I pat Alis’s knee. “Our sweet little hermit. We still love you.”
Alis relaxes back into the cushions, the tiniest smile tugging at her mouth. “I love you, too. I just… forget that ‘let’s hang out’ doesn’t mean ‘sit in my house with a book, a dog, and a man who brings me tea.’”
Skye points at her with a cracker. “You hear that? She forgot us. Otis outranks us. Dexter outranks us.Teaoutranks us.”
“You forgot Sunny. Sunny has always outranked you,” Alis says.
I gasp, hand over my heart. “She’s spicy now. Look at her, a real person who says things.”
Skye leans forward to refill her glass. The coffee table is a thrifted trunk covered in coasters that we never use, a plate of grapes and sweating brie, a tragic pile of broken crackers we keep pretending are rustic. “Tell me about Canada, Madame Married-But-Not-Yet-Legally. Was Montreal all cobblestones and croissants and sex in French?”
Alis makes a face. “Oh my God. We were visiting his family.”
“Ignore her. Canadian Thanksgiving,” I prompt. “Dexter’s parents. How did Sunny do with the French?”
“It was lovely,” Alis says, and her voice softens around the word in a way I recognize—like she’s smoothing a favorite page. “Dex’s parents switch between French and English so naturally. I didn’t realize they speak English so much. I was worried Sunny would feel lost, but she thought it was a game. His mom taught her how to say ‘pass the potatoes’ and then Sunny wouldn’t stop asking for potatoes, like, in perpetuity.”
Skye snorts. “A worthy cause.”
“And the city was absolutely stunning,” Alis adds. “He took us to this tiny place with bagels baked in a wood-fired oven, and there was this old man who told Sunny stories about his cat in like three languages. Sunny ate two bagels by herself and tried to feed the pigeons. Dex had to rescue a poppy-seed-eating pigeon from her loving clutches. Like she was determined to take this bird home with us so it could be best friends with Otis.”
I rest my chin on my fist, smiling. “Oh, Sunny. Ever the optimist.”
“So much like her favorite aunt,” Skye chimes in.
“And equally as feral,” Alis nods in affirmation.
“I bet you loved seeing Dex in rescue mode,” I say, nudging Alis’s knee with my own.
“I mean, obviously,” Alis says, quietly, and the blush returns.
Skye’s eyes light with fresh mischief. “Speaking of Sexy Dexy… the French. We require details. Preferably salacious. At minimum, educational.”
Alis hides behind her wine glass. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on,” I coax. “We’re living vicariously.”
She peeks at us over the rim. “He… he doesn’t switch to French mid-sentence to be sexy. It’s not performative. It just—happens. He’ll murmur something without thinking and I’ll feel it in my spine. Which is mortifying.”
“Give me one,” Skye pleads. “One phrase.”
Alis hesitates and then, as if bargaining with herself, says, “He calls memon cœursometimes.” She shrugs, eyes flicking down. “My heart.”
Skye presses a hand to her chest and groans. “Ugh. It’s official. I’m obsessed.”
“And—” Alis clears her throat, mustering up the courage to continue. “When we’re alone he’ll… he’ll say things that are… less… sweet.”
“Such as?” Skye is practically vibrating.
“Skye,” Alis warns.
I grin. “I bet Dex’s dirty talk could fund our serotonin for the quarter.”
“Or charge the batteries in our vibrators for a fucking year,” Skye quips.
Alis covers her eyes with one hand, attempting to hold out on us before giving in with a whisper so soft we have to lean in to hear what she says. “Il n’y a que toi. There’s only you.” She swallows. “And sometimes—” Her blush is so deep, I’d almost swear she’s sunburnt. “Je vais te faire oublier ton nom.”
“I have no idea what you just said, but that was hot asfuuuuuuuck,” Skye sings the last word like a soprano, and I take a sip of my wine, impressed that she got the words out at all.
