“I’m sure.”
“Fuck yes.” She fist-pumps, and it’s my turn to smile. “There’s a bottle of that Moscato you like in the fridge. The local one. We weren’t sure if you were coming, but I figured we should order a crate just in case.”
She remembered my favorite wine. She ordered a crate, had it shipped all the way across the country, just for me.
“Shall we?”
She stands aside, gesturing toward the door. As I step into the hallway, I glance out the window again, into the bottomless depths of the woods, but the uncanny blue glow, whatever it was, is gone.
13NICOLA
BY THE TIMEwe step outside, the festivities are in full swing—club members huddled around the bonfire, chatting and laughing, a plastic bag of marshmallows split open on the ground. Zach has propped his skewer against a tree stump while he wrangles the cork out of some wine. His gaze immediately lifts to meet mine; I subtly nod to indicate that everything’s fine. He raises an eyebrow, doubtful, but returns to the bottle clenched between his knees.
Greer grabs two skewers before settling on the ground, tapping the dirt next to her in invitation. I reach for the Moscato she had shipped here but stop halfway. “Isn’t that the right brand?” she asks, impaling her marshmallow.
It’s the right brand, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like getting drunk. The backyard’s buzzing, the night warm with a languid glow, and I don’t want to be numb to anything that’s happening. “No thanks. But you can have some if you want.”
They serve this brand at our local bar, Barry’s. Greer and I spent countless nights, papers strewn across the sticky countertop, sipping wine while we scrutinized the evidence. She loved it, always commented on its “bold flavors” and how it “challenged traditional palates.” I nudge it toward her.
“Maybe later.”
“Seriously, don’t feel like you need to abstain because of me.”
She looks warily at the bottle.
“Don’t let me hold you back.”
“Believe me, you’re not.”
“What?”
She appears to be bracing herself. “I know it’s your favorite,” she says, “but it tastes like licking the back of a cough syrup spoon. I’m sorry; I can’t live the lie any longer.”
This is almost more shocking than her apology. “But you love this wine. Every time we went out, you ordered a bottle for the table—sometimes more than one.”
“Don’t remind me.” She thrusts her marshmallow into the center of the coals.
“So, all this time, you’ve been drinking wine you hate for me.”
She puffs her cheeks, blows the flaming marshmallow out, then scrapes the charbroiled husk onto a graham cracker. “You were worth the sacrifice.” As she stuffs the gooey mess into her mouth, sticky whiteness clings to the corners of her lips. She hums in pleasure. I look away.
Distantly, someone starts plucking out chords on an acoustic guitar.
“Hey.”
Connor’s approached from behind. He crouches between us, lifts his tablet so Greer can see the screen. “Our visitor’s back.”
A single colored dot blinks.
“Where?”
“Right in front of us. In the woods.”
Greer stands, brushing her palms along the back of her jeans, and crosses to the car parked in the driveway. Taking out her keys, she opens the driver’s-side door, and, leaning half into the vehicle, twiststhem in the ignition. “Greer,” Connor hisses, but it’s too late. The car doesn’t rumble to life, but the headlights blink on, illuminating the woods like searchlights on a prison tower.
“Come out!” Greer shouts. “We know you’re there.”
The other club members have risen to their feet. Hannah, who’s closest to the woods, wobbles backward, then turns and runs to hide behind Ros. I’d expect whoever’s in the woods to flee, but instead, the person steps out from behind the trees and slowly makes her way toward us. It’s a woman, I realize—brown-skinned, young, maybe in her twenties. Her hands are cupped above her eyes, shielding her from the headlights’ glare. The hems of her jeans are caked with dirt; a ratty backpack swings from one shoulder.
