Alex is drunk by 3 pm. In France, the group quickly learned there’s a particular disdain for drunkness, whether in the privacy of your own home or at the café’s happy hour (six euros for a pitcher of white– how could nineteen and twenty-year-olds not get drunk in the middle of the day?). Alex learned this the hard way a few weeks earlier, stumbling home from that damned happy hour at five pm– the international drinking time, at least– to be greeted by Pascale with worrisome eyes and a reprimanding frown. “You’re drunk? That’s not good,” she’d said. 

But on this particularly sunny day in the Alps dreamscape, the American students indulge in a post-class wine and cheese tasting, where Alex and Heming drink all the wine. “If they don’t drink it, then we will,” Heming said to her, his eyes unbeknownst to what Alex was doing after the tasting. Only about thirty minutes remained of her public alliance with Heming, though internally, it ended that night in Genoa. For appearances, she’s remained cordial with Heming, unwilling to let him see how disturbed she is by what he told her. She briefly considered asking him again what had happened to clarify what she hoped couldn’t be true, but she knew it wouldn’t have changed a single thing. She knew Heming would’ve gaslit her the way he goes on to gaslight her in the coming weeks once the impact has it. 

Once leaving the event, she walks to Chardon Bleu in the centre-ville, the café that the four friends convene at every day after school, where Mack finalizes the presentation he has tomorrow in class. All in French, of course, because giving a six-minute speech in English about France would be too easy. The fifteen-minute walk washes her in waves of nausea with each step she takes. The curvature of Parisian architecture, blooming rose bushes, and now familiar instability of cobblestone streets do nothing to soothe her anxieties but rather remind her of how far from herself she’s become. How even a week before, she was somebody else. 

Mack expects her when she gets there, his eyes wearing lenses of concern when he sees her. Under the pretense of “We need to talk,” anyone would be worried to see the warranter of that message wearing a sickly hue of translucent green on her skin. They trade niceties. Alex asks how his presentation is going; Mack tells her he’s over all this shit; Alex swallows a lump in her throat; Mack eyes her suspiciously. They haven’t talked about anything important since returning from Italy, either inspired by Mack’s shock at Alex leaving Jones or Alex’s inability to look Mack in the eyes. Probably a combination of both, if she had to guess. 

Breathing deeply in, deeply out, Alex begins, unable to get the words past the pit of anxiety in the middle of her chest. “How much do you remember from that night you blacked out in Italy? The second night we were there.” Her voice is smaller than Mack has ever heard, with more fear behind her tone than when she announced she would break up with Jones. 

He takes a heavy breath, his eyes searching hers for the answer he knows she’s looking for. Looking away into the catalog of memories from that night, he continues staring into nothing and says, “Well, I think I remember things in little bits, or at least most of it.” 

Blood runs cold in Alex’s veins. “Do you remember what happened at the hotel? When you got back?” 

Confusion settles into his face. “I mean, I got into bed? Did something happen? Did I do something?” 

“No, I meant–” 

“Oh shit, Alex, did I do something to you? God, fuck. What happened?” 

“No,” she said with finality. “You didn’t do anything.” She watches as further disillusionment crawls across his features. “I meant– do you remember what happened with Heming after you got back?” The air between them is thick with bewilderment. He says nothing, only looking at her for the answer. Another deep breath in, another inhale where she feels like there’s not enough air in the room for both of them to breathe sufficiently. “He told me something. Something about a thing that happened between you two when Eli and I were trapped outside of the apartment.” 

“Wh-what are you talking about?” 

Tears prickle her eyes, but she’s not the one who’s hurt. She’s not the one who’s about to lose something he didn’t know he’d already lost. “He told me that he did things to you. And that you wanted it. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she’s nearly manic telling Mack what happened, apologies for something she didn’t do. The basement of the café is empty except for the two of them, and she’s grateful for a glimpse of privacy in a moment she hopes nobody will remember. 

“Oh. I don’t, erm, I don’t remember that, no,” Mack says, already looking hardened by the realization of what’s happened to him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Alex said, but it was barely audible, barely a whisper. She wipes away a tear on her cheek before he can see it. The vulnerability of this week has been too much, and she doesn’t want to do it anymore. “I’m sorry for distracting you from your project. I’m sorry that I had to tell you. And I’m so sorry this happened.” 

Mack can’t look at her anymore and tells her he thinks she should go, and so she does. Tripping over her feet on the stairs, sobriety hits her in the stark light of day, and she takes the tram home instead of walking. The look on Mack’s face keeps her up that night.