The Arrival

I lay curled up on the sofa, wrapped in David's soft terrycloth bathrobe, which was at least three sizes too big. The shock had mostly subsided. The bruises were still there. So was the awkward silence between us.

He had made tea. He said only what was necessary. His eyes were cautious. They looked at me without lingering too long.

I hated how this made me feel. Not rejected. Not dismissed. But exposed. How could I ever face him again without feeling self-conscious? The game was over. So I quietly licked my wounds and tried not to let on.

Until the front door flew open as if a hurricane had swept in. At the very same moment, I heard the voice—bright, familiar, annoying.

“Oh. My. God. Nothing's changed around here!”

I sat up quickly. Placed my feet neatly on the floor.

David had already gotten up. He went to the door and greeted the figure who entered, arms spread wide and sunglasses perched on her head like a tiara. She let her weekender slip from her shoulder with a theatrical sigh. “I swear, I almost died on that train. No air conditioning. And some guy was eating tuna salad in the middle of the compartment. Can you imagine? Isn't there some law against that?”

Lisa. David's cousin.

And suddenly the temperature in the house dropped below freezing.

She looked at David. Her smile grew wider. “Well, hello, big guy.”

He returned her smile politely. “Hey. Long time no see. I didn't know you were arriving today, otherwise I would have picked you up from the station, of course.”

She blew him air kisses on both cheeks as if we were in Paris and not in a small town in the northeast. “You look good. Being a grass widower obviously suits you.”

Then her gaze fell on me. Looking down.

“Nele. Still the baby in the house?”

I gritted my teeth. How could she? She was only a few years older than me.

“I'm almost nineteen.”

“Oh, I know. You're all grown up now. Then why do you look like a little fluffy rabbit in that oversized bathrobe?” She grinned and waved casually, as if I were an unimportant afterthought.

She let her gaze wander around the room as if she were inspecting her new home.

I didn't respond to her insult. David did. “She slipped on the bathroom floor earlier.”

Lisa gasped dramatically and placed the tips of her fingers on her chest in a theatrical gesture. “Seriously? Is everything okay?”

“I'm fine,” I grumbled.

She ignored me again and began unpacking her things in her mind. “God, I need a shower. And a drink. Most of all, a drink. Is there any champagne left in the house, or have you guys converted to sparkling water?”

“I'll get a bottle from the cellar,” David offered. She winked at me and whispered conspiratorially: “I knew he liked me.” And to him: “Be a sweetheart and bring me a glass to the bathroom, will you?”

She was already halfway down the hall when she turned around and called over her shoulder: “By the way, I'm staying two nights. I hope you guys are okay with that.”

The bathroom door closed behind her with a smug click.

I sat up straight, suddenly feeling too warm. David poured me some more tea. Then he went down to the cellar. And I realized—I wasn't the only player on the field anymore.