#c. omer

SATURDAY 20TH FEBRUARY. THE FEMENIAS SUPERYACHT. Save for the sound of music drifting up from one of the cabin windows, the gentle lapping of waves against the Alejandra’s hull, and a gurgling pool filter, the night is quiet. Sinking beneath the surface, Kitty warms herself with the caress of chlorinated water, a light breeze blowing up off the ocean caught with a faint chill that makes sun-kissed skin shiver. When she resurfaces, her attention returns to Omer laying casually on one of the sun loungers. She’s spent the day watching him from behind her sunglasses, tinted lenses hiding a thoughtful gaze. They’re yet to discuss what happened at Ravi’s party, prior to Pestilence's unwelcome interruption. In all honesty, Kitty isn’t entirely sure she wants to talk about it — not in depth, at least. She’s kissed two men in the past week: one new and charming and based on a bond that has been caringly tended to over the years, the other reminiscent and exciting and based on a bond that has been battered and fayed but still keeps her tethered. And perhaps it seems cruel and greedy of her to have given in to both of them: but Kitty has never once claimed to be a nice person.

She climbs out the pool, reaching for a towel that she wraps around her shoulders, and pads wordlessly over to Omer. Loving, reliable Omer who she likes to make smile. She stands at his side, wiping water droplets from her face as they escape dark, damp hair. With a breath, honesty and a desire to erase Saint’s presence from her mind guide her tongue. “I think we should kiss again,” she confesses simply. It’s a reckless risk, all things considered, but what was living if not an excuse to test boundaries? “Partly because last time you were high as a fucking kite and neither of us had a clue. But also because you were pretty good at it.” It is up to Omer to decide whether to give in to slow simmering desires or be the voice of reason. Kitty had already made up her mind that she’d rather lose herself in him again than go to bed with thoughts of Saint in her head.

EVENING, TUESDAY 2ND MARCH. OMER’S HOME, HAMPSTEAD. It’s been over a week since they last spoke. Over a week since his beard tickled the soft skin of her inner thighs. Over a week since she condemned them to this uncertain silence that has her staring at her texts, cursor blinking against a blank message bar. I need you, she wants to say in the wake of Saint’s confession and the literal bombshell that had been dropped on Famine, her only close friend who doesn’t belong to the Femenias name typically valued for his ability to offer sturdy reassurance and outside perspective; a grounding rod to the electrical storm that life is brewing. But she doesn’t, because Kitty knows anything she sends will be pale in comparison to how she feels, far better when it comes to actions than words. 

Which is how she ends up here on the way back from the house she grew up in, stood in Omer’s back garden while he’s working, eying up the clean glass angles of his home. Hidden under the cover of darkness, it takes fifteen minutes for her to remember how to pick a lock, jamming the thin steel rods aggressively before there’s a satisfying click. The door swings open, Omer’s cleaner looking at her with a frown with the key in their hand. “Shit, hello,” Kitty says, pleading her case of innocence ( “I know what it looks like but I’m a friend, not a burglar” ) with multiple photos of Omer on her phone before she’s let inside. Making a beeline for the kitchen, she finds his fridge ( as always ) well-stocked, helping herself to a daintily decorated slice of cheesecake. 

She’s perched on a stool at his island counter when the familiar hum of a car pulling up outside catches her attention, pushing a strawberry slice around the plate. Something anxious lurches through her stomach, listening to him enter the house. Footsteps grow closer and Kitty braces herself to meet his gaze, an explanation slipping from her mouth before she can trap it behind her teeth. “I was in the neighbourhood visiting my parents. My mum says hi.”  

SATURDAY 13TH FEBRUARY. RAVI’S PARTY, THE WAREHOUSE. She knows what some people are thinking, the lavish opulence of the transformed warehouse contrasting with the fear that lingers spectral in the back of everyone’s minds. Some whisper that now is not the time for a party -- but to save themselves from becoming prey animals, alert and flinching at every whiff of danger, did they not need the bright and the fanciful as a comforting distraction? What was the violence all for if they could not spend a night of love forgetting their woes, laughter spilling from lips as freely as champagne from raised glasses.

Kitty’s body is warm from the drinks she’s been knocking back and the bodies around her, the delicate edge of her mask grazing flushed cheeks. The music’s rhythm is steady and if she presses her lashes shut, concentrates on the thump of the bass and the thud of her heart and the thrum of alcohol in her veins, she can almost pretend like the cold barrel of Saint’s gun was never pressed to her skin; that Rafael Snr. had never choked out a sound of shocked rage as a knife pierced through him; that Raf didn’t continue to look as though he’s struggled to get to sleep, no matter how well he tries to hide it.

Her shoulder brushes against something -- someone -- sturdy, turning to face them with a slow grin making its home along the curve of her mouth as her gaze lands on half a familiar face. “Omer,” she coos in pleased greeting over the music, reaching to stroke the beard beneath his chin. “Where have you been?” Kitty leans into him and snakes her arms over his shoulders, a shared history of teasing and testing playfully continued. Ever since Raf introduced him to her, she’s found a warmth in those dark eyes that’s all too tempting to bask in. Encouraging him to dance with her, she catches the gazes of a group of women behind him and laughs quietly to herself.