“As was I.” He puts on his shirt and begins doing up the buttons. As he covers his abs, I wonder what would happen if I were to protest. Would they take it as a joke? Or would she murder me in my sleep? “Grace is having some friends over. We’re going to have cocktails. You’re welcome to join us.”
Grace is looking at me again, as if I’ve made another chess move.
“They are our friends, darling. And of course she is welcome.”
I flash her a smile. “I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I stand in front of the tiny wardrobe, rifling through my pack. I empty the books and charging cords and find the Swiss Army knife I inherited from Mom. Inherited is a strong word—more like ‘found in her stuff after she died’—but the blade is sharp and has given me courage when I’m walking at night in the city. I unload the rest of the clothes onto the bed. Most of what I brought is practical. Jeans, T-shirts, hiking gear.
Perfect for the outdoors, useless for a party.
My mind wanders. People! People at Pine Ridge! And not just any people—friends of Grace. Artists, writers, and musicians. They can’t all be assholes. Some of them might even be famous, like Grace.
I haven’t been to many parties. I spent my normal college years looking after Mom, and by the time I was a freshman, I was too old to go drinking with teenagers.
At the bottom of the pile, I find the one dress I packed almost as an afterthought. It’s dark blue, with thin straps and a plunging neckline. The fabric clings, and the hemline sits high on my thighs. I bought it for one of Neil’s work functions and have worn it precisely once.
I slip it on and check my reflection in the rusty mirror beside the bed. The dress reveals more than it conceals, but it’s all I’ve got.
I wait until dark before making my entrance. When the sun finally dips behind the trees, I slip on my only pair of decent shoes and step outside. The path to the main house is pitch black, and I walk slowly until I reach the driveway. I hear faint traces of laughter from the front porch of the house, where two men are talking, and I pause.
What am I doing here? I’m dead sober, and I have nothing in common with these people. They’re probably talking about art and philosophy. What can I talk about? Since turning eighteen, my life has been little more than caring for a dying mother, sleepwalking through a dead-end relationship, and learning about seabirds.
Did you know Arctic terns experience more daylight than any other creature on Earth due to their pole-to-pole migration pattern?
That’s me: life of the party.
“Brie!”
Damn—one of the men is Bradley. I wave and walk to the house, feeling awkward in my dress.
“I thought that was you!” he says, as I get closer. “You look amazing.”
“Sorry, I don’t have many clothes.”
“You put me to shame.” He points to the man standing next to him, who is sucking on a cigarette. He’s tall, with a closely trimmed beard, wearing a check button-down and slacks. “Him, too. Excuse me, I’m going to get a drink.”
The man holds out his hand, and I climb up the steps to take it.
“I’m Brie.” I angle my head. “You look familiar. Do you live in the city?”
“Unfortunately, not. I’m in Manhattan for my sins. I’m Jesse Youngman, Grace’s agent.” He takes another drag from his cigarette. “You staying in the murder house?”
“Excuse me?”
“The cottage. I always tell Grace to knock that place down.”
“Why do you call it the murder house?” I ask, feeling protective of my new home, even if I secretly agree.
He looks at me for a second, as if to see if the question is genuine. “Inside joke. Don’t worry, no real murders have taken place there.”
“What a fun joke.”
I feel his eyes moving down my body, but I keep looking ahead at the driveway and pretend not to notice.
Frigatebirds can fly continuously for up to two months without landing, using unihemispheric slow-wave sleep, resting one half of their brain while the other half remains alert.
