Page 81 of Cuts like a Knife
Instead of answering, I grab my bag, stand and begin pushing my way off the bench.
“I think I’ve got enough for today,” I say. “You know how it is. Deadlines wait for no one. Bye Adele. Best of luck.”
“Maybe we can have coffee tomorrow?” She says, and I can hear the slight undercurrent o f desperation in her voice. Who knows what impossible goals Kelsang and Rian have set for her on this trip. They’re probably off golfing or being rubbed and tugged, while she’s been assigned all the actual work. She’s probably out of ideas and panicking261.
“Maybe!” I call back as I walk away.
I hunt around the resort until I find Drew. He’s asleep in a lounger by the pool, an open book resting on his chest262.
“Hey,” I say, nudging him awake with my foot.
He opens one eye and peers up at me.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, sleepily.
“Shut up with that. What are you doing? I thought you were working?”
“I was, earlier, but there’s honestly not much to do. The sponsors are happy. There’ve been no incidents. No fires to put out. Their egos are fine. Everyone is happy and I don’t have a lot to do. Something about the climate, maybe. Some of the guys went to golf earlier and they already had a foursome. If I’d tagged along, it would have messed up their numbers, so I got to stay here. It’s been nice. What about you? Shouldn’t you be watching the barbecue shoot?”
“Seen enough. I kinda want to head out. Would you mind?”
“No, like I said, I’m done. Let’s go.”
He hoists himself up from the lounger and leads the way toward the lobby.
“Your book? You left it,” I say.
“It’s not mine,” he replies over his shoulder. It was abandoned by the bar. I just picked it up and read a few chapters randomly. It was pretty good. If it’s still here tomorrow, I might read a bit more.”
That is so like Drew. He’s always so … accepting. Of everything. I can’t imagine picking up a random book, reading a few chapters, then just dropping it somewhere.
Like, what if it isn’t here tomorrow?
I like to finish things. I like knowing how things are going to end.
“You are so weird,” I say. He just shrugs.
“Takes one to know one,” he finally replies.
Soon we’re in the back of the same car we were in yesterday and this morning. The driver — Damon — is back at the wheel.
“Mrs. Drew,” he says to me, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “You are too late again. Too late for my mother’s food. You’re missing out, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was working.”
“Only joking with you, Mrs. Drew, only joking.”
Drew is watching me bristle from his own side of the backseat and can see the laughter in his eyes out of the corner of my own.
He decides to put me out of my misery.
“We’re really not married, Damon. Just friends.”
“Oh yeah? Pretty small cottage for just friends. That’s all I’m saying.” Damon’s laugh is booming.
Ahead, in the haze of the headlights, I see only insects, appearing and disappearing, and occasionally getting squashed against the car’s grill or windshield.
I suddenly find myself chuckling as well. Who are we kidding? The cottage is tiny. Damon isn’t wrong.
