They were her friends, or they had been until the last month, when she’d avoided them, too wrapped up in academic pursuits and thesis burnout to seek their company. Same as she was avoiding her mother—she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Inevitably, they’d ask about papers, research, everything she didn’t wish to discuss.
She shouldn’t have come. Not in her current mood, not with the anxiety that kept simmering in her belly. The reason she’d shown up was because she had a feeling she ought to, the thought embedded in her mind almost like a thorn. Nana Alba used to call these feelings portents and said they should be heeded.
Minerva rubbed her temples. Hideo was having an animated conversation with a tall blond man and she knew he’d never agree to drive back to campus before twoa.m.He’d said so when they left:Party night! End of term!He’d said it with such enthusiasm, too. As if it meant anything, as if it were a national holiday.
Minerva supposed she could walk back. Patricia shared a house with three other students in Temperance Landing and it might not be that convenient to walk home at night, but at least she was wearing comfortable shoes.
The girl sitting next to her laughed, and in her excitement she elbowed Minerva. Minerva spilled beer on her own shirt. The girl didn’t notice. Minerva hurried to the bathroom, locking the door.
She dabbed at her shirt with a towel, trying to blot out the stain. Hideo had said she should “doll herself up” when he phoned her earlier in the day, but Minerva had merely put on a flannel button-down over a T-shirt. She gave up on trying to clean the stain and tied the flannel around her waist so the mess at least wouldn’t show.
She unzipped her oversize leather purse, took out a bottle of aspirin, and swallowed two pills. She wished she had brought herDiscman, although she realized how antisocial she’d look if she walked around a party with headphones on.
Someone knocked on the door. Minerva ignored them. After a few minutes they went away, probably to the upstairs bathroom.
Minerva remained sequestered in the bathroom for ten minutes. She timed it. Then she left her beer by the sink, stepped out, slipped through the laughing young people, and walked down the front steps of the house.
The sky above her head was a cloak of indigo and the noises of the party turned into a distant hum as soon as she closed the door behind her. A moth fluttered by, attracted by the glow of a lamppost. She took a deep breath. The night felt velvet soft, almost alive, thrumming with secrets.
“Damn it,” a guy said. He was a few paces from where she stood, looking at the ground, clutching his bottle of beer and muttering to himself as he walked around a tree.
She was going to leave him there, circling the tree and slurring his words, but she wondered if he’d be safe by himself. Maybe she could coax him back inside, call him a taxi. Although at this hour of the night there would be no taxis. In such a small town, rides were scarce at the best of times. Well, she could at least get him seated on a couch where others might watch over him.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Kind of. Can’t see where I dropped my cellphone without my contacts,” he replied.
She looked down, searching in the tall grass. Her hands brushed against a lump of plastic and she picked up the phone.
“Here. You sure you’re okay?”
He nodded and tucked the cellphone in his back pocket. When he swept his hair back from his face, she realized she was standing in front of Noah Yates. He was dressed in what was essentially the preppy uniform of men at Stoneridge, with beige slacks and leather boat shoes. Instead of a sweater or a bomber jacket—which was practically mandatory for guys his age—he wore a suede jacket. In short, he seemed like he was emulating the men in the J.Crewcatalogues. All-American Norman Rockwell. Rather bland, despite his expensive ensemble.
He took a swig of beer.
“Shitty techno. Makes my eardrums bleed,” he said while he swayed a little and stepped back. “I got a splitting headache from it.”
“You want an aspirin?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.
“Sure.”
She placed one on his palm and he popped it into his mouth, taking another drink. But the bottle was empty and he tossed it away. He pulled out a silver flask from a jacket pocket and took a sip, then tipped the flask in her direction.
“No thanks.”
“Orange juice,” he said loudly.
“Sorry?”
“What I need is orange juice. Eggs, coffee. A damn waffle. What time is it? Fuck. I want brunch. This shithole town doesn’t have a twenty-four-hour diner, do you realize that? How fucked up is it that we can’t even get a twenty-four-hour Denny’s?” He took another sip, then he squinted. “Don’t I know you?”
She almost jumped with relief at his words. This was the opening she needed. “Yes. We met at the library. I asked if you could get me in touch with your grandmother.”
“Carolyn?”
“It was about Beatrice Tremblay’s papers. I’m Minerva Contreras.” She extended her hand.
He looked puzzled, then his eyes finally seemed to focus on her—he was quite drunk, and his nearsightedness must not have been helping the situation—and something seemed to click inside his head. He shook her hand, hesitating for a moment, then clasping it with vigor.
