I'm poolside with a towel from my hotel bathroom. The sun is glistening onto my wet legs, droplets fall down my hair, drip down between my tits and trail a cool path down my stomach into my bellybutton.
There's a French couple on the other side of the oval swimming pool, and the blonde woman refers to the man as 'chéri'. I live through their romance, his wet hands on her warm, sunkissed skin make her squeal before she pulls him down and kisses his lips. I think they're about forty years old, and my mind drifts, conjuring images of Masen, of me, of us at that age.
Something strange happens, because suddenly my phone rings, Rosalie's face flashing on the screen. I freeze and watch as t goes to voicemail. She doesn't leave a message. About two minutes later, Emmett's the one to call me next. I hesistate but answer.
"Hello?"
"Fucking hell, B! Where are you?" Rosalie is angry, worry dripping from her voice.
"Why?"
"Because I get a call from Masen, asking me if I want to drive you to the airport tomorrow morning? That he booked you a flight to Miami at the crack of dawn? First-fucking-class?" I can't get a word in between her lament. She's outside because I hear cars on the background. "So I think, hey, she's still home? So I get here to try and talk to you again and your landlord tells me you left two days ago? Saw you get in a cab with luggage?" Rose is full of questions.
"I can explain..." I start.
"Look, things got ugly last time we spoke and I'm sorry, Bella. I didn't want you to run off like that. I hate how we left things."
"Yeah, I didn't like it either." I confess. "What did you tell Masen?"
"That I'd drive you." There's an edge to her voice.
"Good," I smile. Glad she lied for me.
"Isn't that what best friends are for?"