“Happy accident!” He closes his laptop, chuckling. “Booked a solo trip before the weekend theme was announced. It does seem a lovely spot for a couple’s getaway.”
“It really is,” says Grant. I flash him the kind of smile normally reserved for 1950s television hosts on uppers, but the one he returns is earnest. It’s the kind of smile that implies our bed wasnotdivided with pillows last night, and he’s fondly remembering what happened there. He slides an arm around my shoulders and turns back to Martin. “Maybe for your next trip. Do you have someone special at home?”
“Just me, I’m afraid,” says Martin, cheerful as ever. “Well, me and my cat, Frankie. He’s all the company I need most days.”
“You know, I always say cat guys are the unsung heroes of our world,” says Grant. He and Martin laugh.
I join in and add, “And I always say if he loves cats so much, he should just marry them. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried!” Grant only laughs louder and pulls me closer.
Martin’s laughter wanes to a contented hum. “Of course,” he says, “that’s not to say I wouldn’t trade in the cat-bachelor life if the right gal came along.”
I cluck in hideously condescending sympathy. “And who could blame you? There’s nothing like finding your better half.” I reach up to pat Grant’s cheek, miss and land awkwardly on his ear, then overcorrect and get him in the eye. I can feel him trying not to flinch.
“It really is … the most amazing feeling,” he forces out, then gently pulls my hand away to entwine it with his own.
“Good for you two,” says Martin, as if he means it. He leans forward on his arms. “How did you meet?”
“Oh,” I say. “Funny story.” I look to Grant. I can’t believe we forgot to decide this part. “You want to tell it, babe?”
He grins at Martin. “It all started when she stole my cab.”
“Accidentally,” I add, smiling. I take Grant by the shoulders and give him a vigorous jostle. “And he instantly thought I was the coolest woman in the world. Didn’t you, babe?”
He laughs. “I don’t recall putting itthatway.”
“You did. Verbatim.” I turn my attention back to Martin and tap his laptop. “So! Are you hard at work on this solo trip, or what?”
He blushes a little. “Actually, I’m here on a self-styled writing retreat.”
“You’re a writer?” asks Grant with genuine interest. Too genuine. “No kidding. I’m actually—”
“Aneurosurgeon,” I remind him, with raised brows. “Which is nothing like a writer, is it, babe?”
“Right,” he says, adjusting back into character. “Although, Ihavebeen called the Ernest Hemingway of the OR.”
“Have you, now?” Martin leans in with interest. “How intriguing! In what sense?”
Grant’s frozen expression is pleasant enough, but behind his eyes I see the panic of one who has improvved a bit too close to the sun.
“In that I’m very good,” he finally says.
“He really is,” I say, leaning in to fiddle with his shirt collar. “In fact, he saved my life. That’s how we fell in love.”
Martin frowns a bit. “Didn’t you say you met in a cab?”
“Yes, but then I fell out of it,” I say quickly. “Headfirst.” Martin nods with polite confusion, then turns his focus to his toast. I can’t resist the opportunity to lean toward Grant’s ear and whisper, “And that’s how it’s done.”
Paul brings our food and we keep chatting with Martin, pulling out all the stops. The problem is, we seem to have different definitions of whatthe stopsare. I’m going for the kind of performative affection designed to piss other people off; Grant’s is too sincere and intimate. While I dropbabebombs and make passive-aggressive digs at Martin’s singledom, Grant just holds me close—idly playing with my hair, rubbing my back. Martin can’t evenseemy back. The closest Grant comes to my brand of corny coupledom is when he feeds me a bite of waffle, which he follows up by swiping a drop of syrup away from my lips with the pad of his thumb. But his quiet laugh makes the gesture more sweet than schmaltzy and gives my heart an unfortunate stutter.
Still, if I were a third-party observer, I imagine I’d be thinkingget a roomat us right now. But Martin is unfazed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was positively charmed by us.
It’s only when he starts enthusing about how lovely it was to meet us and excuses himself to go cycling that I wonder if we’re beginning to get to him.
“Have fun,” Grant says, with a tinge of disappointment. He waves goodbye, but sets his arm right back around my shoulders after, his hand grazing my neck. I feel very aware of my skin, and his, and what a shame it is that there hasn’t been more touching in our past missions.
And that thought trips an alarm in my brain, blaring sirens and waving a big red flag.
With no Martin to focus on, there’s only Grant.
