Before she knew it, she’d moved on to the story of the Holiday Fair. Carys’ face told her that she found the notion of auctioning people off just as abhorrent as Greta did, and when Greta got to the part about her mom clearly going along with Sadie even though she knew Greta would hate it, she had to clench her jaw to keep the fury out of her voice.

“So,” she finished in a rush just as silver plates of oysters nestled in ice were slid before them, “here I am.”

Carys looked at her—really looked—and Greta got the sense that maybe in hiding her fury, something else had leaked out. But Carys didn’t push her to say more. “Here you are,” she murmured.

They each took an oyster. Carys smothered hers in chili sauce, and Greta drizzled hers with mignonette.

“Cheers,” Carys said for the second time, and they touched oyster shells, the pearl-pale flesh quivering as they raised them to their lips.

“Cheers,” Greta echoed, her voice just breath as she watched the oyster disappear into Carys’ mouth.

The salt sea burst on Greta’s tongue, the tang of vinegar and mellow malt of meat. As she swallowed, she felt intoxicated with tequila, salt, and the woman whose thigh pressed hotly against her own.

Lost in mapping the exact topography of where their bodies touched, Greta almost forgot what they’d been discussing. When Carys asked what her family thought of her being in New Orleans, their conversation snapped back into focus.

Greta grimaced. “I’ve kind of been ignoring their texts,” she admitted. “I love them, but I’m just, like, powerless against getting involved if I engage. So I’ve disengaged.”

Carys nodded. “What about this?” She arranged the plates of oysters and the cocktails in front of Greta and pulled out her phone. Slowly, she raised her hand and brushed Greta’s bleached-platinum bangs to the side slightly. Her fingertips lingered there, and Greta’s breath caught. Then she handed Greta an oyster and said, “Smile.”

Greta looked not at the camera but at Carys and smiled with everything she had. She was far away from home, far away from everything that had ever made her who she thought she was. She was eating oysters with a gorgeous woman, for god’s sake—how could she not smile?

Carys snapped a picture and held her phone up.

Greta looked at a version of herself she wasn’t sure she’d seen before. She looked happy—almost carefree. She looked present.

“I’ll send it to you, and you can send it to your family so they know you’re doing just great.”

Greta nodded, still staring at her own smiling face.

“But I’ll need your number if I’m gonna text it to you,” Carys said, fluttering her eyelashes in an exaggeration of flirting.

“Wow, you play a long game,” Greta joked.

“Always.”