Her response is immediate.
Going to sleep.
Send me a photo?
A pause, and then...
Of me in bed?
She adds a little flame emoji.
Yes.
I wonder if she’ll do it and I practically hold my breath waiting, wondering in the very back of my mind why it matters to me so much.
My pyjamas are incredibly sexy. I don’t know if you’re prepared for this.
A grin slips across my face. A second later it grows broader. Cora’s wearing pyjamas that bear the logo of the airline she used to fly with—the type handed out to first-class passengers.
Beautiful.
She sends back an eye-rolling emoji.
I load the photo up again, zooming in to her eyes. They’re beautiful eyes and even like this, trapped in a photograph, I feel so much warmth coming from her it makes my gut tense.
Do I get a photo?
I think about snapping one, but don’t. If I can see only warmth in her eyes then she would easily see coldness in mine and I don’t want to show her that right now.
I take a picture of the view instead, and add a caption.
Wish you were here.
She doesn’t reply, and in the morning, when I reread our exchange, I’m glad for that. My comment was too much, given what we are. I load up the photo of her and find myself staring at it while I make my morning coffee, safe in my ability to do so because in four days I plan to be on my jet and winging my way away from this place.
* * *
‘We have to talk.’
It’s Jagger this time, drawing me out of the living room onto his penthouse balcony. From here, I can see the casino. I can see all the way to my balcony. If I squint, I can see where Cora was standing, wrapped in a blanket, taking photos of the sunrise, just two days ago.
‘What’s up?’ My voice is deep, my tone cold. I see Jagger’s frown. My gut twists.
‘Nothing’s up, man. We just haven’t seen you in a while.’ He comes to stand beside me, staring out at the harbour. We stood like this at the funeral—Dad’s. Ryan’s. Not talking, silent, side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
‘Listen—’ he sighs, drags one hand through his blond hair, curves the other around the balcony and leans forward a little ‘—Theo’s worried about you.’
‘No shit.’
‘We both are.’
Guilt, I’m experienced with. It slices me like a blade.
‘There’s no need. I’m fine.’
He makes a sound that is so familiar. A sarcastic laugh; I’ve heard it often. From him, from me, from Theo. It’s one of those traits we share, traits I now realise have more to do with environment than biology, because we are biologically distinct.
‘You’re all torn up, and I don’t know how to fix it. Theo says time, but I don’t know. I feel like enough time’s passed but you don’t seem to be dealing with it at all. If anything, you’re getting worse.’