Apparently he’s reconsidered his travel-in-twos idea.
Imogen suddenly clasps her hands together, bracelets jangling. “Why don’t we start breakfast? I know it’s hard to think about food at a time like this, but when you’re stressed, it’s even more important to make sure you’re fueling yourself.”
The others trudge after her into the foyer. I’m about to join them when Greer flops down onto the couch next to me. We sit in silence, me unsure how to put my feelings into words. No one ever came to my rescue back in Oliante. Not only did she just jump in to defend me, she was willing to draw suspicion onto herself. How can I tell her what that means to me? That someone believes I’m still good?
I settle for a simple “Thanks.”
She acts like it’s no big deal, even though she must be able to hear the tightness in my throat. “They know it’s the truth. They all had reasons for wanting him dead.” She lets out a long exhale. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did you know about the notebooks? It’s just—” She kneads her fist into one of the throw pillows. “When Connor pulled them out, you didn’t seem surprised.”
Shit. If I admit that I did, she’ll wonder why I didn’t tell her earlier. She might be upset that I let her walk into this meeting unaware, and I don’t want Greer to be upset with me—not when our relationship is still so fragile. Bad enough that every insulting thing I said about her has been recorded in that notebook for all to read. If I lose her, who will be left in my corner? I’ll be right back where I started. Alone.
“No,” I lie. “I guess I’ve gotten so used to being betrayed, it doesn’t even register anymore.”
She winces.
“Oh, no,” I hurry to say. “I didn’t mean you.”
“Just because that’s not what you meant doesn’t make it any lesstrue.” She shifts on the couch so we’re knee to knee. “Whatever’s written in those notebooks was completely justified. I fucked up, and you absolutely had the right to vent about it. I’m never going to read it. Just wanted to let you know, in case you were concerned.” She hugs the pillow to her chest. “And try not to worry about the others. They’ve never liked me, either.”
“What do you mean, they’ve never liked you? It’s your club.”
She gives a little half shrug. “When Connor came up with the idea, well—I told you I was homeschooled, right? I never had friends growing up, and I kind of hoped this would be my redo. That we’d all have an immediate connection and spend the weekend kumbaya’ing around the bonfire.”
“I’m going to assume that’s not what happened.”
“No. Instead of becoming friends, there were times when it seemed like they barely tolerated me. Every year, I found myself trying harder: paying for their airfare and meals, renovating the guest rooms to include more amenities. Ask Connor about the time we drove a trailer full of rented horses up here, so we could take them out onto the trails. I was stuck shoveling manure out of the backyard for weeks afterward, and yet no one seemed to like me any better than they had before.”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t understand me—why I’ve never distanced myself from my past, from my father. And nothing scares people more than what they don’t understand.”
I don’t mean to say it, but I can’t help myself. “I just wanted friends, too.”
“You have friends. Well, a friend. You have me.”
The mist outside finally relents. For a moment, sunlight breaks through the sky and twines through the frizz of her hair like a halo. Even though she has her faults, even though she makes mistakes, Idon’t understand how anyone could pass up the opportunity to be friends with Greer Woods.
Connor suddenly appears in the doorway. He takes one look at us and stops dead in his tracks. An uncomfortable awareness of how close we’re sitting, how that might upset the status quo, seems to fill the room. He quickly pulls himself together. “Greer.”
She shifts away from me. “What?”
“We need to talk.”
The smell of fresh-baked banana bread wafts in from the kitchen. “Can we wait until after breakfast? We barely ate yesterday, and I need to get something in my stomach, like, now.”
“It won’t take long.”
“Do you want me to make you a plate?” I ask.
She leans over to where my hand’s resting on the back of the couch, kisses my knuckles. “God, could you? Yogurt, granola, whatever they’re serving, just load it up. I’m starving.”
As they make their way upstairs, I listen in on their conversation.
Connor: “If the food’s gone, you know I can always make more.”
