“Isn’t it?” August says, gulping the rest of it down. “I’ve enjoyed it so much that I’m afraid I’ve outpaced you both, and I’m now feeling perfectly tired and relaxed. I shall retire for the evening and leave you two to chat.” He stands to walk away and loses his balance slightly from drinking the mead too fast, and Marigold grasps his hand. It is not that she would not enjoy being alone with Lottie—far from it; it is that she knows Lottie cannot feel the same way, and therefore, it is unfair to both of them.
“Do stay,” she says, her eyes pleading. August gives her a look of confusion, but he seems to recognize her discomfort.
“Maybe for a little while,” he relents as he falls back into his seat. “Anyone up for a game?”
“Oh no, not one of your games.” Lottie leans back onto the couch until she faces the ceiling, palming her forehead in frustration. “You know you are the only one who has fun during these.”
“That’s not true. You’re just a sore loser,” August says.
“What games are you talking about?” Marigold asks, and August gives a devilish smirk.
“One of my favorites is called Truth or Drink.” He stands like a showman before an audience, taking the bottle of mead and refilling his cup. “We ask each other deeply invasive questions, and you can either answer truthfully, or”—he takes a big sip and leans in, whispering—“get very, very drunk.”
The mead they’re drinking is made from tupelo honey, so it’s perfect for the occasion. After a few sips, everyone is much morelikely to share their truths. Marigold giggles and says, “Let us begin!”
“Normally, I would object further to this,” Lottie says, then sips her drink. “But this drink is divine.”
August leans over the table and ruffles Lottie’s wet hair. “Planning on drinking a lot, Lots?” He coughs in an attempt to hide a hiccup. “Why are you afraid of the truth?”
“I will bite your hand if you do that again,” she says, smoothing out her hair. August chuckles.
“It’s true,” he says, turning to Marigold. “Lots gets quite bitey when she drinks.”
“She’s always bitey,” Marigold jests.
“I am not!” Lottie says, pushing her shoulder softly. Her hand falls onto Marigold’s for a few seconds, and their gazes meet, bleeding into each other like ink on paper. Lottie pulls back, bringing her hand to her forehead as her face contorts. She groans softly and rubs her temples.
August comes around the table and puts a hand on Lottie’s back. “Headache already? You’ve barely had a drink.”
“I’m fine. I just need a moment.”
“I’ll grab some medicine,” Marigold says, starting to stand.
Lottie catches her wrist and pulls her back. “No, stay here. I am fine. I promise.”
Marigold could melt into the palm of her hand if Lottie would stop pulling it away.
“Then we shall start the game! Marigold, you are the host, so you may ask the first question.”
She taps her chin, narrowing her eyes as her gaze moves between the two. Who will she choose? What will she ask? She drinks, exhales sharply, and stands. “Okay, my dearest August, here is your question: Imagine that you are sitting across from a younger version of yourself. Five or six years old, back when we were kids together. You’re there, little August is in front of you, and you get to tell him one lesson. One bout of wisdom to help him through all that is to come. What do you say?”
Lottie’s eyes widen. “That’s a good one.”
Marigold is aglow with satisfaction.
August paces and stands in front of the crackling fireplace. After a moment of seemingly thoughtful contemplation, he says, “I think I would tell him that he will never be able to grow a real beard.”
Marigold laughs, but Lottie points at him, her arm taut. “You’re lying. You have a better answer. I can tell.”
He tries to object, but Lottie’s intimidating glare breaks him. He groans and says, “Damn you and your strange ability to get inside my head.”
“Go on. What would you really say?” Marigold says.
He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin until resting his hand over his heart. “I would tell him that the world is quite nice, but only if you know where to look. Friendships are harder to break than you think, and you will not outgrow the ones that are the most important. Heartbreak is inevitable, but so is healing, so don’t be afraid to fall in love freely and often. And…” He pauses.
“You were only supposed to say one,” Lottie says.
He plugs his ears. “Shh, I am having a moment of introspection. I think”—he closes his eyes—“I would tell him that the feeling he has when he’s alone at night—that burning desire to see the whole wide world and take a bite of it—it never goes away. And I would say that I hope he grows up braver than me. Brave enough to follow that feeling, and do so alone if he must.”
