“Everyone knows Toto.” When Slayer crouches to ruffle the terrier’s ears, I catch a whiff of his cologne beneath the sweat.
Even at dawn, even like this, Slayer smells expensive.
“You’re in good hands with this one.” Toto yips in delight at the compliment.
We both turn to watch as the turtle continues its stately crossing, oblivious to our drama.
“And you’ve met Oscar,” Slayer says.
“Oscar?”
“That’s what I call him.” Something softens in his face. “A turtle just looks like an Oscar, don’t you think?”
“Honestly, I never thought about it. But now that you mention it, yes. He does have that Oscar look about him.”
I pause, trying to think of something to say to prolong this light banter. Before I ask thereal question. "His shell looks at least a foot long from end to end. That's not a normal turtle."
"Oscar's a Hermann turtle. Unique to this area of the Maures hills here in Saint-Tropez. Can live up to a hundred years."
"Wow. He must be famous."
"Famous enough to have his plush likeness in every souvenir shop in town."
The morning air shifts between us, heavy with things unsaid.
Toto positions himself at our feet, as if settling in for a juicy soap opera.
“Bix.” Slayer’s voice turns serious. “About last night?—”
“Which part?” I ask sharply. “The part where I wasn’t really sick, or the part where you went home with Valentina?”
He runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “You weren’t just not sick, you were performing. Without permission. And with a boy who seemed to know you well.”
His jaw tightens.
“What is it with you, Bix? You’re in Saint-Tropez for two hours and you find a new guy? Then by the end of the second evening, you launch yourself as the town’s newest singing sensation?”
There’s something raw in his accusation, and something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy.
“Paul isn’t just a guy. He’s tied in with the village’s music scene. He conducts the jazz band and invited me to sing at the market yesterday morning. And I wasn’t planning to become a singing sensation, as you term it. I couldn’t sleep and wanted to go for a late-night walk. You’ve been busy, so I’m just looking to entertain myself, you know? I ran into Paul and, well, the rest is history.”
I peek up at Slayer’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. Does he believe my story? It’s the only one I have. The truth.
His face gives nothing away.
“You have to believe me.”
Slayer shrugs, then twists to pull a bag from his lightweight backpack.
“Look, I grabbed these croissants from that bakery on Rue de la Citadelle. Still hot from the oven. Let’s eat and watch Oscar do his thing.”
The scent of butter elicits a small growl from my stomach.
Toto must smell the warm, buttery bread too. Yipping, he edges closer, as eager for a bite of that croissant as I am.
“Fine.” I sink down on a smooth rock beside the path.
Slayer settles beside me, careful to leave space between us.Breaks the croissant in half—the sound soft and perfect in the morning air.
