Tomorrow morning, Steffani will be escorted back to the mainland, and we’ll have the rest of the weekend to spend together. But as Greer’s attention strays back to the lodge, I can’t help wondering how sincere her apology was—especially since she’s ditched me at every opportunity tonight.
An acoustic guitar starts playing “Closing Time.”
She winces. “Actually, maybe you should consider packing it in, too, unless you want to hear Zach’s best impression of two foxes fucking.”
My memory flashes to that fox I saw earlier in the woods, its jaws creaking open, and the nightmare of my best friend’s death floodingout. But the memory doesn’t linger for long because suddenly, an agonizing discharge of flats and sharps fills the clearing.
“Closing time, yadda-dadda-dadda and let you out into the world!”
Greer laughs at my horrified expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Nicola.” She pauses, then adds, “Nic,” before clomping up the porch steps. The screen door bangs open and slowly creaks shut.
I lift the bottle and start drinking.
14NICOLA
IT’S WELL PASTtwo o’clock in the morning. The strumming of “Wonderwall” has ceased, the only sounds now the waxy chirps of crickets. I should be asleep, but instead, my sketchbook’s open, the nearly empty bottle of Moscato on my desk.
I put down my pencil, assess what I’ve drawn. What was supposed to be an imaginary woman has turned out to, once again, be Claire. They all turn out to be Claire. It’s part of the reason I gave up on my dream of becoming an artist. Every time I examined a half-finished portrait and recognized her, it felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of my subconscious, but also, a betrayal of the talent that was supposed to be an escape hatch from my hometown. For a moment, the graphite shifts into vibrant Technicolor, and I swear I can see the flecks of gold in her irises as she watched me from across the drafting table where we both worked. The weight of her stare presses down until finally, I rip the page out of my sketchbook, fold it in half, and toss it into the trash can.
I reach for the bottle, hurriedly chugging what’s left.
It’s never enough.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, a single light’s been left on, illuminating a figure sitting at the farmhouse table, empty bottles clustered in front of him. Zach.
“Hey.”
He lifts his head.
“Nic. Hey.” He tries for a smile, but falls short. “You can’t sleep, either?”
“Not tonight.”
“How’d it go with Greer?”
“Fine. How’re you doing?”
“Fine.” He sweeps his hand, as if to saynothing wrong here, and accidentally knocks over one of the bottles. It topples to the floor, the racket making me flinch. Neither of us is fine. I know all about getting drunk because you want to cross the wires in your brain, plug them into the wrong sockets, so they can no longer process the pain of what’s happened to you.
I rest my hand on top of his. “If you want to talk, I’m not going to bed anytime soon. Or if you just want someone to sit here with you, I can do that, too.”
Zach’s hand trembles under mine. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s crying.
“You’re a good friend,” he says. “You’re a really good friend, Nic.”
He stands, teetering forward until his arms are wrapped around my midsection, his bent head resting in the crook between my neck and shoulder. We remain there, my T-shirt growing damp around the collar, his sobs hiccupping in his chest, gradually growing softer and softer until finally, he pulls back. “You shouldn’t trust her.”
I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about. “You’re probably right. She’ll keep disappointing me until I stop letting her.”
“That’s not what I mean. She’s lying to you; she’s lying to all of us—”
In the foyer, a door creaks open. Zach falls silent. We wait for footsteps, either coming toward us or heading away, but the lodge has gone still.
“What do you mean?” I ask when it’s clear that no one’s coming.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” His gaze is fixed over my shoulder; I turn around in case someone’s behind me, but there are only shadows. “Promise.”
And with that, he disappears through the doorway. What did he mean, Greer’s lying? Something about the show? I grab another bottle of wine and head into the foyer. That feeling comes over me again, like I’m being watched. I rush up the stairs, and am about to sneak back into my room, when the whisper-shouts start from down the hall. I follow them to Greer’s door.
