“Which one is your favorite?” she asked.
“Rear Window,” I answered without hesitation, although it’s hard for me to limit my preferences to just one. “It’s about a Peeping Tom that uncovers a murder. All about how lives are different from what’s presented on the surface.”
“Never seen it,” she said, sliding the disc out of its pocket.
Hitchcock was an acquired taste for people my age. I’d only been introduced to the nostalgia of old movies through Marmee. Somehow, the idea of watching the same film for the dozenth time made me feel close to her.
“Let’s pop it in,” Ava said, sliding the disc into the DVD player.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I thought you had a party.”
“A night in wouldn’t hurt,” she said, looking at the vintage posters on my wall. “Besides, it would be nice to know what all the fuss is about.”
For the rest of the evening, we sat on my bed, eating popcorn, our fingertips slimy with melted butter. I expected someone like Ava—all popularity and endless fun—to get bored and start texting on her phone. Instead, she was glued to the film, rarely taking her eyes off the screen. That was the night my friendship with Ava moved from superficial to meaningful, and I woke up the next morning feeling a little less homesick. She prattled about the iconic fashion in the film.
Now, more than fifteen years later, Ava looks like the spitting image of Grace Kelly in that film.
“Where on earth did you find this?” I ask.
“I had it custom made,” she says.
“When? You only told me about the party last week.”
“Oh, I’ve been planning this for ages,” she replies.
“She has,” Marlowe confirms. “We’ve been going back and forth on menu options for weeks.”
It’s odd Ava wouldn’t tell me about it, but on second thought, maybe it was all part of the surprise. I make a mental note to ask Marmee when Ava first brought up this night to her.
“Speaking of food,” Preston says, “is it almost time to eat? I’m starving.”
“Dinner is almost served,” Marlowe says. “Let’s hope I don’t completely ruin this dress when I transfer everything into the dining room.”
“We’ll help you,” Ava says, sashaying toward the kitchen, Preston only a few steps behind her.
I’m about to follow them when Oliver’s card slips from my pocket,floating to the floor. In an instant, the dreamy appearance of Ava’s arrival is gone, replaced by the note’s ominous presence. I bend down to retrieve it, but Constance beats me to it, surprising given the awkward angle she must twist to reach the floor. The flap of the card is open. She begins reading the inscription before she even stands.
“Where did you get this?”
My pulse quickens again as I hurry for an excuse. “It was on the table with the gifts.”
“That asshole,” she says, crunching the card with her fist. “Why would Oliver send this? Is he trying to love-bomb you after the breakup?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“You’re not still talking to him, are you?” Her tone is accusatory.
“No. That’s why I was so surprised.” I slide the card out of her hand. This time, I secure it inside the open envelope, pushing it deep within one of the wide pockets of my costume. “Don’t mention it to the others. If we start talking about Oliver, it will ruin the night.”
I must stop thinking about the birthday card and what it means. It doesn’t matter how it got here or the reason why it was sent; Oliver can no longer hurt me. I’m beyond his reach.
My confidence is short-lived. As Constance and I are walking into the parlor, we’re startled by the rattling knock of someone at the front door.
My stomach drops, Oliver’s message spitting threats at me:
Don’t have too much fun without me.
9
