It’s almost showtime.
Jackson stands in the squashy lawn of the Andersens’ backyard, surveys, with pride, his handiwork.
He may, by trade, be a decorator, but in addition to bartending his way through college, he picked up the odd catering gig and can now party plan in his sleep.
With the champagne fountain frothing beside him, he dips a crystal glass under a stream, filling it with the pale-gold liquid. He allows himself a sip, the bubbles fizzing down his throat. Perfection.
Around the pool, lanterns pulse with light, continuing in a trail around the side of the house and along the redbrick path, illuminating the way for guests.
In the middle of the courtyard, the brass band fromShreveport that Jackson found at the eleventh hour does a sound check, their horns catching the last dregs of sunlight.
For a long stretch, the folding tables are laden with barbecue: platters of cognac-colored ribs, the flesh shiny and glistening; mountains of creamy yellow potato salad; and trays of brisket, smoked to charred perfection.
On the desert table: blimp-sized watermelons sliced in half—some of them spiked with vodka—nudge against aluminum trays filled with buttery banana pudding.
And on every other surface, amber-colored bottles of beer nose out of tubs of ice.
Charleigh flits around—wired on coffee and now buzzing from the three glasses of champagne she’s already downed (Jackson’s counting)—looking resplendent in a red-and-white gingham top tied just below her breast line, flashing her toned abs, matched with a pair of stark-white shorts, feet tucked into a pair of six-inch peekaboo sandals.
Even Nellie looks radiant in a red halter top and cutoffs so short, the fringe barely tickles the tops of her thighs.
Jackson himself went for casual as well, a crisp white button-down with a pair of faded jeans and tan loafers, his black hair glossy with mousse. On his wrist sits his gold Rolex, one of the lone treasures of his late father’s that his cruel mother finally bequeathed him.
It’s 7:58.
The air fills with car doors slapping shut, the clamor of voices crawling along the path that winds to the backyard. The firstof the guests have arrived: Charleigh’s mousy friend, Kathleen, being steered along by her husband, Kyle David. Clumps of other familiar faces, men in white polos and khakis, and women in sundresses.
Jackson’s heart hitches in his chest as he sees them: the Swifts. The top of Ethan’s head sways over the other guests, his lush hair swept to one side.
Jackson lifts the flute to his lips, glugs down the rest. He steels himself to glimpse the rest of Ethan, to tug him away at some point tonight to tell him what he saw.
47
Nellie
I’m trapped in a conversation with Dustin’s parents, Sherry and John, next to the pool.
I can feel Dustin’s pouty stare from across the water. He’s talking to some of the other boys—so thankfully I can avoid him for the moment—but it’s as if Mrs. Reeves knows we had a fight; she’s being clingy, her bony fingers, covered in chunky gold rings, planted on my shoulder.
“I just think this is such awonderfulparty, Nellie, don’t you!” She smiles at me like a crazy person, her lipsticked mouth like a clown’s.
“It’s fine,” I sigh, forcing myself to smile.
It’s sunset, that time of evening when light plays tricks on everything and it’s hard to see clearly. But I know I saw the Swifts arrive a few minutes ago, the mom in some flowy white dress, the dad in a simple button-down and jeans, and Jane in some sort of plain tee and long skirt. As they first rounded thecorner from the front of the house, I could also see Luke, lanky and tall and brooding.
But now, as I scan the party, I don’t see him at all.
“Well, nice talking to ya,” I say to Mrs. Reeves, twisting my shoulder out of her grip and walking away.
“Oh, Nellie, do come find me later, dear!” She’s actually sweet, but no thanks, lady.
I also can’t find Mom or Dad. But squinting up toward the house, I can see people in the back room—the den—moving in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I just can’t make them out.
On my way up the hill, I swipe a beer from a bucket, pop the top off, Then pour it in a Solo cup. Not that Mom will be policing me tonight, but some of the parents might not like me drinking openly like this.
The dewy grass licks my almost-bare feet—I’m wearing sandals—because I’m on the move through the yard, taking the shortest path, walking as quickly as I can; that’s definitely Luke inside my house, talking to Mom and Dad.
Great.
