She shoots a suspicious glance at me before replying to Julian. “A little early. Can you wait forty minutes? Thirty?”
“I’d rather not,” he says with a sheepish smile.
She scrunches her lips in thought in a similar way to Sage, and I wonder if one of them acquired the mannerism from the other.
“I don’t have them with me. I’ll have to go up to the room.” She pushes her chair back.
Julian’s brow contracts, tugging at the scabbed area near his eyebrow. “Is that safe, leaving them there? They could get swiped by the cleaning staff. You should keep ’em on you just in case.” He must realize how panicked he sounds. With a sigh of laughter, he relaxes into his chair and picks up his drink. “Sorry. I’m sure it’s fine.”
She stands and pauses beside him, squeezing his upper arm, then heads for the lobby. After she’s gone, he sends a nervous side-eye my way.
Setting down his glass and toying with it, he says, “It’s grown into every part of my consciousness, like fucking poison ivy.” A wry sniff of laughter escapes him. “The other day I put a hand into my pocket and there was a little hole in the seam, and my first thought was, ‘A pill could fall out of that.’ Doesn’t even make sense, because I never keep them loose in my pockets, ever. But this, uh”—his voice goes tight and he clears his throat—“thisproblemhas bled into every corner of my life. It’s ruined everything.”
He gives the glass a push and it sloshes a dark stain onto the table linen.
“But even knowing that,” he continues, “I don’t wanna let it go. I’m counting down the hours ’til I get on that flight like I’m headed for a firing squad. And I wish Pri wasn’t playing nurse so I could take enough of the fucking things to feel it.” He scratches gingerly at the back of his head, where there must be another wound. “There’s nothing as disappointing as having to use junk for actualpain. What a waste.”
I’m not sure what to say. Everything that goes through my head seems trite and insincere. Finally I settle on, “You’re not the first to have done this. Take comfort in following a well-marked trail.”
He touches his tongue to the reddish-brown line of the split lip. “Yeah, a lot of the trail markers are dead bodies.” His eyes meet mine, and I try not to focus on the web of red in the corner of one. “There’s a few hundred on Everest, you know. And a bunch on K2—I lost a toe there.” He presses his fingertip against the spreading coffee stain. “They’re just part of it now—the bodies. Part of the natural landscape.”
“She won’t let that happen,” I assure him. “You’re not going to fail.”
His expression brightens. “Yeah, Pri is amazing.”
“I’ve no doubt. But I meant Sage.”
Julian scoffs. “Are you kidding? Not to shit-talk your girlfriend, but—”
“We’re not, erm… involved,” I can’t help confessing.
He rolls his eyes with a weary smile. “Ah. So you’ve joined the lonely ranks of people who’ve had to say that.”
“Oh?”
He flicks a cautious glance at me like he’s revealed too much,then shrugs. “I mean, good luck to you. You seem cool. But Sage wears ’em out and leaves ’em behind like Pirellis at a pit stop. One guy, friend of mine, he hooked up with her and the next time she saw him she didn’t remember him. Said, ‘He cut his hair—how was I supposed to recognize him?’ Guy looked so wounded you’d’a thought he took a kick to the nuts.”
“I can imagine that would be a blow to one’s ego.”
“And the girl who was her publicist at Harrier? They had a fling and when Sage tossed her aside, the girl quit her job entirely. Moved back to Italy, boom. Heartbreak city.”
My stomach tenses, and I’m not sure why I’m worried. I’ve never had a problem keeping things casual, and for that matter, I’ve no clue if Sage has designs on me or is just bored.
“Anyway,” Julian continues, “as for Sage looking out for my welfare or whatever, to be honest she’d be happiest if I OD’d or took a header off Annapurna. She hates me.”
I confine myself to a lift of the eyebrows. “I don’t have siblings, but it’s my understanding that they do bicker. Sage is spirited. But surely she loves you.”
“You can love people and hate them too. We’ve always been competitive, and at some point in our teens she just”—he makes an explosion gesture with his hands—“the gloves came off. It was around the time she almost died from a ruptured appendix.”
In my breast pocket, my mobile vibrates. I take it out to see a text from the contact I’ve labeled “Rosé All Day”—CJ Ardley. The preview reads,Someone just posted a pic of you and Julian Sikora together. Are you getting me some nice dirt, hon?
My pulse quickens, and I try not to look conspicuous as Iscan the room for anyone who might be paying an inordinate amount of attention to us. No one seems to be gawking. As I focus on the doorway to the kitchen—food service workers are notorious gossips; I get a lot of good material from them—another message buzzes. I swipe it open.
Rosé All Day:The boy looks like he caught the business end of someone’s fist. Call me as soon as you can and give me the details. Juicy stuff!
I repocket the mobile. “Must deal with this; my apologies. The bill is paid. It was—”
“I invitedyou,” Julian says in a tone of friendly offense. “You shoulda let me get the check.”
