"That's perfect." James grins. "I'll just drop my phone in the river and then no one can bother us." I put my phone back in my bag, and my fingers touch something smooth and silky, and I freeze in the act. The black ribbon.
"Found a spare phone inside?" James jokes.
"No," I say in a disturbingly high-pitched tone. I clear my throat, getting the ribbon out. "I found this."
James raises an eyebrow.
"It belonged to Kate… it was on one of her dresses and…" I swallow hard. "Never mind how it got here." I drop it back and close the bag. "It's her birthday tomorrow." I walk away from James and sit on one of the lounge chairs. The mattress on it is soft and a little cold. I lie down on it, putting my hands behind my head, gazing at the stars.
"Would you rather talk about it or forget about it?" James asks. He sits on the edge of the other chair, inches away from me.
"I don't know," I say truthfully. "Her birthdays are the most beautiful memories I have of her. Somehow, she always managed to be sober on those days. Even on her last birthday."
"What did you do on her birthdays?"
"Oh, nothing fancy. Usually my mum would prepare a roast chicken and bake a cake in the evening. Before dinner, Kate and I would get up on the roof of our home and release a helium balloon, and watch it soar up in the sky until Mum would call to us that dinner was ready." My mother's voice rings in my head as if she were calling to me right now, Catherine, Serena, get down here girls before your father eats the chicken all by himself.
"A balloon? Why?"
"I don't really remember why; I just know we always did it. It's one of the earliest memories I have of us together."
I was six, dressed in a bubble-gum-pink dress, the same color of the balloon we released that day. Kate had the brilliant idea to test whether she could fly with the balloon and almost slipped off the roof. Shh, don't tell Mum, Kate said, all giddy and breathing heavily. The ten-year-old Kate was an adorable miniature of the person she would become in her teen years: exquisitely beautiful—with round, clear eyes, silk blonde hair—and reckless.
The familiar emptiness inside my chest that always gets the better of me in these moments starts creeping in. It's slightly different than other times, though. I don't know why. Less intense. And not nearly as suffocating.
"You've got such a lovely smile," James says.
I turn my head slightly in his direction. "I… I was just replaying a memory in my head."
He moves over on my lounge, his blue eyes searching me, not in a lustful way, but in a warm, reassuring one. "Can I lie next to you?"
I hesitate for a few seconds, then shift a few inches to the right, turning on one side, to make space for him. The mattress caves in as he lies down on his side, and then we are face-to-face, our lips almost touching.
But I don't lean in for a kiss, and neither does he. We lock eyes for a long, long time, before I huddle against his chest. And as he kisses my forehead in one soft brush, putting an arm around me, I know what's different. I know what makes the emptiness more bearable and the memories sweeter.
He does.
Tears appear in the corners of my eyes, and I let them fall, one by one, until I drift off to sleep.
I wake up covered with something soft and warm up to the tip of my nose. A blanket. I sit up, pushing it away. Goose bumps appear all over my arms and legs as the night breeze chills me. It's still dark. I press my palms on my temples, my eyes closed. My head feels lighter than before, and the sensation of nausea at the back of my throat is gone. It's only after I open my eyes that I realize I'm alone. The portion of the mattress where James lay is completely cold—a sign that he left some time ago. My insides start quivering. Maybe he went to his room. The lounge chair isn't much of a bed, really. The stiffness in my neck is proof of that. Or maybe he left for good, a small voice whispers in my head. I shake my head, attempting to chase the thought away, but only manage to stir to life some of that nausea I thought was gone. I take in a mouthful of air, pondering for a few moments what woke me up, when I hear the call.
"Serena." It's James's voice.
I spring to my feet, wobbling a little on my sandals, and looking to my left and right.
"Where are you?" I call, grinning.
"I'll wait for you to figure it out," James says, and I can tell by the way he sounds that he, too, is grinning. "It's more fun."
The sound doesn't come from the bedroom, but inexplicably, from the edge of the terrace, so I walk toward there and b
end over the railing. Sure enough, James stands on the ground, leaning with one shoulder against the wall and beaming up at me.
"You sleep like a rock. I've been calling out for at least ten minutes," he says.
"What on earth are you doing down there?"
"Pondering whether I should bring a ladder or…"