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“What was taken is returned,” I said. The words came easier than they had at the beach. “The earth is my witness, and the earth does not forget. You don’t get to use her. You don’t get to use any of us.”
Back in the kitchen, he held me for a long time, the sun dappling us in a pale splash. For ten minutes, there was nothing but my head on his shoulder, his arms holding me tight like I might blow away. We didn’t say a word until his grip slackened.
“This is a warning,” he said, “to both of us.”
“So they know?”
“They suspect. Everything they left you is deniable.”
“Damian, what the fuck do we do?”
“Until you’ve recruited those women at the pool party, we need to make them believe that you just had a moment of doubt. That everything is still on schedule for the four of you to sign up for the next retreat.”
“And how do we do that?”
“We act like I’m doing exactly what they want me to do. I tell them you saw a few comments online, you told your friends about it, and that I can bring you back if they give me time.”
I frowned. “And they don’t expect me to put all this together and run from you?”
“They expect you to think about it.”
“That’s comforting.”
“They want you frightened,” he said. “Too frightened to say anything to your friends. So we make it look like I’m containing you. Easing you back into it.”
My skin went cold.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Yes.”
“And you know how to do it.”
I watched him retreat without moving.
“Yes.”
The answer hurt more because he didn’t soften it, but then his hand gently took the edge of my jaw. When I looked up, I found his eyes searching for my trust again.
“I know how to do every part of it,” he said. “But I’ve never done one piece of it to you. I need you to know that, because they’re counting on you not being able to tell.”
I nodded, the room shrinking to only him.
He kissed me like he needed it. It dizzied me, even in the wake of a dead bird in a wedding veil.
I glanced out the window that overlooked the backyard. “So this is a threat.”
“A test,” he said quietly. “We make sure we pass it. We do that until we have something to bargain with.”
I had the sudden urge to leave. My apartment didn’t feel like mine, as if someone else’s fingerprints were all over it.
“I want to get out of here for a while.”
“You’re probably not hungry,” he said, “but there’s a place that serves all day breakfast by the water. One of their people works there. We should go there and act like nothing happened. Like you saw that thing on your doorstep and thought it was some sick prank, but you’re already over it.”
I agreed, but it felt like a negotiation with myself.
The weather outside was too nice for the morning. The café was annoyingly aware of itself when I wanted comfort: reclaimed wood, Edison bulbs, a chalkboard listing four kinds of oat milk, and big windows looking out on the marina where the fishing boats knocked against their moorings.
