Chapter Sixteen: “The Consummation”
Chapter Sixteen
“The Consummation”
BY THE TIME THEY ARRIVED BACK IN VENICE, JASON HAD SECURED A
studio and e-mailed the scripts there. They would lay down one episode that afternoon and the other the next morning and then the series would be done.
They found the studio on a quiet backstreet in the Jewish Ghetto, rang the buzzer, and climbed to the top floor, where they were greeted by a small man with a rock ’n’ roll face and chin-length hair. He introduced himself as Cosmo and gestured them into the space.
It was comfy, built more for music than voiceover, with a large control room boasting a full soundboard and couches, and a live room with oriental rugs, amps, a drum kit, and half a dozen mics spread about. In broken English, Cosmo explained he’d set up two mics face to face, given Jason’s specs, and stood panels behind them to cage the sound.
Sewanee peeled off her coat and did some vocal warm-ups. Trills, buzzes, scales, lip flaps. She noticed Nick watching her. “What?”
“Do you always do those?”
“Not always, but I had a little milk in my coffee this morning and then we had the liqueur sampler and there was a lot of
cheese in that pasta on the train . . .” They’d carbo-loaded as if preparing for a marathon instead of just trying to prevent stomach grumbles while recording. At the bafflement on his face, she said, “You don’t, I take it?”
“No. But now I’m thinking I should.”
“Yeah, maybe you’d work more,” she deadpanned, and Nick chuckled. She pushed her hair back from her face, banded it into a high pony.
Nick rolled up his sleeves. “Okay, so, I think I’m up first. To remind ourselves: it’s after the gondola ride–”
“Ah yes, the heavy petting–”
“And Alessandro opened up a little, told her about his uncle, the Casanova line, the responsibility–”
“And then Claire said she was ready. Finally. And they were heading back to his palazzo.”
Nick nodded once, put his hands on his hips. “Right.”
Sewanee mirrored him. “Right.”
They stared at each other, the reality of what they were about to record inserting itself between them. Now that they would be reading with the other person present, watching, it was awkward, and clearly not only for her.
“So,” Nick said, “Alessandro’s point of view.”
“Alessandro’s point of view.” She inclined her head at Cosmo, waiting at the open studio door. “In you go.”
Nick looked at her for one more beat then walked into the room.
Cosmo stood Nick behind one of the microphones, began adjusting the height of the mic, the angle, the distance from the music stand and Nick’s distance, in turn, from that.
Sewanee settled in behind the control panel on one end, leaving most of the area clear for Cosmo, who, he’d told them, would be engineering the session. There was a tablet waiting for her and the episode’s text was already queued up. She scrolled through.
Cosmo came back in, closing the double doors to the studio behind him. Sewanee liked the air-locking sound of closing studio doors. There was something safe about it. As if she were being sealed off, protected from the punishments of the outside world. Cosmo smiled sweetly at her and she smiled serenely back thinking, you have no idea what you’re about to hear, do you? He hurriedly sat himself in front of the board, nudged the mouse, brought his monitors to life, and went from a tiny Italian man to Captain Kirk navigating the
Starship Enterprise.
He caught her eye and pointed at a large red button on the desk. The God Mic. He pressed it and spoke. “Signore, you can hear?”
“I can,” Nick replied, voice booming through the entire studio, shooting right through Sewanee’s ribs like an electrified cow prod. Cosmo cut her an apologetic glance and made adjustments. In a moment, he nodded toward the set of headphones next to her and she put them on. “
Scusate
,” he said, “once more.”
“Test, test. This is only a test to test my voice. This is me, me testing the test of me . . .”
The nonsensical ramble was spoken as Brock, and Cosmo jerked his head up as if expecting to see someone else had snuck in front of the microphone. Sewanee stifled a laugh, going back to her tablet, scrolling the text, plotting, charting, quick-gaming her performance the way an architect might scan blueprints.
Eventually, Cosmo said, “
Bene
, is good.”
Sewanee pressed the button to talk to Nick. “So let’s get your flashback section done and then I’ll come in for their dialogue.”
She watched Nick nod through the glass, never taking his eyes from the text. “Yes, ma’am.”
Cosmo hit his keyboard, and said, “Rolling,” trilling the R delightfully.
Nick launched in.
Sewanee read along while she listened to him set the scene:
Claire and Alessandro walk back to the palazzo, tension buzzing away between them; he pours her a glass of wine, which she refuses at first, then gulps down; he finds himself nervous, which never happens, this is his job, where has his professionalism gone, why was this woman affecting him unlike any other? Then he began the flashback: what, exactly, had happened that had blown them apart five years ago.
She lifted her head from the tablet and watched Nick through the glass.
He stood straight, shoulders stiff, one hand on one side of the headphones, as if he were getting ready to sing instead of talk. Which made sense, she supposed. He played nicely into the mic, straight on, never moving his head lest the movement change the sound. His Brock voice was hypnotic. That hushed whisper, fog trawling over a rocky riverbed, whiskey tumbling over ice, velvet-draped steel . . . however it was his fans described his voice.
But that wasn’t what held her attention. She was watching his eyes as they moved over the tablet in front of him.
Nothing.
Vacant.
It was the simple act of taking in information and sending it back out.
He could get away with it because That Voice, but she couldn’t help thinking how much better it would be if there were more . . . Nick in it. How the superficial would become substantial.
Twenty minutes later, he stepped back from the mic. “You want to come in now?”
Sewanee held down the button. “Sure.” Cosmo jumped up to open the soundproofed doors. She grabbed her tablet and walked into the room, stopping at the music stand across from Nick’s. While Cosmo flitted around her, she stayed in the text. Then he left them, closing the double doors again.
She read a paragraph while Cosmo made his adjustments at the board and then said, into her headphones, “Is good.”
“Great, thanks,” Sewanee murmured.
“
Si.
Rolling.” He trilled the R again and she smiled.
She glanced up, hoping to catch Nick’s eye before he began, hoping for a moment of connection. But he started reading.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
Sewanee read her line.
“I think we’ve done enough talking.”
Nick continued,
“The tightness in her voice stopped me. I went down to my knees in front of her. I plucked her fingers up, which had been nervously toying with the bedspread, and held them. ‘This is safe. This is us.’ I clenched my jaw. ‘This is my job,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure who I was reminding, her or myself. ‘When you filled out the preference sheet, you had to think about what you wanted. Now, I want you to voice your wants.’ She swallowed and I watched the ivory column of her throat bob. I had an irrational desire to bite it. I ran a finger lightly over her hand.”
Sewanee said,
“‘I want you to touch me,’ she finally said.”
Nick, in his own voice, said, “Hang on, I need to say the dialogue tags.”
“Right, sorry,” Sewanee said. “Gotta get used to this. Cosmo, can we punch in right before my line, ‘I want you to touch me’?”
“
Si
, rolling.”
They heard “I ran a finger lightly over her hand,” in their headphones and then Sewanee said, “
I want you to touch me . . .
”
And then Nick said, “
She finally said. ‘Where?’ I asked,
” and they were back on track.
“Wherever you want.”
“I tsked at her.”
Nick paused again. “Should I tsk?”
Sewanee considered this, glad he was engaging her. “Have you ever done it and made it sound good?”
“No! Never! It pops on mic.”
“Yeah! Or sounds like static.”
“Right? So weird. I’ll keep it the way it is.” Audio nerd moment over, Nick signaled Cosmo and asked him to come in after “I tsked at her.”
“
Si
, rolling.”
Nick picked up his cue:
“‘Where would you like me to start?’ I asked. ‘Here?’ I tapped her knee with the hand that wasn’t already engaged with her fingers. She shook her head.”
“Maybe higher.”
“I removed my hand from her knee and placed it on her cheek. I slid my fingers under her chin and gently raised her head, so we looked each other in the eye. ‘High enough?’ I said with a whisper of a smile.”
Sewanee murmured back with the faintest sensual giggle,
“Maybe lower,”
“She murmured with a sensual giggle. I freed her chin and ran the backs of my fingers down that throat, let the knuckles pass down over her collarbone. Lower. Her breath hitched. I flipped my hand over and gently squeezed her breath. So perfect, so–”
“Ooh, kinky.”
“Huh?”
“Squeezing her breath.”
“What?”
“Who knew June French was into erotic asphyxiation?”
“What in the world are you–”
Sewanee finally let out her laugh. “Breath! You said breath!”
“I said breast, Sewanee, breast.”
“You said breath, Nick, breath.”
“I did not! I said–”
Cosmo punched in. “
Scusa
, but you say breath. No breast. In Italy, we know the difference.” His laugh was cut short when he released the button.
Nick threw up his hands. “Well, maybe we should change it! I never liked the word breast anyway. I don’t even like saying breast. It makes me think of chickens.”
Sewanee guffawed and Nick chuckled. He tried to take a sip of water, but they weren’t done laughing yet and he almost spat it out, which made Sewanee laugh harder and she felt like they were back in the Venetian casino pushing each other into the chairs in front of the slot machines.
Cosmo came over the God Mic. “I think maybe I record this, eehh?”
“No, no, sorry, Cosmo,” she said. “We’ll get it together.” She caught Nick’s damp eyes and they smiled at each other.
He cleared his throat. Sniffed. Cleared again. “Okay, Cosmo. I’m ready.”
“Rrrrrolling.”
“I flipped my hand over and gently squeezed her breast.”
Sewanee saw his jaw tick, the only tell that he’d almost lost it. But he carried valiantly on.
“So perfect. Perfection matched only by the soft moan that escaped her. ‘There?’ I asked.”
“I want,”
“She panted,”
“I want . . . you to undress me. Just my blouse. And bra. I want my skirt on when you take me the first time.”
“My erection was immediate.”
Sewanee’s laugh was so loud and so directly on-mic that Nick jumped back as if it were a physical thing he could dodge, a bee or a shoe or a fist. He was still whipping the headphones off his head when she bleated, “Sorry!” and covered her mouth.
Nick glared playfully at her. “What are you, twelve? It’s just a word! Erection!”
She dropped to the floor in hysterics.
“Oh, come on,” Nick groaned.
“Signore,” Cosmo interjected.
“I’m sorry, Cosmo, I’m gonna need a minute. I’m dealing with a toddler here. She–”
“
Si
, but the last thing you say, erection? Eh
scusate
, but I think I read something different.”
Before Nick could respond, Sewanee weakly reached a hand straight up and tapped the tablet on her music stand.
Nick looked down at his. “Ah. ‘Reaction.’”
Sewanee fell back into a pile of laughter.
With all the mature dignity of a tuxedoed man-of-distinction fixing his bow tie before a night at the opera, Nick settled the headphones back on his ears. He stared down at the laugh-puddle in mocking reprimand, the imperious duke of a thousand Romance novels. “Would you care to take a break, Ms. Chester?”
“No,” Sewanee wheezed.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Just give me a . . .” She stood up unsteadily, a newborn foal in an uneven pile of hay. She reached over to the table between them and cracked a fresh water bottle. Drank. Breathed. Blew her nose. Had more to drink. Pulled some lip balm out of her pocket, applied it. Cleared her throat. Inhaled. Exhaled.
She didn’t dare look at Nick during her recovery. Only when she was sure she was ready did she glance over at him. He was staring at her, a mien of pleasure and puzzlement on his face. She simply nodded and said, calmly, “I’m good.”
“Good.” Grinning, Nick centered himself back at the mic. He pointed to Cosmo, and they heard “rrrrrolling,” and then the pre-roll, and then Nick said,
“My reaction was immediate.”
And Sewanee pressed her lips together so tightly, they retreated into her mouth.
“I could envision it all and I wanted it. I ached for it. And
she’d said, ‘when you take me the
first
time.’ Implying . . . well. My fingers went to the buttons on her blouse as I said, ‘There’s nothing more attractive than a woman who knows what she wants.’”
This was the sort of section where Brock McNight shone, all by his lonesome, setting the scene. The undressing, the worship, the interiority of a hero’s desire. Sewanee kept her interjected dialogue as unobtrusive as possible (“yes,” “there,” “just like that”) within his ruminations about the perfection of her body, her response, how wild she was driving him.
He performed well. As Alessandro performed well, she supposed. It worked for him here, in these sections. But when the character required connection, struggle, relationship, that’s when she saw his limitations. When she got past that smoke screen of a voice, there was nothing behind it. Like the buildings on a movie set: a beautiful facade, but in reality, nothing but 2x4s propping it up. Was he holding something back on purpose?
When his section was over, right at the moment Alessandro entered Claire, and Sewanee was about to take over the narration, Nick drank some water and flicked a finger at the tablet.
“Why’d she change point of view here? It was just getting good.”
Sewanee saw an opportunity and decided to take it, hoping it might connect him more to the text. “Because June knew how to take formula and elevate it.”
“In what way?”
“She knew the point of view should belong to the person–the character–who has the most to lose. The foreplay is from his perspective because he wants this so badly and she may not give it to him and, worse, she may not come apart in his hands, may prove him a fraud. But once he enters her, once he is inside her, he’s won. The rest is from her perspective because this is her moment of transformation. From this point on, she will never be the same.”
Nick stared at her. “Oh.”
Sewanee went back to her tablet. Took a breath. And began.
“I was so full. I’d been so empty, for so long, even before my husband died, and now?”
She read, as she often did, without a mistake, entering the near fugue state that happened when she was fully invested. This scene–these scenes–were entire books in miniature: rising action, climax, denouement. As such, she let her voice rise, crescendo, fall.
Slowly, she brought it home, the aftermath:
“He braced himself on his elbows over me, so as not to crush me. He kissed the side of my neck, gave me one last, long stroke, and pulled out. He stood and walked, like
David
come to life, into the bathroom. Shut the door. I floated nicely for a few minutes, waiting for him to come back. When he did, when I heard the bathroom door open, I expected him to crawl back into bed with me. He didn’t. His footsteps stopped and I opened my eyes. He was fully dressed. Collecting our wineglasses. Moving to the bar. Turning on the faucet. I came up on an elbow.”
Nick murmured,
“It’s later than I thought. I have a meeting.”
“I looked at the ornate rococo clock above the mantel. ‘It’s ten,’ I said.”
“Time got away from me.”
“You have a meeting at ten o’clock at night?”
“It’s the only time she had.”
“She? I said it aloud: ‘She?’ He dried the glasses now.”
“Prospective client.”
“You have a client right here.”
“Clients pay.”
“My anger flared. ‘Fine. How much to not be an asshole?’ He set the wineglasses down and walked over to the bed. Stood above it. Stood above me.”
“Trust me, this is what you need right now: distance. I’ll be back by midnight. You’re welcome to stay until then.”
“With that, he turned heel, picked up his jacket, walked to the door. And left. He left. Left. I couldn’t stay here a moment longer. Shaking, I clambered out of the bed, got dressed, tried to gather my wits so I didn’t leave anything–dear God, please don’t let me leave anything–hastily ran my fingers through my hair, fumbled with the straps of my shoes, and staggered to the door. I turned back once more, looking at the bed. The site of my humiliation. I knew what I had to do. I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. Seven hundred fifty euro. A fraction of his value, an insulting amount. And yet: all I had to my name. I walked back to the bed and left it there, right in the middle, in the divot my shoulders had created, still warm. He would never be able to say he did me a favor. This was a transaction. Services paid, services rendered. Quality product, timely delivery. Five stars. Choking back sobs, I left the palazzo, leaving the door unlocked behind me.”
Sewanee stared at the tablet in front of her, the absence of more text, of more story. The white space. She was still reverberating, still coming back into herself. She was so overtaken by where she’d gone, she needed time to come back to where she was. It wasn’t like sex, but it wasn’t unlike it, either.
Nick huffed a laugh. “He’s such a dick. Oh, sorry, cut it, Cosmo.”
“
Si
, we cut.” She heard the sound of Cosmo slapping the table. “
Belissima
. This last thing, you make me cry. We continue, yes?”
“No, the next episode is the last episode so we’re gonna do it tomorrow.”
“But how do I sleep, eh?”
Nick chuckled and took off his headphones. “If we hooked Cosmo, we can hook anybody. I’m so glad you suggested this. How grand was that, eh?”
Sewanee had no desire to burst Nick’s bubble, so she replied, in an exaggerated leprechaun voice, “Grand it twas!”
He moved for the door. “Let’s go get a coffee. Get a breast of fresh air.”
THEY STOOD AT
an espresso bar, waiting for their shots, while Nick prattled on about how good the read had been. “I’ll say it again, you suggesting we record together, here? Brilliant.”
Sewanee smiled tightly. “Thanks.” She took her little cup from the woman behind the counter and blew on it. Something had occurred to her on the walk over, a possible explanation for his disconnection from the material. “So, considering you never wanted to do one of your aunt’s books, was it awkward for you to read the sex scene?”
“Surprisingly, no.” Nick threw back his shot, tossed the paper cup away. “Maybe I’m just inured to Romance at this point. Like, if you kill people for a living does it matter who gives the orders?”
Sewanee chuckled, added a small spoonful of raw sugar to her cup, and stirred slowly. She wanted to take this further, but also wanted to tread carefully. Then again, they didn’t
need
to talk about it. It was just a job. A job he didn’t want to do anymore, anyway. Who was she to tell him how to do something he’d had enormous success doing?
She noticed they were being crowded out of the small shop, so she downed her espresso and they wandered out to the piazza, taking a seat on some granite steps at the feet of a bronze gryphon.
At her silence, he bumped her knee with his. “Euro for your thoughts?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
He studied her. “You’re not feeling insecure about your work,
are you? Because if I haven’t said it enough, I’m sorry. You’re remarkable, you really are.”
She could barely contain her surprise. “Oh! No, God, no. That’s so . . . thoughtful of you. No, I’m just trying to figure something out.”
He reached over, tucked a wind-blown ribbon of hair behind her ear. “What?”
“I was just wondering . . .” Abort, abort, abort. “You know what, never mind.”
“Sewanee, come on. We can be honest with each other. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Talk to me.”
She looked into the welcome mat of his gaze, dusted off just for her. “Okay. I wasn’t . . . I couldn’t tell if you were invested in what we did today.”
“Me?” Nick’s grin hung in place. “Invested how?”
Sewanee shrugged. “In your performance.”
The grin flickered like neon about to go out. “I mean. That’s how I do it.”
“Right, and it’s great,” she assured him, touching his thigh. “All I’m saying is . . . when you’re Brock? You seem detached.”
Nick pulled his knee out from under her hand. He busied himself with removing his jacket. “Detached?”
“Yeah. I mean, did you feel connected to me at all? As we read together?” He seemed confused by the question, so she tried another way in. “Why did you want to do Duet?”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the jacket now slung onto the steps. “Jason suggested we do the last two episodes as Duet Narration because listeners like Duet. They think it’s hotter.”
“But it’s only hotter when the two people actually work off of each other. What was the point of reading it together if it sounds as if we didn’t?”
Nick scoffed. “What are you, a director now? I thought it
would be cool to read it together, that’s all. Why are you making this such a big deal?”
“Why are you being a smart-ass?”
“Why are we fighting–are we fighting?” The grin was back, but it was forced and he looked bewildered. He lit his cigarette.
“We’re not fighting, okay?” She touched his thigh again. “You don’t need to get defensive–”
“I’m not getting defensive,” he said, once again dodging her hand, this time standing. “I just don’t know what you think I should have done differently.” He sounded exasperated as he blew out his first puff.
“Invest more of yourself.”
Now he spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child for the umpteenth time. “I don’t want to invest more. I want out.”
Her hackles went up at his tone. “And I think if you invested more of yourself you might not want out. I think–”
“More of what self?”
“Nick!”
He threw back his head, answering his name. “What?!”
“No.” Sewanee huffed out a frustrated laugh. “Nick! Yourself. Your real self.” She paused. “You’ve put a firewall between Nick and Brock. Why? Together, they’re something special.”
He shook his head. “It’s either/or. You can’t have both together. They are fundamentally incompatible.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
He threw out the hand holding the cigarette. “Are you disagreeing just to disagree? I’m pretty sure I know more about me than you do.”
“When you read
Goodnight Moon
. It was Brock’s voice, but Nick’s heart.”
This stopped him. He stared at her. Then he looked down, took a long drag. “Swan,” he exhaled. “This ain’t
Goodnight Moon
.”
“No, it isn’t. But you are.”
He kept looking down. Had she gotten through to him?
But then he muttered, “Right. You wish I were something I’m not. And I think not just in my read, but in life.”
Sewanee snapped her head back. “Are you–what universe are you currently transmitting from?”
“Yours, lovie.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, that’s not what I–”
“Trust me, that is exactly what this is.” He nodded rapidly, having convinced himself, if not her. “
You
want both. You want me to be, to be . . . uh . . . Brock McNick! That’s what you want!” He victoriously kicked away someone else’s cigarette butt.
“That’s who you already
are
, you, you . . . you fart-head!”
Nick had to laugh. “Fart-head?”
Sewanee had to join him. “It’s the best I could come up with,
Brock McNick
!”
“Well, that’s the best
I
could come up with!”
They both took a measured breath. Nick flicked ash from his cigarette and Sewanee attempted a gentler tone. “All I’m trying to say is, when you’re working, you’re Brock. And when you’re not, you’re Nick. And I don’t understand why one has to get sacrificed for the other. It’s all you, Nick.”
He took another drag. He was the picture of composure. Almost performatively unruffled. “Yeahhhh,” he exhaled. “I get it now.”
“Good.”
“This is about you, not me.”
Her eyebrows snapped together. “What? What are you–this has nothing to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you. You’re projecting.”
“Projecting?!”
He attempted a casual shrug. “You said it yourself. You’re trying to reconcile who you once were and who you are now.”
Her mouth fell open. “You are so off-base here. This conversation started because I was talking about
the work
!”
“And I’m calling bullshit. I don’t think it is about the work. I think we’re talking about something much bigger than the work and–news flash–I don’t give an ever-loving feck about the work anyway.” He came closer, pointed the cigarette at her. “That’s you! That’s you the actor! That’s not me.”
She sliced her hand through the smoke and her voice sharpened. “Can you not wave that in my face? I
do
give an ever-loving feck about the work so I don’t like secondhand smoke, okay?”
He stepped instantly back. “Sorry.” He muttered a curse, threw the cigarette down, and stamped it out. He said, mostly to himself, “I’m quitting again soon.”
Sewanee gestured at the butt. “You drop something?”
“Huh?”
She rolled her eye and stood and picked it up. “I will never understand why people don’t think this is littering.”
He held out a hand. “Give it here.”
“No.” But now she was walking around trying to figure out what to do with it.
He made a grabby motion. “Seriously.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Sewanee searched for a trash can.
Nick took out his hard pack of cigarettes, flipped it open. Shook it. “
I’ll
take care of it.”
“I just need to find a–”
“There’s not a one in sight. Just give it here.”
She looked around. He was right.
She stomped over and dropped it in, as if depositing a bag of dog crap on his doorstep.
They retreated from each other, to opposite sides of the stairs. He leaned against one stone banister, she did the same on the opposing one.
A moment of reprieve.
Sewanee watched Nick from the corner of her eye, waiting to see if he had more to say. Because she did. She had something else she desperately wanted to say, but the last time she decided to say what was on her mind–all of five minutes ago–it had ended like this. She didn’t want to hurt him further. She didn’t want to hurt
them
. But she’d come to realize something from this tiff that felt more relevant than how it began. More relevant than them, even.
She said, in the most caring, nonconfrontational voice she could muster, “Have you thought about why June insisted you do this project?”
He sighed, battle-weary. “What are you on about now?”
“I don’t think she was just giving you a way to make some money. Is it possible she was giving you a road map?”
Now he looked at her.
“You said this series was a revisionist take on her own story. And maybe that’s true, I didn’t know her that well. But she wrote it
for you
. Did you ever ask yourself why? Why she might write about a
sex god
who sacrifices himself for his profession and ultimately finds a way to integrate the performer with the person?”
He took out the cigarette pack again. Opened it. Glanced at his watch. Closed it and put it back. “Right.” He moved off the stone banister, and Sewanee’s impulse was to move, too, to reach for him. She straightened expectantly, but he didn’t go to her. He went to his jacket on the steps between them and said, while putting it on, “I might say the same to you. She did insist that you play the heroine, after all. The woman who needs to get over her past and get on with her life.”
He turned and started down the steps.
“Don’t just walk away, Nick.” She was mortified to hear the need in her voice.
Nick rolled his eyes and came back toward her. “I’m not walking away, fart-head.” Then, gently, “
We’re
walking away.” He looked at her and she saw that though he’d been worn thin, there was a tenderness there. Some residual hurt and lingering frustration, but mostly tenderness. He was a bruise still sensitive to touch, but healing. Which relieved her.
And in her relief, she reheard what he had just said about her. About June.
This fight had begun because she’d pointed out a separation in him, and he retaliated by pointing out a similar divide in her. But the defensive heat went out of the argument when they had–as Henry might have said–brought in textual evidence to support their claims. By highlighting what June had done, they were now looking at themselves instead of each other.
She was still mulling this over when Nick said, “We have dinner with your mum and Stu, remember?”
She’d forgotten. She went toward him on the stairs, pulled out her phone, and looked at the time. “We still have forty-five minutes.”
He shook his head. “It’s best we get going.” So they walked side by side across the piazza as he murmured, “We should clean up. And change.”