hugging Rory again, I am also acutely aware of this new space. Aware that it is amorphous, tiny—maybe even just a figment of my imagination.

Still, with every second that ticks by, the space between us seems to balloon.

I shake my head, pull her closer, resolve to close the gap. To do anything—anything at all—so that we are back to NateandRory again.