“Why do you feel guilty?” she asks, taking a step closer. Her hand reaching out, fingers wound around mine.
I think back to that night, those videos. Levi’s arm around her neck, his body hanging off her shoulders. Eliza tilting her head back in a drunken howl and the light of the moon reflecting off the water. The crash of the waves so far below.
“There are just things I wish I had done differently,” I say at last.
I think of the way I had watched them, over and over and over again, restarting from the beginning every time I reached the end. It was a punishment, blinking my bleary eyes in the dark. Like popping that blister, savoring the sting, something sick I forced myself to do for reasons I still don’t fully understand. I remember the disbelief, the anger. The frustration that she could be so stupid after everything we knew about him; everything we had learned.
I remember navigating to my contacts, finding her name. My finger hovering, ready to call. Ready to pick her up, maybe. Bring her home and tuck her in bed … followed by the spite in my chest when I thought about how she went there without me. The wound ripping open when I just wanted it to heal.
So instead, I put my phone down, silenced it completely.
I rolled over in bed, closed my eyes, and tried, so hard, to forget about it all. To forget about her, to forget that feeling that was growing in my chest, instead swallowing it down so it sat in my stomach. Putrid and sour, coating my tongue.
Poisoning me from the inside out.
CHAPTER 32
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Lucas says. “It’s better than turkey, I promise.”
I look down at the plate in front of me, a small circle of steak with a puddle of gore leaking out around it. The scoop of mashed potatoes layered beneath has already turned soggy and pink, the brassy aroma of it all tingling my tongue. I made the mistake of walking into the kitchen earlier just as James was slamming a wooden mallet onto the meat, microscopic specks of red spraying the cabinets.
“Tenderizing it,” he’d said, oblivious to the little drip making its way down his cheek.
There’s blood on the ceiling now, pinpricks of plasma misting the stucco. I take a sip of my water, shrugging off the thought.
“Thank you, boys,” Lucy croons, lifting up a glass of wine. We set the table earlier for the first time since I’ve lived here, a mismatched collection of plates and silverware gathered from secondhand stores and left behind by previous tenants. Wildflowers from the backyard soaking in juice glasses and the overhead lights dulled down low. There’s a handful of flickering wicks between us, skinny candelabras making the dining room look gothic and dim. “What would we do without you?”
“Starve to death,” Trevor responds, pulling out the chair beside me. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and while the locals are going home for a formal dinner with their families in the morning, they’ve agreed to do a Friendsgiving-style one with us tonight. Lucy had begged them, really, making them feel guilty about the two of us being here by ourselves, even though we chose it.
“That’s not fair,” I say. “We made the sides.”
I try not to look at Levi as he takes his seat across from me, our table of seven feeling a little too intimate in the subdued light. As much as I hate to admit it, though, Lucy was right. Despite the fact that Levi is here, this past week has been wonderful, the way we’ve all slipped back into our summer selves. Lucas is still as much fun without Sloane as the object of his affection and I’ve gotten to know Will and James from the night at Penny Lanes better, too. Trevor is just as obnoxious without Nicole, but he’s paid me more attention these last few days than he ever has before.
“Which one did you make?” Trevor asks, turning toward me now. I feel a flush of something in my chest under his eyes, a crawling heat that makes me uncomfortable.
“The mac and cheese,” I say.
“How did you know mac and cheese was my favorite?”
Lucy clears her throat, shooting me a look from across the table that I don’t like. It’s suggestive, eyebrows raising, and I try to signal back a bulge-eyed innocence, communicating that I’m just as confused about his attention as she is.
“Which one of you do we have to thank for shooting our dinner?” I ask, picking up my silverware, attempting to divert the conversation from me.
“James,” Lucas says, slapping him on the shoulder. “Never seen such a clean kill in my life.”
I look up, stunned at the image of James, of all people, being the one to pull the trigger. The shyest of them all, so kind and quiet.