Elise yanked her hand back so quickly that she hit herself in the chest. “I’m working. You’re working. There’s no drinking on the job.”
“Then we won’t have the wine,” Harper said, plopping down on the picnic blanket and lifting up a plate of dark purple olives that gleamed like fat, polished stones. “We can just snack. I know you probably haven’t eaten anything all morning.”
Elise didn’t just like olives. Shelovedolives. And Harper was right; Elise’s stomach was as empty as a beer can at a New Orleans Mardi Gras festival. She was famished.
“This is extremely unprofessional,” Elise said, still standing, still deciding whether or not to make a run for it. If she stayed, did that give Harper some sort of victory? Was it basically saying I forgive you for leaving me all those years ago? But if she left, would she have time to eat later, considering how busy things would still get on set?
Her stomach rumbled right at that minute.
“Fine,” she relented. “But only for five minutes. And you can pour me a damn glass of whatever that is.” She swatted a hand toward the wine bottle sweating in the bucket of ice. One sip wouldn’t hurt. “And I want all the olives,” she added. It wasn’t so much that she would eat all of them, but rather, it was some sort of power move. It felt imperative to remind Harper that she sure as hell could not be charmed.
“Of course,” Harper said, handing her the ceramic ramekin. “They’re all yours.”
Elise plopped one in her mouth before she could stop herself. Salty. Briny. Perfect. “What kind of crackers are those?” she asked, pointing stiffly toward the little stack on a seafoam-colored ceramic plate.
“Fig and honey,” Harper replied.
Elise took just one and placed a slice of mozzarella on top. She then drizzled some of the brine from the olives and bit down. It tasted heavenly. Infuriatingly heavenly. The kind of combination that made her want to close her eyes and moan. But she would rather die than moan in front of Harper. Which somehow only made Elise angrier. How dare Harper set up something like this. Especially since she knew Elise loved picnics. She always had. Whether on a sandy beach at sunset, or at a park close to home on a Sunday. For as long as she couldremember, Elise had a tendency to romanticize picnics. And it had everything to do withThe Notebook.
“Have some pecorino bites,” Harper said, handing her the little bowl with tiny squares of cheese dusted in crushed pepper and glistening with olive oil.
Elise accepted and ate in silence.
For a while, that was all they did. Eat. Chew. Not speak. Which Elise was extremely grateful for. She even considered quickly finishing the three crackers she had just made and rushing back to the production tent before a word could be said.
But then Harper ruined everything.
“So,” she said lightly, like they were old friends out for brunch at Clarke’s around the corner from Elise’s apartment. She only thought about Clarke’s because one of the servers working there reminded her of Harper. The straw-colored hair. The almost always suntanned arms, covered with a scattering of freckles. The way she walked so tall and so confident. Elise avoided eye contact and then proceeded to stare at her over the rim of her laptop.
“How have you been?” Harper asked.
Elise’s head snapped up from her plate. “Are you seriously joking?” she hissed. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
Harper held up both hands, palms open. “It’s a harmless question, Elise,” she said, only barely masking her own irritation, which Elise somehow found satisfying. “I just want to know how you are doing, what you’ve been up to the last ten years. Forgive me if I’m curious.”
Elise wasn’t as curious about Harper’s life because, truthfully, she’d been following it for years now. She knew Harper had landed her first job atNational Geographicshortly after the whole Namibia tryst. She’d shot a story on the jaguars in the Pantanal and had since racked up accolades that would make a lesser photographer weep: a World Press Photo, twoWildlife Photographer of the Year awards, and aNational Geographic Explorertitle before she even hit thirty-five. Then there were the smaller things, like Harper and Harry moving to Costa Rica for seven months, the two of them adopting a senior tabby cat named Marmalade, and their weekly Sunday ritual where they ate scones on their patio overflowing with potted plants.
She knew all this because Harry—bless him—had an entirely open Instagram account, and he documented pretty much everything. There were photos of Harper knee-deep in mangroves, Harper dangling off the side of a research boat, Harper laughing as a baby sloth crawled up her arm. And Harry’s captions were always glowingly proud, borderline poetic, and painfully sincere.
“I got married,” Elise said, grabbing another handful of pecorino bites and stuffing them into her mouth. “And then divorced. And then married again and divorced. A vicious cycle, really, but not that interesting.”
“I already know that.”
Elise looked at Harper for a moment. How did she know that? Was Elise’s personal life that easy to come by? She hadn’t Googled herself in years. Not since she and Daniel had separated. Maybe she should. “Then I guess you probably know that I live in Los Angeles.”
“I do.”
“Well then, what do you want to know?” Elise blurted. “You seem to know everything about me already.”
Harper made a face. Elise nearly snapped her head away because she couldn’t stand to look at that beautiful face. Harper had barely aged. Her lips were still as full and pink as ever, her nose just slightly askew, and her warm brown eyes were ridiculously bright, like they caught and trapped the sun.
“Fine,” Elise relented, though she wasn’t sure why she was amusing Harper when it would be just as easy not to. She could get up right now and leave. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached for her wineglass resting on a patch of hard earth and said, “I’ve been working in some form or another forThe Sapphic Matchfor a few seasons. Before that, I worked on a series following extreme chefs across America. I spent the first two years after Namibia working my butt off to get to where I am and the last two years wishing I could take some time off.” She took a quick breath in. “I don’t have any pets because I don’t have time for them. And I don’t have a garden for the same reason. I haven’t been on a real vacation in years. I haven’t learned to surf despite living so close to the beach and promising myself I would. I started yoga four years ago after a mild back injury. I tore the ligaments in my left ankle stepping on a large crack in a sidewalk, and in the last year I started eating meat again. Which I probably should’ve done ages ago because my iron levels were crap.”
Harper took a beat to process the information and glanced down at the few crumbs left on the cracker. “Are you dating anyone?” she asked, meeting Elise’s gaze.
Elise nearly swallowed the olive whole. She coughed and spluttered, “That’s none of your business.” The truth was Elise hadn’t dated anyone in over two years. Not since a quick fling with a guy called Emile, who had briefly worked as a drone tech two seasons ago. She was going through an incredibly dry spell—drier than the Sahara—and didn’t want Harper to know. So she deflected. “What happened between you and Harry?”
“He asked for a divorce,” Harper said matter-of-factly. She touched the edge of her camera, which she had resting next to her. “He said he was tired of being in a lavender marriage.”