“Let’s not panic,” Sloane says, sitting across from me in a navy sundress that somehow looks elegant even in this setting.Stay calm. Keep them talking. Themore they talk, the less I have to.
“Easy for you to say,” Kennedy says. “You’re not freaking out.”
“Panicking won’t help,” she assures them.
Blaire sets down her wine glass. “But she’s right. We could be targeted. We’ll never know when it’s our turn!” She pauses, her face genuinely distressed. “We’ll never know what outfit will be our last.”
There’s a beat of silence as they take a moment to contemplate this odd fashion emergency.
Mom and I exchange a look. And despite the grim circumstances, I can tell that Mom is trying very hard not to laugh.
Thankfully, Ella has all but fallen asleep on my shoulder.
Hey? Maybe I need to crank up some country music at two in the morning to get her back to bed. I’m sure the neighbors will love it.
I blink back to the women before me. I can’t believe they’re worried about coordinating their final outfits. Someone murdered two of their friends and they’re concerned about fashion choices for their own potential demise.
None of this seems right. Although, to be fair, Brittany would probably appreciate the concern.
The tacos arrive on massive platters—piled high and falling apart with meat spilling everywhere, excessive amounts of sour cream and guacamole threatening to slide off onto the table. The smell of cumin and chili powder and something indefinably greasy fills the air.
And I am so here for it.
Georgie digs in like her life depends on it. And with this crowd, it just might.
Blaire stares at her plate in horror. “Is there a fork?”
“It’s a taco, honey,” Georgie says as she scoops up another one.
“But it’s so messy.”
“That’s the point.”
Blaire orders a salad instead and gets openly mocked by three different people.
Kennedy grabs a taco and starts eating fast—too fast, like she’s trying to prove something. She’s already on her third when the first one was probably enough.Fit in. Eat what they eat. Laugh when they laugh. You belong here.
Why wouldn’t she belong here?
Sloane eats her taco perfectly, somehow managing to stay completely clean despite the structural integrity issues plaguing everyone else’s food. She’s good at that—staying clean when everything around her is messy.
There’s probably a metaphor for life in there somewhere.
At seven o’clock sharp, the music shifts and a man in a cowboy hat steps onto the dance floor with a microphone.
“All right, folks! Time to learn the Tush Push!”
His name tag readsBUCKand it seems to me, he takes line dancing more seriously than most people take their marriage vows.
The entire bar has livened up and yet our entire table groans.
“Come on, ladies!” Buck shouts with a mischievous look in his eyes. “Let’s go!”
We’re dragged to the dance floor—all of us, including Georgie who’s spotted the man in chaps and is making a beeline for him. Mom stays with Ella, phone out, already recording what’s about to be a disaster.
Buck demonstrates. “Step, together, step, KICK!”
Kennedy, who’s suddenly donned a hot pink cowboy hat, tries too hard and kicks someone behind her.
