by Sage Rae
Perhaps she needed to simply man up and quit. There were other architecture gigs in the world. In fact, she’d just recently heard word that a firm up in Paris was dying to hire her. They liked her particular brand of “hard to work with,” according to the scout. How Parisian.
But giving up on that villa, and on Peter himself, made her stomach ache. She flung forward, thinking she might vomit. But instead, she just coughed once, before drawing the back of her hand across her lips. She was a fucking mess.
Kissing Peter had been a mistake. It had been a mistake back in Paris, when she’d been twenty-one, and it was a huge mistake, now. Back then, she’d been a wide-eyed optimist, thinking that she and Manu could float alongside Peter as he tore through the ranks of the business world. And now, what? Peter had had his fun, and was ready to return to something safe and warm—her?
Back at her apartment, Manu was stretched out on the couch, his toes dirty with sand and pointed toward the ceiling. She clucked her tongue at the sight. On the counter was a half-drunk can of beer, a half-poured can of tomato soup, a half-nibbled baguette. Crumbs were scattered everywhere.
Charlotte went to her room: all white sheets, hanging plants that gleamed green with the light, and sat at her desk, with a wide piece of paper before her. Choosing to throw herself into work, she tugged a ruler from the cabinet beside her and began to draw long, thin lines that represented the various rooms she’d seen within the French villa. She marked the windows, the pillars, the doors, operating from a very specific photographic memory. As time ticked along, she visualized a future in which this French villa was back up and running: filled to the brim with gorgeous on-lookers, twirling in fine ballgowns, humming with music from a string quartet, filled with light and with laughter and with love. This was the mantra of the south of France. A world of turquoise, of pinks, of yellows, of creams. A world of long conversations till dawn.
Manu knocked on her door a few hours later, finding her wide-eyed and coated in a fine layer of pencil. He grinned at her with sleepy, marijuana eyes. A wave of the stink of it crashed over her. But she just smiled back, knowing he was doing what he needed to do to get by—to live with himself, in that moment. That’s what everyone was doing.
“I didn’t hear you come home last night,” Manu said.
Charlotte shrugged, twirling her head back toward her paper. “Just got caught up with an old friend. And now, I have so much to do.”
Manu continued to stand in the doorway for a long moment. Charlotte could feel his eyes tracing over her, wafting around the room. Surely he saw the incredible contract between his life and hers. Why didn’t they ever talk about it? Was there just so much you weren’t allowed to say, when you loved someone?
“Hey Charlotte?” Manu said.
Charlotte was startled, realizing that he was still behind her. She spun back, waiting. She clicked her pencil against the paper before her, unconsciously messing up her design.
“I just want to make sure you’re all right,” he said. He whirled his fingers through his greasy blonde hair. Behind his sagging cheeks, she could still spot the man he’d once been, before Peter’s betrayal. When he’d been poised to conquer the world. “I want to make sure I’m not, um. I’m not ruining your life or something,” he said.
Charlotte gave him a small smile, a shrug. Perhaps on another day, she might have sprung up from her chair and hugged him close, assured him that she could never and would never love anyone else as much as she loved him. But today, she felt closed off, like there was a giant distance between them. One that, perhaps, she’d crafted, after sleeping with Peter again.
“You could never do that to me,” Charlotte murmured instead, only half-believing it, herself. “You could never ruin my life. And I love you.”
Almost on cue, Peter began to call Charlotte’s phone. Manu spun away, his movements clunky. Perhaps he recognized that she was upset with him, but didn’t have the words to verbalize exactly what was wrong. He ambled back toward his couch throne, leaving Charlotte to stared down at the phone. This was her client. This was the man who, supposedly, was going to give her several millions of dollars over the next few years.
Her eyes traced the plans she’d drawn up. Already, in her mind’s eye, she’d lived through decades of life there. She imagined herself as a regal, 50-something woman, wearing gold jewelry that sparkled as she marched down the staircase. She spotted that reflection of herself in the mirror as she walked past, in this false reality, marveling at her age and the almost crepe-y nature of her skin.
Again, Peter began to call her. But as it buzzed on her desk, she thought back to Manu’s hurt eyes in her doorway. All those years of therapy, after Peter’s betrayal. All those whiskey nights of Manu declaring that, if he could, he would murder Peter. “I would bury him at sea, just toss him in the waves. I don’t give a fuck about him. He ruined my life.”
Working with Peter would change her career. It would jolt Charlotte to the top-level position of any paid architect, anywhere. The magazine spreads, with her glossy and beautiful face staring demurely down at passersby—the quotes beside it, declaring, “French architecture is allowed to breathe again.”
And yet, working with Peter would also betray Manu. And, according to her wild, beating heart, Manu was her reason for life. He had nobody, nothing, else.
Again, Peter began to call. And as she listened to the buzzing, Charlotte drew together the plans for the villa, wrapped them up into a tight folder, and slid them into the very back part of her closet. A cloud of dust burst out as she pushed, creating a layer of grey over her white t-shirt. She sneezed once, twice, then smashed herself onto the top of her bed. Up above, a crack curled its way across the ceiling, seemingly with its own personality and ideas about where it was going.
Perhaps it was time to leave the South of France. Perhaps it was time to embark on a new life, elsewhere—yanking Manu along with her, of course. She couldn’t very well bury herself in Peter Bramwell, latch herself into his bank account. It felt impure, like moving backwards when the rest of the earth was allowed to roll forward.
Charlotte ignored the rest of Peter’s calls, before falling asleep. The following morning, she began to hunt for apartments for her and Manu in Paris, Berlin, and Rome, marveling that Peter was chasing them out of their own home yet again. But this time, the choice to leave was active. And visions of them walking amongst Ancient Roman ruins, or bumping to techno beats in some of the biggest Berlin clubs in the world, thrilled her. Perhaps they’d been hiding out too long.
Manu slid into her bedroom just before seven to inform her that he’d taken a shift at the bar that night. It was his first shift of the week, and his eyes were alight with a kind of pride for himself. It was clear that he wanted that affirmation from her, as well. Did she have the kindness to give it?
“Maybe I’ll drop by later for a drink,” Charlotte said instead, batting her eyelashes. “I have a pretty big idea for us that I want to run past you, if you’re open to it.”
“I knew you were working on something in there,” Manu said, tapping his skull with his finger. “I could see the gears working like wild.”
“I’ll let you know more when I can,” Charlotte said, giving him the first honest smile she’d been able to conjure since arriving back from the villa the previous day. It felt heavy with sadness, yet charged with hope. “But trust me. I think you’ll like it,” she added.
Why Are you Here?
The state of Peter’s little apartment alongside the mansion was desolate. Clothes were strewn about, piled up on the floor, and an entire painting had been tossed across the room—the frame busting against the wall. Peter huffed as he walked: his shirt off and his six-pack abs deeper than ever, after subsisting only off of protein shakes and whiskey the previous day. Every movement he made felt lined with regret and anger. It pushed him to do even more volatile things. To punch his mattress until he felt the springs. To throw glasses across the room. To feel the glass in his feet as
he moved to clean it up. He needed that intensity, now that he wasn’t sure if he would get Charlotte back. He felt enraged, unsure, violent. And he didn’t know how to fix it.
It was the time of his life when, if he’d had someone to call, he might have called to ask for advice. But all he had was Tyler, who’d excused himself to Paris to deal with a few meetings that Peter didn’t have time for. Back when Peter had been younger, he’d called Manu during these situations. “Man, I don’t fucking know how to control myself,” he’d said into the phone, with Manu on the other line (always so patient, so sure that Peter would come out of it all right). Manu would talk him down, or else come join him. Once, during college, they’d broken every single wine glass in his ex-girlfriend’s sorority building, watching as the glass shards danced across the marble floor of the dance hall.
Joining you on things like that—even if they were messy and probably “wrong”—was very much Manu’s thing. He would have dropped dead for Peter, at one time. And now, Peter knew, Manu wanted Peter to drop dead.
It was kind of miraculous that Manu didn’t yet know Peter was in town. But he sensed that Charlotte wanted to keep them separate. Now that she was clearly avoiding him, probably taking herself off the project, Peter felt almost forced out of Montpellier. He couldn’t go anywhere without wanting to be near Charlotte and Manu. Every inch of the place was lined with sun drenched memories from their childhoods together.
Montpellier didn’t have many bars. It had a strip or two, most of them laden with university students. This meant that the bar Manu worked at was probably somewhere around there, its candles flickering and melting into the tables below. Peter dressed in a pair of black pants, a black V-neck—a traditional outfit he might have worn had he had a billion dollars less, and was still Manu’s best friend. He drove to the outskirts of Montpellier and hailed a taxi, not wanting to park the car so close to the bar, just in case. He imagined Manu’s eyes scanning the convertible, noting the fine detail of the paint job, and using this as another (very valid) reason not to speak with him.
Peter would have been shocked if Manu even gave him the time of day, as it was. But he felt he had to try. He had a hunch that Manu was the reason Charlotte wasn’t allowing him back in her life. And losing both of them, all over again—it felt like a whack in the throat. He struggled to breathe.
He paid the taxi in ten-euro bills and stumbled atop the cobblestone road, his Italian shoes slipping. It was nearly ten in the evening, and the street lamps glowed orange. Every restaurant window featured intimate couples within, leaning their heads close. Their forks slid into thick pieces of chocolate cake, pieces they shared. The wives—stick-thin French women, ate slowly, tapping at the crumbs with linen napkins. There was nothing more refined than a French woman. Nothing more careful.
Back in New York, it was a struggle for Peter Bramwell to go anywhere without being recognized. Women would circle him, giggling; men would shake his hand. But in Montpellier, he was anonymous, just a regular twenty-eight year old guy in black pants and a shirt, hunting for the next bar to drink at. He felt like he’d shelled off a skin that no longer fit him. Without a heavy suit on, he wondered how he ever lived with it.
He could have been walking on air, like this, all the while.
It took him about twenty minutes to find Manu’s bar. When he did spot Manu on the inside, he stopped short on the cobblestones, stabbing his hands into his pockets. He was suddenly, horribly conscious that he needed a cigarette. His tongue felt tart without one. Inside, Manu poured a frothy pint of beer, making his face stretch into a sunny smile as he joked and bantered with whoever was on the other side of the bar. From where Peter stood, Manu looked a great deal different—his cheeks bigger and rounder, his stomach protruding out over his jeans. But also, that same light seemed to propel from him. This light that made you sure of yourself, even as Manu couldn’t feel it for himself.
Manu finished pouring the pint and sat it on the bar, accepting a few euros payment. Peter pressed his hand into the door and opened it, making the bell jangle. Manu’s eyes spun toward Peter. For a long moment, they held onto Peter’s. Peter struggled to read the emotion behind them. There was a flicker of joy, yes. He couldn’t refute that. Joy and passion and memory. But within seconds, that joy was replaced with anger, fear. Manu looked more like a dog, being backed into a corner, than a friend meeting up with a long-lost one after five years.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Manu asked in English.
The French people around the bar turned their heads so fast, it looked like they were watching a car accident. One girl brought her lips around a straw and sucked at it slowly, bringing what looked like an alcoholic milkshake up the clear straw slowly. Delaying pleasure.
Peter knew it was his turn to speak. He hadn’t envisioned what he was supposed to say next.
“I’m here to see you,” he finally said, sensing that he’d chosen poorly the moment he’d let the words free.
“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Manu said, his nostrils flared. “We don’t serve assholes in here.” Manu reached for a pint of his own, tipping it back and inhaling half of the beer. He gulped, letting his Adam’s apple bounce up and down.
It was now that Peter recognized that Manu was a bit drunk. He stretched his fingers skyward, shaking his hands in a kind of “please, I mean no harm” kind of way. But Manu dropped his pint into the sink beside him, making the glass shatter. This violent act was very on-brand with how Peter was living his current life. As such, the sound didn’t have the desired effect. Rather, it made Peter step closer. This Manu. This Manu had been his friend for life.
“Man, I really need you to get the fuck out of here,” Manu said, his voice becoming gravelly.
“Come on, Manu,” Peter said, his voice cocky, jocular. He felt like he was the much younger version of himself, trying to convince Manu to come out to the bars with him, or to a fraternity party. He imagined that if he said one more “come on, man—don’t be lame,” that Manu would smash another glass and patter out of the bar after him. They belonged together.
“Come on, Manu?” Manu demanded. He dropped a leg on the bar and then rolled off of it, toward Peter. He bounced back on his feet, his nostrils flared. “Who do you think you are, saying—come on, Manu, like that? You asshole.” He strode forward, placing a fist against Peter’s chest and shoving at him.
Peter was surprised at the quick aggression. But it didn’t take him long to lift his own fists. He stepped back toward the road, stumbling slightly on the cobblestones. But Manu kept striding forward, both his fists lifted as well. The French people in the bar jumped up from their chairs, walking quickly toward the window. Their wine glasses sloshed this way and that. It was surely a rarity: a fight in the centre of Montpellier.
Certainly, a fight between a billionaire and a nobody. That didn’t happen every day.
Peter drew back toward the alleyway. He was a bit taller than Manu, but Manu’s new bulk and wild, drunken eyes made him dangerous. Peter wasn’t sure where he’d punch next, or if he’d drop his head forward and charge.
“Tell me, man,” Manu said, bobbing from foot to foot. “Why the hell are you here? In Montpellier? I ran as far away from you as I could. You wanted the entire world, so I hunkered down here and did whatever I could to survive.”
Peter had a million responses to this, of course. All of them involving his knowledge that Charlotte was the one picking up the slack. That Manu wouldn’t have been alive, or stable, if not for Charlotte. But he didn’t want to rip Manu completely in two, yet.
Manu brought a fist forward, which Peter ducked away from. The motion was so quick, that Peter found himself grinning wildly. It felt very much like a college party, a fight between boys. Nobody had dared fight him since he’d gotten so rich. He would have had his lawyer on the phone in a second, flat. Not that people hadn’t wanted to fight him, he knew.
But Manu didn’t give a fuck if he lived or died, or if he was
sued. He didn’t have two pennies to rub together.
“You better be careful what you do with that fist,” Peter heard himself say, chuckling as he darted beyond Manu’s fist again. “I know you can’t afford any legal proceedings, if you give me a dent in the nose.”
“Just a dent in your nose?” Manu cried. “Fuck, man, I didn’t realize you saw me as such a weakling. I had planned to put a crater in your head. But we’ll see how it plays out.”
Peter cackled. This was the Manu he’d known: the one quick with a response, whip-smart. Manu leaped to the other side of Peter, allowing a slight smile to escape. But he was drunken, his motions sloppy. One of his feet snuck out and hit Peter in the shin. Peter howled. He punched Manu’s shoulder with a firm fist, pushing Manu into the brick wall. Manu cried out, gripping his shoulder. His face turned a strange, pale green.
“WHAT THE FUCK!”
The words were screeched from far down the alleyway. Peter and Manu spun toward them, both of them dropping their fists to their sides. There, in the very center, stood Charlotte. She wore a tan jacket, knee-length, which whipped around her legs. Her hands were shoved inside, and her curls whirled around her head. She seemed a part of the coming storm.
“Great,” Manu grumbled, stabbing his elbow into Peter’s side. “She’s going to fucking lose her mind. If possible, she hates you more than I do.”
Peter’s stomach shifted. He took a small step back as Charlotte approached. Her eyes burned orange.
“What the hell is going on?” Charlotte demanded. She seemed equally irritated at both Manu and Peter, as if she’d seen enough of the fight to know that both were to blame. “How old do you guys think you are? You aren’t seventeen anymore, you assholes.”