Page 108 of The Stranger

“Is Alejandro your boyfriend now?”

I tighten my hand on the hot mug. “No, not at all. Alejandro is—he was just being friendly.” I sound defensive; even I can hear that.

Zoe mutters something I don’t catch as she rounds the island and pulls a binder from the drawer.

“I think Papa does not like that you have a boyfriend.”

“What do you mean? I mean, I don’t have a boyfriend, and I’m sure your dad doesn’t care either way.” I glance at Zoe, my expression very much: can you believe this crazy pants kid?

“You should tell him you don’t want a boyfriend.”

“Tell your dad?” I give a terrible sounding laugh. “He wouldn’t be interested.”

“Not Papa.” The little girl turns her blue owl-like eyes my way as though she can see right through me and my wobbly excuses. “Alejandro.”

“Oh.”

The silence that descends over the kitchen is bloody deafening.

“Felix, he said you must have a boyfriend,” Sylvie adds, turning back to the phone. “Because you have the bruise on your neck.”

“He said what, now?” I shake my head as she begins to answer my (mostly) rhetorical question.

“He said that sometimes ladies and men do things when they get…” She screws up her nose as though searching for the correct term.

My stomach drops. Oh no. Oh no. Please don’t say anything related to what he was watching last night.

“Excited,” she finishes, thank God.

I swallow, forcing my heart back down my throat. “Well, Sylvie, all I can say is that no one is getting excited. Not around me.”

Zoe snickers as I brace to be struck down from above.

“Bon. I say that if any boy gets excited around me, I will give him a bruise like this!” Raising her hand, Sylvie makes a chopping motion to her neck. “And then I will spit on him, just like Lola.”

I might try that myself. Except, isn’t spitting a big thing in porn? Where did I hear that? And then I remember it was El, my brother. Another Sunday lunch oversharing session. Double ew.

“If Felix is wrong, what did you do to hurt your neck, Primrose?”

Well, it’s like this, Sylvie; I’m not hurt, exactly. I mean, physically, I’m a little achy, but in a good way. However, emotionally, I appear to be tying myself up in knots, because your dad makes me forget everything I am. And everything I’m not. And if you want to know what that means, or have any more questions, I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a few years. Then ask your dad.

“It’s just a silly mark, sweetie. And Felix is right, grownups do get bruises from being, er, excited. But sometimes they just appear for no reason. The same as when… when you bump into the coffee table⁠—”

“A really tall coffee table,” Zoe mutters as she flicks through the binder.

“—but you forget that you have,” I say, ignoring that. “And when you notice the bruise, you wonder where it’s come from because, of course, you don’t remember walking into the coffee table!”

“Or limbo-ing under it.” Brows riding high, Zoe violently flicks another page.

“Anyway, I better get dressed for the pool,” I announce, grabbing a banana from the lavishly endowed fruit bowl. “Can Sylvie keep you company for a few?”

“Sure,” Zoe answers. “Hey, kiddo,” I hear her say as I leave the room. “How do you feel about prawn linguine for dinner?”

26

LUC

As my fingers drum against my thigh as I wait for the world to right itself, as Jacques closes the car door and nods to the driver. The Mercedes pulls away with a crunch of gravel, making a path up the long, winding road to the helicopter pad.