“It’s yummy, thank you!” I said cheerily. But she was already slunk back into the armpit of the blond man, who was now groping her hair.
As I drained the dregs of the mojito, Margot leaned over to Andre and whispered something in his ear. They slid out of the booth together, but Andre turned to me and held out his hand. I took it, and Margot grabbed his other free hand and led us upstairs to a darkened dance floor.
The lights were throbbing around us, and halfway up the stairs, the room seemed to flip. The floor became the ceiling and the ceiling became the floor. I looked up, and Andre and Margot were standing over me, mouthing words back and forth that I couldn’t hear over the crushing music. I was slumped against the railing and I clutched my stomach, felt like I was going to be sick.
Andre leaned down and tucked a shoulder under my arm and guided me up the stairs.
“You had a little spill,” he said in his richly accented English.
I let him lead me onto the dance floor. A slower, thumping song trickled from the speakers, and Margot was already dancing, swaying back and forth with her arms raised above her head, stretched toward the ceiling.
Andre circled her waist with a lanky arm and then pulled me into them. I tried to dance but I knew if I moved too much, I would stumble, so I let myself lean into his chest.
Margot moved closer to me, put her hands on my hips. Her charcoal eyes were steady on mine, and Andre slipped behind me, roping his arms around my waist.
Sweat beaded on my upper lip, and the room spun around me.
—
THAT’S WHEN MYmemory of the night starts to falter.
—
I REMEMBER STAGGERINGaway from Andre and Margot. Leaning on a barstool against the wall. The lights flickering as if someone were flipping the on/off switch. The music getting louder, faster, more jittery.
I peered down the stairs at the booth and saw Jill sitting on top of one of the Russians. Moving up and down against him. Tina sitting next to them, drink in hand, arm slung over the back of the padded leather booth. Callie with the blond still at her ear, but gazing up at me, her eyes narrowed and dark.
Margot. Andre. Andre slipping a hand inside Margot’s romper, rubbing circles on a nipple. Andre leading Margot to a wall, hoisting her up. Sweat beading on my arms, clammy and cold. My eyes tweaking, my vision shifting.
Margot, eyes locked onto mine from across the room, as Andre had her right there on the dance floor, in the dark corner against the wall, her legswrapped around his waist. Margot seemingly breaking the second rule of the Hunting Wives.We don’t go all the way. Margot staring at me through all of it.
After that, I remember nothing.
—
I WRAP MYcoat tighter around me. My whole body is racked with shivers. I rub my hands together to warm them, press them to my face, try and sober up.
I’ve never been good with mixing alcohol, but this feels like something different. I wonder if one of the men slipped something in my drink, but then again, I was the only one affected. And why would they singlemeout?
Callie pulls into Margot’s drive just as the sun is oozing over the horizon. She notices me staring at her in the rearview mirror; she gives me a tight smile and a look. An unsettling look that makes me think of the mojito, the very last thing I drank, and a chill passes over me.
25
I WAKE WITHa start. The sheets are drenched with sweat; I reek of the nightclub—stale smoke swirled with alcohol and Andre’s cologne.
Graham’s side of the bed is empty, and Margot’s little black dress is pooled on the floor. I wrench myself from bed and cross the hall and see that Jack’s room is empty, too.
I wander to the kitchen. There’s coffee in the pot but the machine is switched off and it’s grown cold. A half of a silver-dollar pancake is stuck to one of Jack’s Thomas the Tank Engine plates, and there’s a terse note resting on the counter written in Graham’s handwriting:
At the farmers’ market.
It’s nine a.m. Guilt racks my stomach and I fly down the hall to get dressed. I yank on some sweats and a T-shirt, twist my hair up with a jaw clip. At the sink, I nearly vomit while trying to brush my teeth, and my hands shake. Black eyeliner is smudged underneath my eyes; I look like a street mime, but I leave it and race for the car.
—
THE FARMERS’ MARKETis packed and it takes me a while to spot Graham and Jack, but when I do, my heart leaps. I squeeze my way through the crowded rows, muttering apologies to those I’m brushing past.
Graham is at the black bean brownie table again, chatting with the girl from the other day. His head is tilted to one side, and a smile is pasted across his face. He’s flirting, I realize, and the girl juts her hip out, twirls a ribbon of long hair around her finger.
