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That’s the first waking thought Billie has as she rolls over on the airbed. But instead of hitting out her hand for her water bottle, she grabs out for the actual water bottle. Her throat’s on fire, dry and itchy—a brutal hangover brewing.
Billie forces herself to sit upright as she downs the water. She doesn’t stop for air, not until the bottle is empty and she tosses it aside.
The room is still quiet, but lighter now as the sun rises beyond the window. It’s a dusty light, fatigued, and has no business disturbing her from sleep so early.
The moodiness shows in her puffy face and weathered eyes as she looks over the foot of the bed. Grace and Carmine sleep soundly, draped in a thick comforter. Turned towards each other, their faces are close that their noses touch and they surely breath right at the others’ mouth.
Letting their old secret show in the presence of friends, a secret that Billie only ever suspected back in the day pre-murdering-Henry. Kate always wondered about their relationship, too, but like Billie she never asked.
If it’s true, Grace has no choice but to keep it hidden from her parents, since they’re crazy religious. She’d be sent to one of those awful torture places, for sure. The ones that claim to “cure”.
Fucked up shit.
On the bed, there’s no sign of Tonya… or Gigi. And, with a glance over her shoulder, Billie notices that Kate’s not around, either.
Early rising weirdos, she thinks as she pushes up from the airbed and—snatching her bottle on the way—creeps out of the room. Her direction isn’t down the staircase to the kitchen, where she would undoubtedly find Tonya and Gigi leaning over a coffee pot.
Instead, she takes the attic stairs that are already pulled down from the ceiling. Just as she expects, as she climbs out the window to the roof, she finds Kate sitting cross-legged, cupping a steamy mug of black coffee in her hands.
Kate’s always loved to watch the sun rise over this shitty town (for reasons Billie will never understand). Even when they were little, she’d sneak out of the trailer come morning after their sleepovers, climb up the lattice, park herself on the roof—and watch.
“That was awful.” Without looking back, Kate recognizes Billie’s heavy, cautious steps along the roof and the sloshing of her bottle. “Staying the night here,with her,” she adds in a whisper.
Billie comes up to her side before dropping down like a sack of potatoes. She grunts on impact, then flips open the lid. The stench of vodka hits her hard, fast, and soothes her instantly.
“Huh. You grew a conscience overnight,” Billie mumbles between sips. “Didn’t know that was even possible.”
“Didn’t know it was possible to, what, develop a conscience overnight?” Kate smirks into her mug. “Or formeto have a conscience?”
“Shit…Both.” Billie falls back on the roof, sprawling out and gazing numbly at the heavy clouds. “Definitely both.”
“Must be the sunrise. Gets me all sentimental.” Though her voice is thick with sleep still clinging to her, Kate’s smirk can be heard in the sarcastic hitch of her tone.
Still, there’s a tension in Kate this morning, one that prickles at Billie more than the cool early air. A sorrow, of sorts.
Billie leans sideways and knocks her shoulder into Kate’s. “Don’t go getting soft on me now. Then I’ll be the only heartless bitch in the group. And you know how I hate being alone.”
Kate’s smile is small. Fleeting. And, in a blink, it’s gone.
She watches the sun inch up the horizon, over Rich Hill where the mansions are plotted around sparingly. She looks at those mansions with a deep longing that doesn’t go unnoticed by Billie.
Billie senses Kate only wants to be silent right now, without her. Wants to be alone.
So, “I’m gonna get some coffee,” she says and pushes up uneasily. “Check on the twins.”
Kate just nods. Then, a crease furrows her eyebrows.
She looks up at Billie. “Gigi’s here?”
Lifting up her arms, she sways them side-to-side to stretch the tight ache in her back (damn air mattress), Billie grunts a ‘yes’. “Saw her sneak in last night.”
Kate studies her a moment before humming curtly. “I must’ve been out cold.”
“Not cold,” Billie mutters, starting up the roof. “You were like a furnace, sweating all over me.”
She clambers back inside through the open window.
Somehow, it’s colder in the attic than it is outside. She throws her arms around herself, hugging her bottle to the spot between her breasts, then heads downstairs to the kitchen.
