The two of them walked, separately, toward the table, avoiding eye contact along the way. They poured themselves back into their seats, chests rising and falling with the intensity of what they had shared on the dance floor. And waiting between their dessert plates was a polaroid of them from earlier that evening. Danial’s arm was around Alex’s shoulder, her in a romantic white gown and him in an impeccable suit. She was pitched slightly forward in laughter, golden dust glimmering on her collarbones, his deep, dark eyes cast down toward her. For a moment, they only took in the photo, totally silent. And when she turned toward him, searching for a shared recognition, he continued to look at the photo, a stern, almost nervous expression on his face.

“I have to run upstairs for a moment,” he said, and before she could reply, he was off toward the double doors leading into the hotel.

Alex’s heart sank.

Even when she knew better than to ask for something real between them—even when she was willing to settle for his body, when she wanted much more—the implication alone was too much. Just a photo of them looking like a couple had filled him with anxiety. The thought of the emotions it must have sparked in him made her blush with embarrassment.

Quietly, she lifted her dessert plate and slid the small photo underneath, a familiar sadness stinging at her heart.

“I need to talk to you.” From behind Alex, a desperate-sounding whisper pulled her away from her self-indulgent longing.

Paul looked utterly distraught: he was crouched behind her chair, tears filling his eyes, nose red. He looked a little wobbly in his intoxication, rocking slightly as he looked up at Alex.

“What happened?” she whispered back, turning herself fully toward him to shield him from the table’s view.

“Please trust me, I need to talk to you right now.”

“Okay,” she answered, standing and taking her hand in his. “We’ll talk.”

26. Polis Chrysochous, Cyprus

26

POLIS CHRYSOCHOUS, CYPRUS

Now

Alex didn’t know the layout of the resort, but as soon as she saw the look on Paul’s face, she was on autopilot, in search of a discreet secondary location where they could speak privately. She walked to the far staircase off the terrace, taking them around the back of the property and toward the beach below. The luxurious hotel pool area was closed, even to their party, but there was a small, ornate garden where the grassy landscape of the resort ceded to the Mediterranean sand. There were stone benches, cypress trees, flowering bushes, and plenty of privacy from the raucous party above.

Still holding Paul’s hand, she sat them both down on a bench, buzzing cicadas forming a secondary symphony to the band on the terrace.

“What is going on?” she asked.