3:30 a.m. Whatever.
Fuck. He’s pissed.
Why wouldn’t he be? I stare at my phone and try and think of something to text back, some excuse, but nothing comes to mind. I wonder if he’s still awake. I wonder if I should wait to call him once I get in my car, but if heisstill up, he’s got to be worried. I let out a sigh and quickly type:
SO sorry! I’ll explain everything when I get home. Which will be soon. Phone died!
I had promised I wouldn’t stay out too late, that I’d get up and make Jack pancakes before we went to the farmers’ market. I press the pads of my fingertips into my temples. My head feels like it’s in a vise. My throat burns, as if I’ve vomited recently, and my stomach turns somersaults. This doesn’t feel like a normal hangover. I fold my quaking hands together as the night comes back to me in flashes.
—
THE BEGINNING OFthe night I remember clearly; it’s the end of the night that is stuttering: the loud, Cuban-themed nightclub in downtown Dallas, Margot’s hand on my knee, pulsing strobe lights, and Jill straddling a man in a booth.
—
BEFORE I LEFTthe house to head to the lake earlier this evening, Margot had group texted everyone.
Margot:Bring a change of clothes. We’re going out tonight!
So I slipped a slinky top and a pair of black ballet flats in my bag and kissed Jack and Graham goodbye.
—
I RODE WITHJill again on the four-wheeler through the woods to the clearing. Margot shot first (she hit half of her targets), then Jill (she hit one; she squealed in victory), and finally, Callie shot. I declined to shoot; I didn’t want to hurt my shoulder again and I didn’t want to piss off Callie again, either.
Callie stood next to the skeet contraption, feet planted a foot apart in the grass as she raised the shotgun and fired. One after the other, she blasted all four of her skeets.
Margot shrieked, “That’s my sharpshooter!” and ran over, slapped Callie on the ass. The first real smile I’d ever seen crept over Callie’s face, making her look like a small, delighted child.
After a robust round of martinis, Margot announced that it was time to change. Everyone else had garment bags with sleek dresses, so when I pulled out my top and flats, Margot briskly shook her head.
“Sophie. I don’t mean to be a bitch but that won’t do. Follow me.”
I trailed her down the hall to the master bedroom and into the walk-in closet. She flipped a switch, and overhead bullet lights illuminated the closet, which was the size of my bedroom. Everything was organized by color, and strands of jewelry hung in glittering rows next to Margot’s collection of handbags.
She stepped, barefoot, onto the plush white carpet and over to the corner where a row of little black dresses was dangling. She lifted one off the hanger and handed it to me.
“Try this,” she said. She turned to select her own outfit, so I slipped out of my clothes and tugged on the dress. It hugged my hips but otherwise fit perfectly.
“I’ll zip you,” Margot said, coming up behind me, lifting my hair out of the way.
“You have beautiful hair, you know it?” Her hands were warm against my neck, and her breath felt like a kiss. My skin tingled; I hoped she didn’t see the goose bumps rise over my arms. I swallowed the awkward lump in my throat and turned to face her.
“Gorgeous. I mean!” she said, her eyes zigzagging over me in approval.
She lifted off her own top, shimmied out of her jeans, and I turned to look away.
“Oh, please,” she said, “don’t be so old-fashioned.”
She slid into a low-cut, emerald-green romper. The neckline plunged to the waist, and the shorts barely hit the tops of her thighs.
I blushed and stammered, “Looks fabulous.”
She eyed herself in the mirror and slid her bone-thin wrist into what looked like a Van Cleef & Arpels pink gold bracelet.
“Want to borrow a necklace?”
I nodded. She looped her finger around one and pulled it down from a black velvet rack. A silver pendant with a simple diamond. She fastened it around my neck.
