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Marisol’s sitting around the fire pit beside Graham, listening to him prattle on about boats or crabs or fishing or something equally dull as she feigns interest, nodding and smiling whenever he deems it necessary by looking at her expectantly. He always grins back, and she almost feels bad for pretending, for leading him on. Except she feels so much worse for everything she’s done to the woman laughing in the kitchen.
The woman laughing with Elisa, of all people, as she sits on the counter, Elisa slipping closer and closer as the night wears on and Marisol’s patience running thinner and thinner with every centimetre lost between the two. She sends constant glances to the pair, gritting her teeth every time, yet she can’t stop, not even when Elisa’s hand lands on Violet’s lower back, drawing her in as laughter shakes her shoulders mercilessly.
Marisol’s hands tighten into fists, her knuckles white as she focuses all her energy on the ground beneath her feet. She’s jealous and she hates everything to do with it. She hates that she even thinks she has a right to be jealous when she doesn’t; Violet’s not hers, never has been. She hates Elisa for stirring up the envy crashing against the sides of her stomach like stormy waves against the hull of a ship - and not one for fishing. She hates that she ever let herself get to a point where she could be flushed bright green at just the sight of Violet speaking to someone else, and she especially hates that there’s no way to fix it, to patch up her relationship with the woman in the kitchen, a relationship she’s torn apart countless times.
“Oh, I got a text!” Graham pulls out his phone, hopping up and looking down at Marisol, her eyes nearly piercing the ground as haggard breaths cause her shoulders to shudder with each intake. “Hey, I got a text,” he drops his hand to her unsteady shoulder, squeezing it to steal her attention.
She finally glances up in both confusion at the situation and irritation that it’s him, the glassy coating on her eyes disappearing when he wiggles his phone in the air. “What’s it say?” she asks in a small voice, her typical strength stolen by her overwhelming envy.
His brows knit together and he looks as if he’s going to question her, but the look in her eyes forces him to oblige, turning back to the screen, “‘Graham and Marisol, you’ve been given the power. You now have an opportunity to swap up two of the current couples - including yourselves.’”
Marisol jumps up before he’s even finished, stepping close and stealing his phone from him, rereading every letter a dozen times to clarify if it’s real. And it is. Every syllable is just as he announced it, and every possibility is just as it seemed as the words left his mouth.
Graham steps behind her, his hand dropping to her lower back and every cell in her body cringing from his touch, “Alrighty then,” he chuckles, surprised and a loss for what to do. “Who should it be, then?”
“Violet and Henrik,” Marisol answers without hesitation, letting the light illuminating the message fall away to her side as her eyes immediately find Violet in the kitchen once more. Her back’s to Marisol as she sits cross-legged on the counter, facing Elisa below her as they chat away, her hands occasionally rising to fidget and rake through her dark hair, habits she’s built from constant nerves that follow her everywhere.
“Oh, uh, are you sure? They get on well…” Graham ponders aloud from behind her, his words forcing a crease between her eyebrows at the unbridled dismissal of what she has to say, of what she believes.
“Violet and Henrik,” she repeats, harsher now, determined for him to understand. She’ll force him if she has to, just to wipe away Elisa’s stupid smile that glints in the kitchen’s lighting in front of her. She’ll force him if it means she can remove that prideful glint in Elisa’s eyes every time Violet trembles with laughter. She’ll force him if it means stopping the storm inside of her, wracking every organ within her body.
Graham shrugs, giving in without more of a fight, “Okay, I’ll grab them. You know where Henrik is?”
“Check the terrace,” Marisol’s already walking to the kitchen, privately pitying the lack of a fight and just how easy it is to wrap him around her finger, something she once cherished. But now it’s too easy, too basic, too dull. She doesn’t hear Graham’s response or even know if he has one, her focus entirely ahead of her.
Elisa spots her coming, sees the determination glimmering in her coffee eyes, and just to piss her off, to turn her an even darker, more vibrant green, to see if her head will actually explode, she slides impossibly closer to Violet. Her arm’s almost wrapped around the woman on the counter as it rests behind her, and a cold gaze has replaced her smile in greeting, “Hey, Marisol.”
Violet turns, smiling brighter than Elisa could ever dream of, her eyes crinkling with the size of it and the slightest amount of Marisol’s bitter jealousy disappears at the sight of it. “Hey!” she greets cheerily, cheer that few are allowed to witness.
“Can I, uh, borrow you? There was a text,” she explains uneasily, suddenly nervous and shifting from foot to foot with crossed arms. Her bottom lip slips between her teeth as she stares directly into Violet’s unwavering eyes.
Elisa stands straight, pushing off from the counter and stepping forward and between the pair, “What’s it say?” Her eyes narrow, suspicious and curious as they scan the body before her.
Marisol shakes her head, finally tearing her gaze from Violet to meet the ugly gaze on her, “Not about you,” she’s a centimetre away from spitting the words through her clenched jaw, and she couldn’t care less. Maybe she would have cared at one point, but that was lost as soon as there was malice in Elisa’s face.
Elisa’s cold and judgemental gaze finally lands on the ice within Marisol’s own, “But it’s about Vi?”
The muscles beneath Marisol’s left eye twitch at the casual use of the nickname, a shaky breath filling her chest as she attempts not to choke Elisa out in this very moment, “Yes,” she answers tersely, barely managing the syllable.
“Okay,” Violet hums, hopping off the kitchen counter and joining Elisa at her side. “Talk later?” she offers her with a small grin, a private grin, and the storm in Marisol’s stomach resumes, the wind nearly throwing her across the lawn like a doll in a tornado.
It seems to appease the other woman, her stance softening as she nods, “Sounds good.” She forces a smile for Violet and only Violet, and steps back, turning and striding deeper into the Villa.
The remaining two watch her leave, watch her disappear inside, off to do who knows what just to see if she can get away with it. Until Violet turns on Marisol, eyes bright with curiosity and the slightest bit of confusion, “So what’s the text about?”
“You’ll see.” She instinctively reaches out, freezing when her fingertips brush Violet’s wrist. She meets those dark eyes, finding a gentleness within them, and her fingers close around soft skin, pulling Violet along to the fire pit.
Firelight begins to illuminate their skin in an orange glow as they draw near, Violet dropping onto the bench when they arrive, Marisol standing and fidgeting restlessly with rings and her outfit and a bracelet, anything within reach, as they wait for the boys. After a few minutes, Graham strolls up with Henrik, the two chatting and chuckling together as they approach. Henrik sits beside Violet on the bench, nudging her until she laughs lightly, Marisol turning a light shade of green at the banter, a shade that’s become familiar in recent history.
Graham clasps his hands together, “Alright, who else do we need to grab?” He grins, eyes scanning around the lawn as he awaits Marisol’s answer, his easygoing smile falling away a second later when it comes.
“No one,” Marisol answers coldly, eyes back on Violet, frozen as they watch her face shift in further confusion, the slightest crease forming between her eyebrows.
“Um, what?” Graham asks beside her, his voice just as puzzled, a nervous chuckle escaping his throat as he works to make sense of her words. “Then who else are we swapping?”
Marisol watches dark eyes flick over to him, the crease separating her brows deepening at his words, the text and her purpose at the fire pit still lost on Violet. “Us,” Marisol nearly whispers the word, butterflies of nerves swarming the storm inside of her.
Graham steps closer in her peripherals, his mouth agape and hurt or anger, Marisol can’t tell which, simmering in his hazel eyes, “You want me to couple up with Violet?!” The crease deepens as the woman in question attempts to make sense of the scraps of a comprehensible explanation being handed to her. Henrik’s silent behind her, a knowing shimmer as he watches the interaction before him.
Marisol’s ombre hair flies around her shoulders as she adamantly shakes her head, never breaking her gaze. She can’t break it for reasons entirely lost on her, but she knows that much at least, “No, not like that.”
Violet’s eyes land back on hers, questioning and deliberating, warring thoughts fighting for dominance until recognition reigns victorious, dawning within them. Her features soften as she looks up at Marisol in disbelief, questioning reality, and a smile lifting the corners of her lips at the tiny, miniscule nod of confirmation Marisol gifts her. She launches up from the bench, tackling Marisol into a hug, arms wrapped tight around her torso as she spins her around excitedly, Violet’s face buried in the crook of her neck.
Marisol’s own arms coil around her neck, a few streams of laughter escaping her as she’s swung about, the butterflies and the storm gone, replaced by glowing sunshine even in the late evening. Violet drops her back to the ground after what feels like a perfect eternity, her arms still wrapped around Marisol as she turns in her arms to face the boys, hands gripping Violet for balance and reassurance.
She finds disbelief, anger, and a distant understanding brimming in Graham’s eyes, his gaze scanning her as the gears in his mind audibly turn and clink together. “So… what about me and Henrik?” he asks after a beat, a silence that feels like its own awful eternity.
Marisol shrugs, feigning nonchalance, feigning indifference, feigning confidence, feigning something other than unadulterated terror, “You guys are friends, right?”
Violet’s own eyes find Henrik’s now, silently pleading for both rescue and understanding, understanding she knows is there - has to be after all this time. And he eagerly provides it, jumping up from the bench and clapping Graham on the shoulder, “You bet we are!” He beams wide into the night, a picture of joy and excitement at such an odd recoupling.
Graham looks over at him, puzzled and lost, only becoming more so as Henrik directs his smile at him, squeezing his shoulder. “But…” he starts, his own crease forming between his brows as his world shatters into pieces around him.
“Hey, let’s go have a chat to ourselves… love,” he winks exaggeratedly, smiling the whole while as he tries to lighten the mood around the flickering fire pit, rescuing Violet and Marisol in one swift motion.
It’s not the most successful, it’s not comforting or reassuring, it’s not stabilising to the other bloke, but it’s enough to get Graham moving, Henrik carefully leading him away from the fire pit and into the Villa, where the some of the other Islanders have elected to spend their evening of chill breezes.
Marisol suddenly becomes aware of Violet’s hands on her body again, turning in her arms and looking up at those impossibly dark, impossibly soft eyes already looking back at her. Her hands rise to cup sculpted cheeks, to stare into those eyes that she couldn’t see all evening because of Elisa, that she forced herself to avoid until she couldn’t anymore, that she’s never gotten to see quite like this, quite this… happy. She’s positively glowing, her smile brighter than the flames gently licking the sky as they rest in the fire pit, and Marisol can’t help the pride welling in every part of herself, the very same pride she hated Elisa for only moments ago.
Yet, Marisol doesn’t mind the pride or even the pain. She doesn’t mind the awful, swirling storm or the sickening, nerve-wracking butterflies that had nearly overwhelmed her. She doesn’t even mind the sickly green that’s painted her skin for ages at this point. She doesn’t mind any of it, as long as that smile is hers and only hers. As long as she can make up for everything she’s done to the woman standing in front of her from now on, for another perfect eternity, one with only bright, blinding sunshine.