“She was,” he agrees with a sad smile, leaning against the door frame.
“Blind Man’s Bluff!” I exclaim as the memory comes back to me. “She wiped the floor with us!”
He folds his arms. “I haven’t played it since.”
“I have. I taught it to my friends at uni.”
He looks pleasantly surprised. “Did you?”
I nod. “I loved that game.”
I didn’t know it before that summer—Estelle taught us. Everyone is dealt one card that they press to their forehead facing outward. You can see every other player’s card—except for your own. And you have to bet on whether you think your card is higher or lower than the rest of the table.
“I still can’t believe she won with a five when I had an ace. She was so convincing.”
I tip the cards out onto my palm and drop the matches on the coffee table.
“What are you doing?” he asks as I shuffle the pack and walk toward him.
“Take it.” I offer him the top card.
He stares at me. I lift the pack toward him. He sighs and takes the card, following me to the sofa. I pick up the next one and press it to my forehead. His expression remains unchanged. And then he lifts his up too. He has a nine.
Still holding my card, I pour the matchsticks out onto the table and roughly divide them up.
“Non, non,”he mutters, sweeping them into a pile and counting them out properly.
“Ooh, youarecompetitive.”
“You know this already,” he replies, pushing one into the center of the table.
I copy him with a smile—we each need one to play, and then we have to see who wants to bet what.
“You first,” I prompt.
He stares at the card in the center of my forehead and pushes two matchsticks into the middle.
“I’ll see you and raise you one,” I say.
He smirks as he matches my bet and raises me another two.
“What was that smile for?” I ask. “Have I got a two?”
“I’m saying nothing.” His voice is low, his tone faintly amused, his French accent…I admit that I still like his accent. His gaze drifts to my cheeks. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not,” I lie. “Fold.” I check my card and my jaw drops. “A king! You bastard!”
He looks at his own card and laughs, sinking back onto the sofa. A small dust cloud puffs up around him.
“You really don’t come here often, do you?” I ask, looking around.
He shakes his head, staring at the ceiling. “It makes me too sad,” he mumbles. “But I can’t bring myself to sell it,” he admits.
My chest contracts and a rumble of thunder reverberates through the walls. It’s dark in here—there are two windows but they’re dirty and the sky is black outside.
“Shall we look for the postcards?” he asks.
I give his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze as we stand up. He stiffens.
