Page 103 of Shipwrecked

“It’s your urn,” Mary says with a smile.

My warm thoughts grind to a halt. Mathieu chokes on air. “An urn?” he demands, outraged.

Mary’s expression drops. “No, wait, you see, you need the context.”

There are two more boxes past her feet. “Are those urns too?” I ask. I’m too bewildered to be horrified.

“Yes, but—”

“I love it,” Jules says. “Thank you.” He catches my eye and Mathieu’s and smiles. “Mary promised to make me an urn on the island. What myth did you do for Mathieu?”

Jules carefully offers Mathieu the box with his name. Mathieu’s got a doubtful look, but when he sees the image, he smiles. “Dante’s Inferno,” Mathieu says. I recognise the chosen depiction as one from his final presentation too, with the addition of horses.

Mary offers me the final box with a nervous smile. Everyone’s attention turns to me as I open it. When I pull off the protective wrap, my breath catches. The shape of the urn is different from Jules’s and Mathieu’s. Where theirs are classical Greek, mine is shaped like a boulder. Tall, narrower on top, wider on the bottom.

I recognise it at once. I spent too many hours tracing the exact curling designs on the piece in front of me not to. I look at Jules, who looks quietly delighted, but shrugs. “Nothing to do with me,” he says.

I turn to Mary.

“I asked Jules where you got inspiration for your tattoos,” she says, “and he told me about the boundary marker you liked when you were a kid. Seán went and took photos of it for me. I know it’s a little morbid since it’s an urn, but—”

“Thank you,” I say, my throat tight. I have to clear it before I can turn to Seán, who is wearing that obnoxious, soft smile again. I can’t quite bring myself to say the same to him.

Jules takes the urns and immediately makes room on the mantelpiece, displaying them proudly.

Other gifts are exchanged, but nothing compares to the replicated boundary marker in glossy black and bright burnt orange, shining on the mantel.

Seán quietly bumps my side as we pause between party games. “You might actually make me cry if you don’t stop making that face, and I’d rather not embarrass myself in front of my friends.”

“I’m not making a face.”

Seán squeezes my shoulder and joins Charles in the kitchen to help with the next round of cocktails. It’s late when Mary and Charles peel off to bed, and Seán finally lets out a big yawn and lumbers off too. I cast a final look over the boundary marker before following Jules and Mathieu into the bedroom.

They’re on the bed. Mathieu is on top of Jules, kissing him, talking into his mouth, nipping, laughing. I skirt around the edge of the intimacy, discomfort creeping into my shoulders and tensing the muscles. I grab my pillow. The throw blankets on the couch will be enough to keep me warm overnight. If only I had arranged it earlier, before walking in on them kissing and having the knowledge of them having drunk sex planted in my mind, I could have pretended they went straight to sleep.

“I love you,” Mathieu says.

I freeze.

“I love you too,” Jules says back.

The discomfort races from my shoulders down my spine and lashes into my stomach with a vengeance.

Their gazes turn to me. “I lo—” Mathieu begins.

“Don’t,” I cut him off.

A startled look flashes across Mathieu’s face, followed by hurt in his eyes. I realise, belatedly, the harshness of my tone. I struggle to keep my breathing even. I tip my head away, trying to escape the hurt in Mathieu’s eyes. The firmness in drunken hurt feelings is nothing at all like the infirmity of drunken affection.

“I’m sorry,” I say stiffly. “I just don’t want to hear that right now.” Especially not for the first time. It’ll haunt me if the first time it’s said is while they’re drunk. It could be something they didn’t really mean, but then didn’t know how to step back from while sober. A mistake they were too nice to correct in case it hurt my feelings.

There’s a long pause. “Oh,” Mathieu sounds very small. It cuts through me.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, staring a hole through the door. “Please don’t be upset. If you feel like saying it when you’re sober, do, but—”

“Cillian,” Jules interrupts softly, “we’re not drunk.”

There’s another, longer pause.