Sincerely,
Your Alumni Committee
Adrian doesn’t get angry very often. It’s one of the qualities that attracted me to him—the even temper, the fuse as long as a garden hose. But right now he’s mad. He wants to know where I’ve been, why I was gone for so long, why he’s already in his suit and I’m standing here sweating in a sundress.
“So you disappear for almost two hours and don’t answer your phone. What the hell am I supposed to think? I’m asking everyone if they’ve seen my wife and they’re all giving me these strange looks, like they feel sorry for me.”
Wife is a missile in his mouth. It means something entirely different than it did in our wedding vows.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I didn’t realize I was gone that long. I didn’t think it would be so hard—hearing people talk about her. I had to get out. It was taking me back to a dark place.”
“I thought you weren’t even friends,” he says.
“I lived with a girl who killed herself. It’s complicated. I’m sure you can understand.”
He exhales slowly. “I get that you wanted to be alone, but can’t you see why I would be extremely worried about you?”
“I know.” I grip his fingers and cast a glance at the closed inner door, wondering if Sully is in the other room. “I’m sorry. Being back here is weird for me.”
Adrian shrugs me off and sits down on our bed. His dress pants ride up, revealing purple and yellow striped socks, which I’m pretty sure have holes in the bottom. “Yeah. It must be weird. But why have you never once mentioned Flora in all the time we’ve known each other? Or Sully? You made it sound like Hads and Heather were your only real friends from here, but it’s pretty obvious they weren’t. I told you about Chad on, what, our third date?”
Chad was Adrian’s best friend in high school. In senior year he was having a hard time dealing with college applications and the pressure his parents put on him to be a football superstar. Chad started drinking a lot, and one night when he and Adrian were at a party, he said goodbye and drove himself home. Chad died instantly when his car crashed into a telephone pole. Nobody ever knew if it was an accident or a suicide, but Adrian was racked with guilt. He told me it was the darkest phase in his life.
“I felt like a monster,” he said. It was the first time I saw him cry. “I could have prevented it. Chad had beers and drove at, like, every party. I never thought anything different would happen that night.”
I cradled his head on my lap and told him he wasn’t a monster, just a regular teenage boy. It would have been a good time to reveal that my roommate had died because of me. But there was never a good time for that kind of truth.
I wait for Adrian to soften, but he doesn’t. “I asked the girls from Butterfields about you and Flora. They seemed to think that something had happened with you guys. Ella said she saw Flora crying in the bathroom the day before she died and mentioned something cryptic about Halloween.”
Ella told me the same thing, once, and I didn’t listen. Flora’s secret, folded in on itself like origami. The pilot from Halloween. He was her first, when she was waiting for it to be Kevin. And she hadn’t even wanted it.
“I have no idea what Ella meant by that. Sully and I took Flora out once, because she was upset about her boyfriend. But nothing strange happened. It was Halloween. All of us got pretty drunk.”
“Huh.” Adrian props his chin in his hands. “Yeah, the boyfriend. Is it true you had something going on with him?”
The panic in my chest is tight like a balloon. I was an idiot to think that the past wouldn’t find not only me but Adrian this weekend.
“Of course not. It’s just like Ella to rehash some stupid rumor. I didn’t even know Flora’s boyfriend. I met the guy once.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but he’s starting to put everything together, like I am, only he’s constructing a different puzzle. He’s working on Who My Wife Is, and I’m working on What Happened to Flora Banning. If Adrian ever pieces together his puzzle, he’ll leave me. How could he not?
“You should get dressed for dinner,” he finally says. “Everyone else is already there. We missed Ella’s pre-drink thing. I thought it would be wrong to go without you.”
My dress is laid out over the back of the desk chair. I don’t know who draped it there, like a body, complete with my stilettos at the bottom. It must have been Sully. She liked to control what I wore.
“This dinner is going to be boring,” I say. “A bunch of dumb speeches and bad food. We could skip it. You’re always saying you wish we were more spontaneous.”
When I glance behind me, Adrian is focused on his phone, not even paying attention. Or maybe he heard me and is pretending not to. Maybe he’s sick of my excuses.
I slip out of my sundress and shimmy into my black Missoni. The clutch I brought to go with it is beaded, something I borrowed from Billie. I open it to put my phone and lipstick inside and that’s when my hand brushes the paper, a little scroll. I unravel it. A promise in crimson ink. Tonight, you’ll find out everything.
* * *
The West Wing is at its red-and-black best, festooned like a proud cardinal. Banquet tables with floor-length tablecloths sweeping the ground, red cushions tied onto silver chairs, bows plump at the back. A band plays low jazz. It’s like a wedding, without the happy couple. I’m wilting in a sea of updos and Spanx, men with white shirts stuck to their backs, my own hair lank, armpits slick.
“There’s Heather,” I say, spying her springy dark curls in the crowd.
But when I get closer, I see that there’s no empty spots at her table. “Sorry,” Hadley says, sinking into a seat with a jacket on the back. “We texted you and asked when you were coming. We thought maybe you bailed.”
“We tried to save room.” Heather shrugs apologetically. “But we couldn’t keep waiting. There are only so many seats.”
“It’s okay. We’ll just meet up after.” Except I can’t ignore their darting eyes, the unspoken language between Hads and Heather. They’re pissed that I blew them off, that we never got a photo in front of our old house. I try to smile, but I’m sure it looks like a grimace.
“There’s Ella.” Adrian gestures to the center of the room. “Looks like there’s space at her table.” Of course. Ella stands up and waves us over, cleavage spilling out of a shiny black dress. They’re all there, glittering under the lights. Clara’s blood-red lips; Gemma and her black sequined dress, long stem legs stretched out; Lily’s hair in a tight ballerina bun; the rubies gripping Sienna’s collarbones. They’re beautiful and terrible, predatory and unapproachable, just like they were then.
I complete the real reunion, the Butts C one. The only girl missing is Sully.
“You look great,” Ella says when we get to the table. “Oh, you can’t sit there. Lauren and Jonah are there. But you can sit in the ones beside it. Right next to me. You drink white wine, right?”
I drank white wine, until now. The First Response, discarded in the bathroom garbage. It’s hard to believe that it happened today, that a handful of hours can change so much. But I guess I should know that already.
“I’m not really in the mood,” I say. “I have a massive headache.” She pours me a glass anyway.
Adrian’s already sipping from his glass. He’ll have too much to drink. He’ll talk to everyone, dance to the band, and draw people to him like a magnet. A surge of warmth floods me. I like that he’s fun, that he’s predictable. Kevin never was. Kevin might be gone by now. Sully might be with him, arm hanging out his truck window, laughter cleaving the night.
I eyeball my full wineglass. Ella glances at it too, then back to me. She knows.
“I need to ask you something,” I say.
“Something about what?” She’s louder than she needs to be.
“About the night Flora died. What you remember from before it happened.”
“You’re kidding, right?” She pushes her hair behind her ears. “Why do you suddenly
want to talk about her now? You should have asked me back then. When I really could have used a friend.”
“I was your friend.”
“I thought you were, at first. But you didn’t care about me. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt this weekend, but I’m not going to make you feel better about anything.” She turns away and takes a drink. I’m left wondering if Ella has been the real actress this whole time.
They’re already starting to bring the first course around, some kind of tomato tower. Lauren and Jonah join us and sit down, flanked by a couple of the other girls’ husbands, all holding drinks. “Look who decided to show up,” Lauren says, followed by a hiccup. I try to drum up a good excuse for being late besides attempting to wring the truth out of Kevin McArthur. But they’re staring past me, at somebody else.
She’s in a floor-length gown with a beaded top, the palest blush rose, almost like a wedding dress. Of course Sully didn’t follow the dress code, didn’t put on her red-and-black best. She’s not wearing a bra, but she doesn’t need to—she used to hate her small breasts, flicking at her nipples, and I told her she was lucky because they wouldn’t sag. She’s smiling, waving at people, like she owns the room, like it’s her own personal red carpet. Maybe it is, because nobody else is stepping up to claim the throne.
She folds herself into the empty seat beside Adrian, like she knew it was being saved for her. Sully has a place at every table. I suddenly don’t want her that close to what’s mine, so of course she gets even closer, kissing his cheek like he’s her husband.
“Sorry I’m so late,” she says. “It took me forever to get ready.”
I don’t think she’s talking about getting ready for dinner. My dress slumped on the chair back, ready for me; the scroll in my purse. She stares at me pointedly, like I’m supposed to have a response, like I ever did anything but agree with her. She picked our outfits for the Double Feature. We’ll wear these, she said. Nothing was ever a question.
Now I see her striding back to the Butts, wiping Flora’s tears. Telling her what I was doing with Kevin. Eyeing the Best mug. Here’s how you can really ruin her life, if you’re up to it.
My phone goes off. It’s a text from Billie, plastered on my screen. Adrian sees it before I can yank the phone away.
Any updates?? Are you still with him?
His bottom lip finds its way into his mouth. When we first started dating, Adrian was very open about his past. “I’ve been cheated on,” he said. “I still followed her around like a puppy dog. I’m a pretty forgiving guy, but cheating is nonnegotiable.” I cuddled into him, gave him the reassurances that he needed. My body tucked around his, my kisses on his bare shoulders. I’d never do that to you. I meant it, at the time.
“Billie wanted to know if you were having fun,” I explain, my mouth working around the words like they’re giant marbles. “I was telling her about the tree dedication. How I had to get away, and that I felt bad about leaving you.”
Adrian takes another drink of his wine. “You could have texted me if you felt so bad. Or answered any of mine.”
I pick at my salad. The cheese is gummy and tasteless. I didn’t bother looking at the menu to see what the next course would be. I doubt I’ll be able to eat it.
Adrian refills Sully’s glass, which, like his, is already empty. She puts her hand on his arm, pointedly. She hasn’t talked to me yet. We’re playing some kind of game. She knows I know something, but not how much.
“So what’s on the agenda for the rest of the night?” I say. “I forget what the last alumni email said.”
“It’s the All-Campus Party at Andrus,” Lauren says, as if I should already know. “But what email do you even mean? They gave out programs when we checked in, but I haven’t gotten any emails.”
I blink at Sully, at the tight rosebud her lips make before she trains them into a smile. She got the emails too—she called them annoying, but they’re more than that. Menacing, their own road map.
I quickly open my email on my phone, ignoring the way Adrian hovers over my shoulder. The last one is still there, read but not deleted. I click on it and scan it for clues, but I don’t find any. Until my eyes settle on the address itself. It’s a Gmail account.
The emails didn’t come from Wesleyan at all.
“Are you okay?” Adrian says. He sounds more irritated than concerned. “You’re shivering.”
“We’re going to need more wine,” Sully says. Her tone is girlish and artificial. I stare at the table setup, at the red sash bisecting the middle, at the black candelabra centerpiece. Somebody put a lot of effort into this party. I notice a menu across from Lauren and pick it up, to have somewhere to look besides anyone’s face.
A noise comes out of my throat, small and strangled, prey caught in a trap. The lettering. It’s the same as what was on the notes. The crimson ink, the tilted letters. The same script that told me we need to talk is now telling me that a beef tenderloin medallion is the next item on the menu.
I reach behind Adrian and pass the menu to Sully. Tiny creases appear on her forehead as the realization sinks in. Is she just acting, or is she really as surprised as I am?
She pushes her untouched plate away. “As if Wesleyan shelled out to have somebody make the menus by hand. I mean, I remember when what they served in MoCon was barely above dog food.”
The girls laugh politely, probably considering their own relationships with the MoCon food. Sully liked to pretend she could eat anything she wanted, but the reality was, she took everything but picked at it, unable or unwilling to commit. When people commented on her razor-sharp collarbones or visible ribs, she’d chalk it up to a fast metabolism, because skinny with work wasn’t as jealousy inducing as skinny without.
I watch Ella. She’s slicing her tomatoes into precise quarters and doesn’t offer any kind of reaction.
“I wonder how anyone can write this neatly.” Sully pretends to inspect the menu. “I can barely write my own name anymore.”
Nobody takes her bait except Adrian, who starts talking about how he tried handwriting his novel but couldn’t decipher his own chicken scratch. “I could have written the first chapter of the next American classic, but nobody would ever know it.”
Adrian keeps talking, and the girls laugh, maybe with him but probably at him, and their husbands remain mostly mute, some of them on their phones. Jonah briefly makes eye contact and he must remember what I look like naked, unless I blend into every other Wesleyan girl.
A cold finger dips into the back of my dress. I didn’t see Sully get up, but now she’s standing behind me, her voice in my ear. “You need to come with me.”
I get up obediently without allowing myself a glance at Adrian. We head into the lobby, which is gratefully empty, minus some red and black balloons crowding the ceiling. Sully spins around. “You went to see Kevin.”
I don’t acknowledge that or ask how she knows. I have more important questions that need answering. “What really happened? When Kevin and I were together the night Flora died. Where did you go? Did you see that ACB post about a blond girl running from Butts C?”
She runs a finger over her eyebrows, but I catch the shock she’s trying to conceal. “I don’t even remember. I was with some guy.”
I try another entry point. “What happened when we went to Dartmouth? I woke up and you weren’t there.”
She tilts her head. “Why ask? You already know.”
My mouth tastes like metal. “Why?”
“It used to be us. Then you were so obsessed with Kevin and Flora. I knew he wasn’t that great. Not worth ruining everything for.”
I sink into a leather armchair, let its width envelop me in a cold hug. “I wasn’t obsessed.”
She fans out her hands. “Come on. You practically begged me to go to Dartmouth with you. He kissed me, we fucked. He was just a horny frat boy.”
I keep going, before she manipulates her way out of this. “Lauren told me about Evie. You talked about her like she was
alive. Did you have something to do with her death?” As I say it, I’m not even sure which her I’m talking about, Evie, Flora, or both.
Her head snaps up, but she doesn’t answer me.
“Tell me the truth.” I lean away from her. “Tell me if you convinced Flora to hurt herself.”
“Of course not. But you did. I mean, bravo. Your messages were truly horrific.”
I try again, because I know she’s holding back. “Did you go back to the Butts and tell her to kill herself while I was with Kevin?”
“Amb,” she says, putting her hands on my knees and hovering over me. “You can’t make someone do something they weren’t going to do already. If you can, then you’re the one who killed Flora.”
“Sloane,” I practically shout. Maybe it’s her actual name that gets me her attention.
She sinks into the chair beside mine. “You saw the messages on Kevin’s phone. He was texting so many girls. You weren’t special to him. But you were to me.” She cracks her knuckles. “Why do you even care how it happened? You hated Flora.”
“I didn’t hate her,” I say. “I was just—”
“You did,” Sully says. “At least I can admit it. I hated her. She was weak. Girls like Flora can’t deal if they’re not wanted by someone.”
It’s a dig at Flora but also at me. Flora was wanted by someone. Sully was craved by everyone. I was eaten alive, cannibalized by my own comparisons.
I focus on Sully’s face, her big eyes and long hair, the girl I worshipped. It was never about Kevin for either of us. It was about a girl we couldn’t become. Sully’s jealousy led her to the same place mine did. Maybe it took her further.
This is what it comes down to. Three girls, each with something another wanted. I was the snake that swallowed Flora, and Sully unhinged her jaw to swallow me. Maybe everything would have ended very differently if we had talked, but we didn’t exist in a world where our envy was allowed to have a voice.
The Girls Are All So Nice Here Page 24
