My only option is to build a strong wall of crankiness to fortify myself. Ten minutes into a one-sided game of Guess How Long That Couple Will Last (one year is my most generous prediction), Grant’s quiet contentment is sliding toward irritation. This is better. It all feels less painful if he’s not having a good time and doesn’t seem particularly fond of me. We walk up from the pond side by side with a healthy distance between us—farenough from each other to settle my nerves a bit but close enough to resume our act in case Martin reappears.
“What if it’s not even him?” I ask, looking around. The property is dotted with pairs of people, all smiles and linked arms and heads leaning on shoulders and strolling.Somuch damn strolling. “Are we definitely sure it’s one person alone? I feel like there’s nothingbutpsychopaths here.”
“They’re not psychopaths. They’re couples,” Grant says.
“Same thing.”
“Wow,” he says flatly, brushing past me. “Cynicism. Refreshing.”
“Look at them, Grant,” I say, hastening to keep up. “It’s not natural for people to bethatobsessed with each other. It’s like they come here just to pat themselves on the back for being better than everyone else. I hate even pretending to be like them. It’s all so gross and annoying.”
He turns to face me and I stop short, inches from walking straight into his chest and trying very hard not to look flustered.
“Honestly, Roxie, you are being a little annoying right now.”
My mouth drops open. “Youare!” It’s about a centimeter shy ofI know you are but what am I, but desperate times call for desperate comebacks.
He levels a dry look at me, his voice low. “You’re miserable. I get it. I can’t say I’m having the best time either. But do you have to grumble about iteverysecond of every minute, or do you think you could stop to breathe once in a while?”
“You’re one to talk!” I hiss at him. “You did nothing but complain our entire first week here.”
“Aboutmurderers,” he whispers harshly, his eyes searing mine, his head dipping closer to my level. “All you’re doing is mocking people for enjoying themselves.”
“For being insufferable!”
“For beinghappy,” he bites, cutting off my next retort like aribbon in the air. “I don’t know what your problem is, but it’syourproblem. If anyone here has a superiority complex, it’s you. Grow up.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped.
“Fuck you, Grant.”
I push past him and move numbly toward the patio, my mind full of static. For the first time I can remember, I just want to go home. I don’t want to do this anymore. I barely remember why we’re even here.
Then I look up, and there’s Martin. Smack in the middle of the patio, having an animated conversation with a beaming Heather and Nicholas, who stand tangled up in each other’s arms like they’re posing for a JCPenney photo shoot.
I whip around, startled as Grant nearly walks into me this time. His expression looks slightly wilted, a new crinkle in his brow, but I don’t have time to decode this one. He opens his mouth to speak and I cut him off.
“Martin,” I mumble, jerking my head in his direction. “We have to do something.”
Grant frowns. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. Justdo something,” I force through gritted teeth.
Our strategizing quickly devolves into a spat of hissed and snapped barbs.
“He’s not even looking at us. What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t care.”
“Why is it my job to figure it out?”
“Grant, I swear to God—”
And then, with a mutteredfor fuck’s sake, he suddenly grabs my fisted hand in both of his and drops to his knee.
“REBECCA. GWENDOLYN. VAUGHN.” His voice booms through the air, bouncing off the inn’s stone walls and drawing a sudden hush and a few gasps from the patio. I do my best to paint my face in shock and press my free hand over my mouth.
“Gwendolyn?” I hiss through my fingers. It’s working, though. Everyone on the patio, Martin included, is glued to our little scene.
