“Pull!” I track the skeet more carefully this time, squeeze the trigger, and watch the disc burst into tiny bits that scatter to the ground.
Even though I’m in the zone now, I still miss the next two rounds, butadrenaline courses through me—I can see why they’re addicted to shooting; I could do this all night. But Callie walks over, lifts the gun from me, and handles it like it’s diseased.
The sky is now jack-o’-lantern orange as the sun evaporates behind the trees, so Margot tips the remains of the wine into each of our glasses. We clink and toast as cicadas buzz all around us before we load up and head back to the lake house.
31
INSIDE, WE GATHERon the sectionals in the great room, the lake twinkling behind us as the last slices of sunlight cut through the pines.
Margot is at the bar, pouring bourbon into shot glasses. It’s frigid inside, and she’s wrapped a knee-length black cardigan around her. She sets the glasses on a silver tray and takes the few steps down to the sofas.
“Cheers, ladies,” she says, and we each down our shots. Mine tastes so strong that it makes me shake my head.
Now that the sun has vanished, it’s dark inside the house. Only the bullet lights above the kitchen sink are on, little stabs of white light, so Margot switches on a table lamp and it fills the great room with a golden glow.
She leans into the corner of a sofa and pulls the cardigan around her even tighter. Her lips are glossed in crimson red and she’s staring out the window, the same mask of distraction as before covering her face.
Callie uncrosses her legs, refills everyone’s shots.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I could drink this whole bottle,” Callie says, exhaling toward the ceiling and kicking off her boots.
“I’ll drink to that!” Tina beams.
“Same!” Jill chimes in.
We all toast and shoot again, but the energy in the room is flat and lifeless. It’s Margot. Or rather, it’s the absence of Margot. The usual Margot who is charged, crackling with electricity, directing our every move.
I look at her, trying again to read her face. She’s wrapped her arms around her legs and is resting her chin on the tops of her knees. She’s rocking back and forth, fidgeting. She fishes her cell out of her back pocket, stabs the keypad.
Jill and Tina gossip in the corner of the opposite sectional, but I notice that Callie is studying Margot, too.
Margot tosses her cell on the cushion next to her, stands and yawns, stretching her arms over her head.
“You guys, I’m sorry. I just don’t have it in me tonight. Can we make it an early one?”
“We just got here,” Callie says flatly.
“Absolutely!” Jill pipes in, clearly still eager to keep things smooth with Margot. “I have to get up early, take Brad—” But she stops here, catching herself. “We have a lot of stuff to do tomorrow.”
Tina rises from the sofa and loops an arm around Margot’s waist. “You okay, honey?” she asks, her voice as warm and saccharine as a school counselor’s.
Margot quickly nods, then shakes her off. “Totally fine, just bushed for some reason.”
“Well it’s no big deal to me, like I said, Bill’s dragging me to Dallas first thing in the morning. Maybe we can have lunch later this week?”
“Sure. Text me,” Margot says.
—
MY CELL CHIMEDa few minutes ago, so I root around in my bag until I find it. It’s a text from Graham, I’m sure, and I’m secretly relieved that Margot’s calling it an early one so I can get home when I promised.
But when I look at the screen, I see that it’s not from Graham at all. It’s from Margot.
Not you. I want you
She hadn’t finished typing the first text, so there’s another one tacked on.
to stay. If you’re up for it.
