“Since when are you the bloody voice of reason? If your fuse was any shorter…” She shakes her head and sends a glare over my shoulder into the kitchen again.
“You’re right,” I say, using more push than is polite to steer her around the corner and out of the kitchen’s sight line. “You’re right. Which is how I know my sister doesn’t thank people for popping off on her behalf. She’ll be more embarrassed than she already is, and she’ll resent you for it.”
Emily crosses her arms, a slight stagger backward accentuating the gesture. For a moment, I hope that she’s drunk, that she won’t remember this, but a disappointing assessment tells me she’s just bungling, not battered. “I guess you’re right.” And before I can protest, her arm has swung itself through mine, and she’s dragging us both out of the party.
We stagger, arms linked, back to Natty’s student house. As we walk the quieter streets, I wonder what will happen to Luca. It’s different than with Marc; I know I want to hurt him, badly, but what I’ve done isn’t an exact science. If I’m lucky, he’ll really suffer.
When Emily and I arrive back at the house, we say good night and head our separate ways. As I turn from her, make my way to the spare bedroom, I feel the press of her eyes in my back. Her suspicion follows me all the way inside until I close the door. Still, I know that whatever happens, she can’t make trouble for me. Because if I was at the scene of the crime, then she was, too. And I’ve no qualms about letting her know that if things become complicated for me, they’ll become complicated for both of us.
30
Now
James’s grip is tight on the steering wheel. Mine is tight on my phone.
I still haven’t heard any more from Claire, despite all the messages I’ve sent her.
Tell me you wouldn’t do this to me
I’ll never forgive this
This feels worse than what any of them have ever done
Please tell me I’m wrong. Maybe there’s an explanation?
It’s a warm evening, the car air-con on full blast. I’m not sure if I’m ready to face Will, the wet rag of Claire’s betrayal wrapped tightly around my face, stymieing my breath, obscuring all my senses. But Iam ready to end one of my nightmares if I can. The blackmail can finally stop. There’s a literal bittersweetness beneath my tongue at that thought. It reminds me of the gentle sweetness that floods my mouth before I’m violently sick.
And I do feel sick. I should feel boundless relief, freedom, and joy. But my sister’s duplicity sits heavy on my shoulders. This silence, her inability to offer me the smallest relief or explanation, is slowly killing me. There’s a sheen of sweat on my forehead; my fingertips tingle; my chest is tight. I thought it was the hot air, but despite the arctic blast pumping out of the air vents, I still can’t breathe.
“Air” is all I say, jamming a finger down on a button that sends my window sliding open.
James glances at me, looks back at the road, then glances again. Things are a little strained between us. I’ve apologized a hundred times for the lies. But somehow, now, he seems even more on edge around me than before.
“You okay?” he asks.
Yes. No. Maybe. “I’m just…It’s a lot.”
He nods, eyes on the road and hands tighter on the wheel. I’m still a little drunk from all the Picpoul, which hasn’t helped. And now, even the gaping window, fresh air beating my face, isn’t helping. I wonder if I really might throw up.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
A bewildered look flashes across his face. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He shuffles in his seat. The car picks up speed. The set of James’s shoulders is casual, and his face is ostensibly…well, if determined, still relatively relaxed. And yet there’s an energy radiating off him that makes me uncomfortable. There’s been something unfailingly artificial in every smile, reassuring hug, and enthusiastic comment he’s made to me since hearing the news this evening. I’m too tipsy tountangle it, and sober, I’m not sure how much easier it would be. James is good at keeping a lid on his emotions.
We take a few sharp turns, and I can’t help but feel we’re hurtling toward an inevitability. As if the very thought has conjured her like a malignant spirit, my phone starts buzzing. A blank circle, photo long since deleted, but name clear: Melissa Doe. For the first time in years, I’m less conflicted about picking up the phone and speaking to her. After all, it’s the poison she’s tried to feed me about Claire that’s driven us apart. More than the psychological warfare, more than never being enough for her.
I notice James notice my screen, but he knows me well enough not to bother to ask about it.
Deep, even breaths.
My finger hovers over the green answer button. James is doing his best to focus on the road, but I can feel him watching what’s happening out of the corner of his eye. I hit the answer button. His jaw drops open.
“Mother.”
There’s a faint, rasping breath, and then sobbing. Wild, unburdened sobbing.
The car speeds along the road, wind whipping my face. For the first time, I wonder what’s prompting this call. The thundering wind doesn’t leave much space for my mother’s reply, but even beneath the roar I can tell that there is only silence on the other end of the line. I roll the window up.
“Did you know?” I ask. “I was talking to my therapist today, and she asked me some questions that…that got me thinking. About my exes. About what happened to them. Claire.” A wail on the other end of the line. “Did you know?”
