I don’t move.
Not even a twitch.
The phone is still pressed to my cheek like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to Earth. My robe is half-slipped off my shoulder, my toes are pointed dramatically in my sparkly flip-flops, and I’m 90% sure my heart is performing Swan Lake inside my chest.
For one brief, deranged second, I think it might be Theo.
That he’ll say something stupid and British like, “Hey, Sticky, sorry I vanished. Got abducted by MI6,” and then I’ll cry and scream and probably fall in love again.
“…Hello?” I repeat, softer this time. The breeze from the poolside flutters the hem of my robe, but I barely register it.
A pause. Then, “Char?”
The voice is familiar in the way that mold in your shower is familiar, gross, clinging, impossible to fully get rid of.
Monty, of course it’s him.
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly dislocate something. “Monty,” I sigh, letting his name slither out like an old curse.