Only If You're Lucky(58)

He was grasping at straws, blindly searching for anything and anyone to blame other than Eliza’s own recklessness. Her own stupidity.

I knew, because I was doing it, too.

“There were bruises,” he said at last, and I jerked my head toward him, a hitch in my throat that made it hard to breathe. I watched as he opened his eyes, stared into his glass. Inspecting something invisible at the bottom.

“What do you mean?” I asked slowly.

“On her wrist,” he said. “Like fingers. The coroner said they were … fresh.”

I glanced over to Levi’s house, the little pinprick of light coming from his bedroom. He had been at the funeral, too, keeping his distance. Sitting silently in the corner before standing up and walking away as soon as it was over. He had been interviewed by the police that night, then later on the news. Skin pale and eyes haunted after leaning over the edge, seeing the way her body looked after falling fifty feet in the dark. We later learned that her bones had broken immediately upon impact. Her neck snapped in half like a raw noodle.

The small mercy, I supposed, was that she was dead as soon as she even realized what was happening.

“Of course, she was all banged up,” Mr. Jefferson continued, his eyes glistening with fresh tears. “She was covered in them. Bruises. But I don’t know … I guess I was just wondering—”

“She was with Levi,” I interrupted, still staring at his window. “They went to the party together.”

“I know,” he said. “I know that. They were dating?”

“I don’t know what they were, but he was always around.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Honestly?” I said, turning to face him. “I hated it.”

“Why?”

“He’s just a bad influence, a bad guy.”

“How so?”

“He just is,” I said. “Things got so different once he showed up. Eliza told me—”

I stopped, my chest flushing as Mr. Jefferson snapped his head in my direction. Even though she was dead, I still felt a strange sense of allegiance toward her. A deep-seated obligation to keep my best friend’s secrets.

“Eliza told you what?” he pushed.

“She told me Levi used to watch her at night. Through her window,” I said at last, the admission making me uncomfortable. “That he used to follow her around.”

“She told you that?”

I nodded, shame creeping into my cheeks.

“Why wouldn’t she—?”

“She didn’t want you to be upset,” I continued, talking fast. “She thought it was cute, I guess. That he was that interested.”

I watched as he sighed, took another long sip of his drink, more resigned than anything. We both stayed quiet, listening to the sounds of the cicadas in the distance. The occasional thrash in the water, the gentle waves.

“You know, you try to instill a sense of right and wrong in your kids—”

“This isn’t your fault,” I started, but he held his hand up.

“But as a parent, you usually get it wrong more often than you get it right.” He was quiet, twirling the melting ice in his glass. “It’s hard to be mad at her.”

I stared at the side of his face, new lines etched deep into his skin like he had aged years instead of days. He was right: it was hard to be mad at her, but I couldn’t tell him that. I couldn’t tell him about the awful things we had said to each other, all the terrible things we had done.

I couldn’t tell him that I blamed myself, too, in so many different ways. So instead, I just sat there silently, staring into the distance. My eyes trained on the Butler house until Levi’s light finally switched off.





CHAPTER 41


The morning crawls by in a sluggish daze: sugary casseroles and Christmas carols running on repeat as I unwrap my gifts. I feign delight over a new set of plaid pajamas, a sterling silver charm bracelet I’ll probably never wear. My mother unwraps her annual perfume—my father, a stack of books he always picks out himself—then I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt before making the walk down to Eliza’s.

It’s a quick journey, just a handful of houses between us, and as I round the bend to the Jeffersons’ driveway, I can’t help but notice how empty it looks. Not just the yard, all the old flowers long-since dead, but the house itself, too. None of the regular decorations are cluttering up the porch; there are no candles flickering in the windows or wreaths hanging from hooks on the door. Mrs. Jefferson always used to set up an inflatable Nativity scene on the lawn, something my own mother chastised as tacky whenever we drove around the neighborhood to look at the lights, though I know I can’t blame them for not feeling festive this year.

Finally, I reach the front and push my finger into the bell, waiting impatiently as I hear the sound of footsteps approaching on the other side.

“Margot.”

The door swings open and I try my best to conceal the surprise, though I’m sure it’s apparent all across my face. Eliza’s father is barely recognizable beneath the tuft of a newly grown beard, wiry hair peppered with gray. His skin is still a deep, dark tan, but there are more wrinkles now, too. Fine creases where it used to be smooth and bags that didn’t exist before hanging heavy beneath his eyes.