The warmth of Susannaâs hand against his cheek calmed him, like she was some kind of whisperer who managed to change a mood simply with the slick of a wrist. She was, in a way, a whisperer to him, so long were the years, so heavy the history between them; it never weighed on his shoulders, even if sometimes there was a bit of unease of having exposed himself so, walking around with close to no secrets when it came to Susanna. It took a lot of trust for someone to know you so completely. He suspected she knew him better than he did himself.
He sucked in air, slowly, between his teeth, and let go of the breath he was holding, easing his lips into a smile. He almost wanted to close his eyes, but he didnât. They were out in the open, a few people already turning their eyes to them, with all the sneezing and the fuss of a little dog. After all this years, he didnât get used to it: the murmur of people becoming silent for a second when he entered the room, only to be followed by deafening whispers and ill-disguised looks. He didnât know what terrified him most: that people were saying good, or bad things. âThanks,â he cleared his throat, trying to ignore the lump of heaviness that formed around it, softening it with the liquid. âWhat other ludicrous drinks can we find at this place?â They were always changing the menu, adding some things or just renaming them. Truth be told, it all looked and tasted the same to him: heavy on the alcohol, a burning sensation, blended with a sugary taste that lingered for too long.
He turned his head to the sun, keeping his eyes closed for as long as he could, absorbing the rays of sunshine, feeling them warming his skin. It was a beautiful day, and his head shined golden and his skin glittered. He talked without facing Susanna. âIâm surprised youâre here alone. Or were you waiting for someone, and I interrupted?â The underlying question really was Shouldnât Hugo be here? but he didnât want to say it outright. He didnât want to sound jealous or petty, or both â even if he felt he was. Arthur wasnât a fan of the other man, no matter how long he had to tolerate his presence. Then, he realised⊠âItâs almost that time of the year again.â He sighed, unable to utter the words, even after all these years. The anniversary of Joelâs death. Like there was something to be celebrated about it.
It was moments like these that caused people to talk. For their names to be linked together and the gossips to take the gesture and twist it to mean something more. They had no idea. Arthur didnât like the talk, but that was simply because he was a subject of it. How often had either of them used the other to get rid of unwanted followers? They could act the part without acting, gestures like this as natural as breathing. People could say what they liked, but they knew the truth.
It wasnât a strong segue, but Susanna let it slide, alcohol always a safety net. Slim fingers plucked the drink menu off the white tablecloth and held it out to him. âYour pick this time,â she smirked. The drinks were named and made to appeal to the brunch crowd, giggling girls, stately women, bored housewives. There were some catered to the hungover youths as well, more traditionally named drinks that were easy to understand and pronounce.
if she knew him, he also knew her. They both knew what he was asking by not asking, the ghostly presence of a third suddenly settling between them. Not many people knew that Susanna and Hugo still saw each other regularly--if thatâs what it could even be called. Susanna rarely felt shame, but there was a twinge of it whenever Arthur brought up the other man. She knew he didnât approve. Knew logically that he was right. But that didnât stop her from returning Hugoâs calls, didnât stop her eyes from finding Arthur at a party, then Daisy, then Orson, and then looking for Hugo. Who was almost always looking back at her.Â
âI donât mind being alone,â Susanna responded gently, voice soft. There was something both empowering and soothing about going out by herself, not having to make conversation or worry about anyone observing her close up. She was well known enough to be a draw for attention, but most remained a respectful distance away. âAnyway, itâs early for most.â For Hugo. Friends slept half the day away after partying, Sunday filled with a lazy lassitude, stretching limbs and slow caresses. âWere you planning on stopping here or carrying on somewhere else?â she asked curiously, wondering what she had waylaid him from.Â
She reached across, laid a hand over his. That time of year. When a darkness fell across all of them, a cloud that weighed some down, and others defiantly try to sparkle brighter, party harder. They all found themselves looking at the water more often this time of year, looking at pictures of years past. She wished she had never gone to that damn party. Her last look interaction with Joel had been a smile in his direction, grand, a nod of acceptance, a grin of delight on his face. Would she have gotten to know him better after that party? Probably not. But now his memory--the snapshot of him, hair blowing in the wind, glass in hand, grin on his face--would be forever imprinted in her memory.
