"It's making it up. Okay? Eric? You know that, don't you?"
The tent was dark. Stacy was crouched above him again-wet, dripping-prodding at his arm. She seemed frightened, jittery with it. She kept glancing over her shoulder, toward the flap.
"It's not real," she said. "It didn't happen."
He had no idea what she was talking about, was still half-immersed in his dream, the boys clapping, the creak of the saloon doors swinging open. "What didn't?" he asked.
And then he heard, faintly, beneath the rain's downpour the words Kiss me, Mathias. Will you kiss me? It was a woman's voice, coming from the clearing. It's okay. I want to. It sounded like Stacy, but the voice was blurred slightly; it was her and not her all at once.
Stacy seemed to sense what he was thinking. "It's trying to pretend it's me. That I said that. But I didn't."
Hold me. Just hold me.
And then, what sounded like Mathias's voice: We shouldn't. What if he-
Shh. No one will hear.
"It's not me," Stacy said. "I swear. Nothing happened."
Eric pushed himself up off the floor, sat cross-legged, the sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders. From outside, in the rainswept dark, came the sound of panting, softly at first, but then growing in volume.
There was Mathias's voice again, almost a sigh: God, that feels good.
The panting became moaning.
So good.
Harder, Stacy's voice whispered.
The moans built slowly, inexorably, toward a mutual climax, with something like a scream coming from Stacy. Then there was silence, just the rain splattering down, and the start-stop rasp of Pablo's breathing. Eric watched Stacy through the darkness. She was wearing someone else's clothes. They were a size too small for her, clinging wetly to her body.
It shouldn't matter, of course. Maybe it had happened, and maybe it hadn't-either way, he'd be a fool to worry over it at a time like this. Eric could see the logic in such an argument, and he spent a few moments struggling to find a way to achieve the proper distance for so rational an approach. He toyed with the idea of laughing. Would that be the right strategy? Should he shake his head, chuckle? Or should he hug her? But she was so wet, and dressed in those strange clothes, like a whore, actually. The thought came unbidden. Eric even tried to suppress it, but it wouldn't let him be, not with her nipples standing so erect beneath her blouse, not with that skirt riding up her thighs, not with-
"You know it's not real," she said. "Don't you?"
Just laugh, he thought. It'sso easy. But then, without really meaning to, he started talking, his voice spilling out of him, propelling him down a different path altogether. "It doesn't make things up."
Stacy was silent, watching him. She folded her arms across her chest. "Eric-"
"It mimics things. Things it's heard. It doesn't create them."
"Then it's heard someone having sex at some point, and it mixed our voices in."
"So that's your voice? You said those things?"
"Of course not."
"But you said it mixed your voices in."
"I mean it took our voices, things we've said, and it put them together to say new things. You know? It took one word from one conversation, and another word from-"
"When did you say ‘harder'? Or ‘kiss me'?"
"I don't know. Maybe it-"
"Come on, Stacy. Tell me the truth."
"This is stupid, Eric." He could sense how frustrated she was becoming, could feel her working to control it.
"I just want the truth," he said.
"I've told you the truth. It's not real. It's-"
"I promise I won't be angry."
But he was already angry, of course; even he could hear it in his voice. This wasn't the first time Eric had asked Stacy to confess to some infidelity, and he felt the weight of all those other conversations now, pressing down upon him, prodding him forward. There was a pattern these confrontations inevitably followed, a script for them to honor: he'd badger her, reason with her, methodically eliminate her evasions and diversions, slowly cornering her until the only choice remaining was honesty. She'd start to cry; she'd beg his forgiveness, promise never to betray him again. And somehow, despite himself, Eric would always find a way to believe her. The idea of having to pursue this course now, of having to plod through each of its many steps, filled him with exhaustion. He wanted to be at the end already. He wanted her weeping, begging, promising, and it enraged him that even here, even in their current extremity, she was going to make him work for it.
"Look at me," Stacy said. "Do you really think I'd have any interest in fucking anyone at this point. I can't even-"
"Would you fuck him at another point?"
"Eric-"
"Would you have fucked him in Cancún?"
She gave a loud sigh, as if the question were too demeaning to answer. And it was, too. On some level, Eric understood this. Calm thoughts, he said to himself. A calm voice. He was fighting hard to summon them, but they wouldn't come.
"Did you fuck him in Cancún?" he asked.
Before Stacy could answer, her voice started up again: Hold me. Just hold me.
We shouldn't. What if he-
Shh. No one will hear.
Then, once more, the panting began, gradually rising in volume. Eric and Stacy were both silent, listening. What else could they do?
God, that feels good.
The panting deepened into moans. Eric was concentrating on the voices, which maintained that same slightly smudged quality. Sometimes it seemed as though they definitely belonged to Stacy and Mathias; other times, he could almost bring himself to believe her, that they weren't real, that it hadn't happened.
So good, he heard, and he thought, No, of course not, it can't be him.
Harder, he heard-that urgent whisper, so full of hunger-and he thought, Yes, definitely, it has to be her.
The climax came, finally, and then there was just the rain again, and Pablo's breathing, and the wet flapping of the tent each time the wind gusted. Stacy edged toward him. She reached and rested her hand on his knee, squeezing it through the sleeping bag. "It's trying to drive us apart, sweetie. It wants us to fight."
"Say ‘Hold me. Just hold me.'"
Stacy lifted her hand from his knee, stared at him. "What?"
"I want to hear you. I'll be able to tell if I hear you say it."
"Tell what?'
"If it's your voice."
"You're being an asshole, Eric."
"Say ‘No one will hear.'"
She shook her head. "I'm not gonna do this."
"Or ‘harder.' Whisper ‘harder.'"
Stacy stood up. "I have to check on Pablo."
"He's fine. Can't you hear him?" And it was true: the sound of Pablo's breathing seemed to fill the tent.
Stacy had her hands on her hips. He couldn't make out her face in the darkness, but he could tell somehow that she was frowning at him. "Why are you doing this? Huh? We have so much else to deal with here, and you're acting like-"