I step out of line and snake around the building.
There’s Margot, leaning against the shiplap wall, a glass of champagnedangling from her hand. My heart flutters in my chest. She’s in a taupe chiffon dress, short and sheer, and her legs glisten in the glow of the bathhouse lights. I inch forward but there are three women circling her, whom I recognize from Facebook.
I shift on my feet, vying to be noticed, but the women seem to sway, too, forming an impenetrable wall around her. My palms are glazed with sweat and I feel foolish standing outside their circle, so I twist around to leave, when I hear Margot.
“Don’t mind us, I’m just hiding from Mother,” she purrs.
The other three pivot around and give me the once-over, their eyes veering from my shoes up to my throat. I guess they approve because they unlatch their ring and stand aside. A busty, attractive brunette flashes me a wide smile. Next to her: a broad-shouldered pillar of a woman in a simple black dress. Callie Jenkins. Margot’s best friend, according to Facebook. Shoulder-length ash-blond hair molded in a sorority cut and eyes unsmiling as she takes me in.
The third is a diminutive-looking woman in a strappy white dress, arms crossed over her stomach, clutching a simple black handbag. She’s pretty, in an understated sort of way, with jet-black hair and stark blue eyes framed in a sleek pair of cat-eye glasses. Prim but with an undertow of sexuality, like a librarian from a porn film.
“Need a refill?” Margot fishes a bottle from an ice bucket at her feet.
“Absolutely,” I say, though my head swims. She fills my glass.
“I’m Tina!” the friendly brunette offers, shaking my hand vigorously.
“Sophie. Sophie O’Neill,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“And I’m Jill. Jill Simmons.” The small-framed, black-haired one steps forward, planting her delicate hand in mine.
Callie just stands there, parked in place like a suburban until Margot elbows her and whispers, “Manners.”
“Callie,” she says, extending a buff arm toward me, palm sweaty, limp handshake.
“And I’m Margot, by the way,” Margot says, her smoky eyes level with mine, her voice velvet-smooth. I search them for a hint of recognition,wondering if she recognizes me from Facebook, but she acts as though she’s never laid eyes on me before. “This is my husband’s parents’ place. And this is our hideout,” she snickers.
They all look at me expectantly, so I rush in to fill the void.
“I just moved here,” I say, my voice creaking out of me, shaky and small.
“Me, too!” Tina says.
“You didnot,” Margot snorts.
“Well, I guess it has been two years already,” Tina says, her voice slinky. “But I’m from Fort Worth. I’m not native like the rest of these girls.”
I glance around and notice they all seem as tipsy as I am. I bring the glass to my lips and sip. The champagne tickles my throat and scorches my still-empty stomach.
“So, where are you from?” Tina asks, diamond studs twinkling from her earlobes.
“Chicago. Or just outside of Chicago.”
“What did you do up there?”
“I was the lifestyle editor at a magazine.” As I say this, I notice that Margot is now leaning toward me, paying closer attention.
“You know, I was in charge of celebrity profiles, arts coverage, that sort of thing,” I ramble on.
Margot locks her eyes onto mine. Her finger traces the rim of her wineglass.
“That’s so cool! But how’d you wind up here?” Margot asks, crinkling her nose.
They all chuckle. Margot grasps the neck of the champagne bottle, refills my glass.
“I lived here for two years in high school. Junior and senior year. And I kind of liked it. It’s nice here, no?” I ask, taking another huge mouthful. It’s both flattering and unnerving to be under the sudden glare of her attention.
Even though the sun has set, the night is still warm, panting and heaving around us. I smooth my hair over one shoulder, hoping to cool my neck.
