—
“SORRY, IT TOOKme longer to get away than I thought,” Brad says as he grabs Margot into a hug. She says something harsh to him that I can’t make out and bats him on both shoulders with balled-up fists. He lifts her up and spins her around until she relents and squeals with pleasure.
He glances my way and notices me, half-drunk and smeared into the sofa.
“Jamie should be here shortly. In fact, he should’ve already been here by now,” he says to me as if this were a double date, an arrangement I’d previously agreed to.
My neck burns at the mention of Jamie, and the wine sours in my stomach. I should get up, leave now before he arrives. I check the time. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. I set my glass down on the coffee table, unfold my legs from beneath me, and stand.
“I really do need to get going,” I say to Margot, who’s pressed her back into Brad’s chest. Her fingers are laced behind his neck and she’s the old Margot again, radiating fierceness and sexuality.
“Don’t leave just yet!” she says, her face scrunched up, looking at me as if I’m insane for even considering going. “Seriously. Stay for at least one more drink.”
The wine has made my legs feel syrupy, so I sink back into the sofa. “One more won’t kill me, I guess.” I dig in my bag for my cell, check for texts from Graham. Nothing. I let out a sigh and my shoulders relax. But I type him a quick text.
Leaving soon! Home before midnight so I don’t turn into a pumpkin. xx
I press send and drop the cell back in my bag. I’ve texted him as much for his own sake as for mine—I want to be held accountable. I want to keep my promise to him.
—
BRAD AND MARGOTjoin me in the great room. They are all over each other—Margot sits in his lap while Brad twirls a lock of her glossy hair around his finger. Clearly, she’s forgiven him for running behind.
“Miss Sophie,” he drawls, cobalt-blue eyes trained on me, “lookin’ good tonight.”
Margot jabs him in the rib cage but nods in agreement. “She’s a star,” she says.
But she’s not looking at me. She’s tracing a finger over Brad’s lips before leaning in to kiss him.
I look away from their tangled mess, swallow hard, stare at the polished oak floorboards. The room suddenly feels overheated and swampy, and I’m all but squirming in my seat as they make out. I should leave, I’m clearly just the third wheel here, but an irrational, stubborn part of me thinks that I’ll be next with Margot.
I rise and step into the kitchen. “Wine, anyone?” I call out, hoping to break their spell.
“Yes, ma’am,” Brad says, moving Margot off his lap and striding into the kitchen. He grabs Margot’s empty glass and holds it out for me to fill. I refill my own and we toast before draining our glasses.
“It’s making me all swoony, the wine is,” Margot says. “I’m switching back to bourbon.”
“That’s my girl,” Brad says. He shoots me a quick wink. Something about the way he’s paying attention to me makes my stomach twinge. It feels like he’s checking me out, and I’m both flattered and mortified.
I glance at Margot but she’s oblivious, busy filling three tumblers with the rest of the bourbon. The bottle is only about a fourth full, so she evenly distributes it between our glasses. She turns to the fridge and scoops a handful of ice from the freezer, wraps it in a rag, and sets it on the counter.
“Brad likes his whiskey on the rocks. And he likes the ice to be jagged,” she says, taking a mallet from the drawer and hammering away at the folded bundle. She unrolls it and drops the slivers of ice into his glass, which pop against the heat of the bourbon.
“Hear, hear!” Brad says, raising his glass to ours.
I take a small, scorching sip and set the glass down. I need to take it slow or I’ll be too drunk to drive.
Margot pulls up a playlist on her phone, and soon Willie Nelson is crooning in the background. She slugs her tumbler of bourbon, licks her lips, and moves her hips slowly back and forth to the music with half-closed eyes.
Brad and I watch her performance. His mouth hangs open and his full lipsare shiny with whiskey. His eyes are following her hips, and soon, he goes over to her and pulls her into a two-step.
I take another slow sip and watch as his hands slither over her faded jeans, around her waist, and down to her ass.
I’m grateful when I hear Jamie’s knock at the door. Margot breaks away from Brad and wrenches it open.
“Howdy, you!” she says, her voice loud and giddy. “Glad you could finally join us.”
I flick my eyes toward the clock on the microwave. Eleven twenty. I will leave soon; I have to.
