It’s summer now. Odilie is posting less, only photos of her seemingly alone out at restaurants. But she couldn’t be alone. Because they’re not selfies; someone must be taking her photo. She is demure, tiny, elegant even. She dines at places with cloth napkins. She’s still in Wyneck, but it’s a different kind of Wyneck, the chichi part, maybe. Whiter sands, better maintained Jack Rogers sandals, a shot of her on a yacht.

Always alone, her face devoid of meaning, of any expression at all, really. She’s perfected the distant, mysterious but somewhat affable curve of a lip that I associate with women of a certain economic class. There are fewer likes, fewer comments. But that one name keeps showing back up, Thelma Kay. Was she there today? This new friend of Odilie’s who somehow collided with her during this sudden shift in character?

And then a jolt, a shallow inhale of breath, because there he is. For a moment I want to avert my eyes, bludgeon the tiny, pixilated part of my computer screen showing his smug, handsome, sadistic face. I can’t even see the full photo at first, my brain zeroing in on him and him only. His hair fuller, jaw sharper, skin deeply tanned, his shirt unbuttoned just so. It’s different from the video of him rocking Penelope, where I could barely see his features. This photo lays it all bare.

I cross my eyes the tiniest bit, so his face glazes over in my vision, so that I’m incapable of focusing on it. And I gaze at the picture as a whole, refusing to let my eyes travel over to his image again.

It’s a picture of five people, and I scan my eyes from left to right, starting with Odilie, in a cream-colored dress, fingers grazing the stem of a wineglass, the golden liquid frosty. She is wearing pearl studs, her hair swept behind her ears, collarbones peeping out coquettishly from her exposed neckline. Her smile is wide and toothy. It’s evening. The group is at a table near the beach, at some kind of party, but with enough lighting to make the photo show up pretty clearly without the need for flash. Next to Odilie is another man, blond and portly and red, wearing expensive chinos, his blue eyes lacquered with the sheen of a frequent drinker. Hanging on his arm is a woman, also blonde, her head too large for her small shoulders, one eye squinting, making her face look lopsided.

And then there he is and there’s a long, tanned arm hanging loosely over his shoulder, the slim wrist encircled by a golden bracelet in the form of a snake. It takes me a moment to put two and two together, that this arm doesn’t belong to Odilie. Of course, because Odilie is at the other end of the table.