Louise Bentley is a feisty, wild, 'let's-go-to-Capri-for-the-weekend-yeah?' kind of girl. She spends her days working at a party-planning company. Oh, and she never wants kids. Ever.
Ben Langford is a studious, quiet, 'I'm-busy-reading' sort of man...
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"You know," Sebastian said, "I don't think Ben likes me very much."
Louise looked up, a blue crayon hovering in her hand. Hugh craned his neck to catch a glimpse of his painted cheek in the mirror. It was probably for the best that he didn't, Louise reflected; she was drawing a butterfly, and the poor insect hadn't achieved metamorphosis.
"I wouldn't take it personally." She touched Hugh's chin lightly, repositioning him. "Ben doesn't like most people."
"He likes you."
Louise snorted. "He doesn't. Trust me."
She drew an antenna. Paused. Switched crayons and tried again. Hugh gave her a long-suffering look, and Louise resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.
Sebastian sipped his wine. "Have you and Ben ever..." He glanced at Hugh. "You've never had an... er... an adult sleepover, right?"
Louise's hand slipped. "Shi—" She caught herself. "Shoot." She grabbed a napkin, scrubbing at the angry red line. "Sorry, Hugh."
Hugh looked chagrined.
"No," Louise said. "We haven't." She began outlining the antenna again, trying to ignore the shake in her hand. "Trust me, I'd rather eat live worms than have..." How had Sebastian phrased it? "An adult sleepover with Ben."
Sebastian smiled. "Understood."
Louise switched to a green crayon, her eyes glued to the table. Guilt squirmed through her. Firstly, because — technically speaking — she and Ben did have sleepovers every night. And secondly, because...
Well, just because.
She hated to admit it, but Ben wasn't a bad person. He donated to charity. He brought his colleagues coffee every morning (Louise had caught sight of several Costa receipts). Hell, he'd even taught her a trick to fall asleep. Louise frowned. Was it possible for someone to change so quickly? Or had she been wrong about him all along?
Several kids dressed in fairy wings raced by, recapturing her attention. Vienna was leading the charge, closely followed by an indulgent Andrew, who seemed to be making no effort to prevent her from whacking people with her wand. He tickled her in the side, and Vienna giggled.
A pang of something went through Louise.
Sorrow?
Envy?
Part of her was amazed that Vienna could do this. That all kids could do this. Laugh and smile and chant magic spells, even when their worlds were falling apart.
Children were much smarter than adults, really; they examined grief like an oddly jagged stone in a river, turning it over in their hands before setting it back in the water. Adults refused to let go of each stone, lining their pockets until they burst. That type of grief weighed a person down — you could drown in it.
