“I didn’t realize they came here, too,” I mutter, staring at the boys, my cheeks burning hot the second I say it. I don’t want to admit it, the attachment I’ve grown in such a short amount of time—and not just to the roommates, the girls, but to this place, too. Ever since my first night here, I’ve come to think of Penny Lanes as something sacred, the four of us swinging in circles, holding each other’s sweaty hands. A secret spot, like that pocket of air beneath the dock, where we can go to hide, to get away.
A thing we share and keep from everyone else.
Lucy turns to look at me, a flash of what feels like pity appearing across her face. Then she grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before walking over to a group of them and leaving me alone.
I decide to walk over to the bar and mix myself a drink before turning around and surveying the room. It’s giant, square, and completely windowless, the way bowling alleys usually are. The cavernous atmosphere makes it the ideal place to do something like this—nobody on the outside could possibly know that there are people on the inside—and as a result, it’s easy to feel a little punch-drunk in here. The concrete walls make everything feel impersonal, teetering on clinical, time stretching on the same way it did when my dad let me tag along to the casino once: with no natural light to indicate the passage of time, your mind feels perpetually suspended, like you’re reliving the same scene over and over again.
I look to my left and see a couple guys flinging themselves down the lanes, laughing hysterically as they slam into the bumpers. Nicole is sitting on Trevor’s lap on top of the ball return and Sloane has wandered over to the jukebox again, flipping through various options before deciding on Fleetwood Mac.
“Hey, Margot.”
I twist around, my eyes bulging at the sight of him. Levi is here, self-consciously gripping a plastic cup so hard it’s beginning to bend beneath the pressure. I’ve been bracing myself for his return, of course, my eyes continually darting over to the Kappa Nu parking lot, scanning the cars for his rusted white Jeep with the Outer Banks bumper sticker peeling at the edges. I’ve been on high alert every time we venture next door, ears tingling with the emergence of every new voice. Chest squeezing with each peripheral glance I got of a tall, tan boy with tousled brown hair … but I hadn’t been expecting him here, of all places.
I look around again, my gaze darting madly around the room, trying to understand what he’s doing. Why he’s hanging out with Trevor and Lucas and all the guys a grade above him instead of people his own age, when I remember what Trevor had said that very first night.
“He’s a legacy, so, you know. Special treatment and all that.”
“Hey,” I respond, trying to somehow swallow my heartbeat. I can feel it rising, slowly making its way up my throat. Levi’s father was in the fraternity, which means he’s always going to get the invite to these things, at least in the early days when they’re still trying to schmooze him. Still trying to convince him that he’s different, special. Somehow immune to the hazing that’s inevitably headed his way.
“Look, let’s just get this out of the way, okay? I know you don’t want me here,” he says, almost urgently, like he had been bracing himself all summer to say it. “You made that clear from the beginning. The very beginning.”
I bite my lip, remembering that first day under the dock. The way Eliza and I had watched him walk toward us before we dipped beneath the water, reemerging in that secret space. How interesting: that female instinct to duck, to hide, like prey catching sight of glowing eyes in the night. Something inherent in our very genes, our very DNA. I wonder now if he knew we were down there all along, planting his feet and refusing to move.
If he liked the feeling of being on top of us, smothering us. If it made him feel big.
“But I’m here,” he continues. “And I’m not going anywhere, so you’re going to have to get used to it.”
I remember the way I used to walk up to them, after, once they became friends. Smiling politely as I plopped down, too. The way an awkward hush would settle over the three of us, whatever they were saying before screeching to a halt.
“We don’t have to be enemies,” he continues, and I think about the way he would smile back, biting his cheek, hating me for existing. For being there, too. “We both loved her—”
“Stop,” I say, holding out my hand. Remembering his silhouette in the yard, watching her in the dark. I can’t listen to him say that word. “Just stop talking.”