Margot is practically vibrating in her chair. It’s as if she can’t sit still, so she doesn’t. She pops up and soars over to the jukebox. Bends at the waist and folds her hands between her knees as she scans the display. The cowboy’s eyes never leave her. She fishes a handful of quarters from a pocket, slides them into the slot, and punches in her selections.

“Where did you say you were from again?” Callie asks me. She’s eyeing me suspiciously, as if I’ve been lying about something.

“Well, originally from a small town in Kansas. Prairie Garden. But I’ve lived all over. For my mom’s work. She’s an ER nurse and we moved a lot. That’s how I wound up here, junior and senior year of high school.” I take a swig of my beer, cast my eyes around the room. A neon wall clock reads ten p.m. I know I really need to be getting home.

Margot saunters back to the table and pulls another beer from the metal bucket.

“What year were you?” Jill asks in a friendly tone.

“Two thousand one,” I say. “Same as Erin.”

They all swivel and look at me. It’s as if they haven’t made the connection that Erin and I are friends, but, then again, why would they?

“Erin Murphy. Well, used to be Murphy, now she’s Reed,” I say, my cheeks blotting with embarrassment, though I don’t know why I’m feeling the least twinge of shame.

“Yeah, we know her,” Callie says, her blank eyes resting on mine and narrowing.

“Well, obviously she doesn’t know anything about this,” I stammer. “I mean, I know it’s supposed to be a secret and all.”

Callie’s eyes are still trained on me, but Jill breaks the spell again.

“We’re older than you, then. Class of ’98. We would’ve been off to college by the time you hit town,” she offers.

“I’m thirty-five. Turning thirty-six this December,” I add lamely. So, they must all be thirty-eightish. And she’s right, I don’t remember any of them from high school.

The waitress comes over with the tray of shots.

We clink and slam them, chasing them with beer.

Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” warbles from the jukebox.

“Good, my music is up!” Margot says, tilting back a beer.

* * *

—

JILL FLOATS UP from the table and drifts over to the jukebox. She leans her back against it, sways her hips. Closes her eyes and softly mouths the words. This is it, I think, the moment in the porno where the glasses come off and she’s no longer a librarian.

The cowboy takes a long pull of his beer, his eyes trailing her swinging hips.

He walks over to her, leans down, and whispers something in her ear. Takes her by the hand and leads her to the dance floor.

She threads her fingers behind his neck, presses her hips into his.

“There she goes!” Margot whoops. She slinks down in her chair, throws a leg over Jill’s empty seat, and watches Jill as if she’s watching a movie, a sly grin creeping over her face.

The cowboy pulls Jill in closer, kisses her ear. She throws her head back and his mouth moves up and down her neck. Margot motions for the waitress; she orders another round of shots and a bucket of beer.

* * *

—

I GRAB MY cell, text Graham.

Gonna be a little later than I thought. SORRY!

He doesn’t text me back. Most likely, he’s already long asleep. It’s ten thirty.

* * *

—

“WHO’S UP FOR a game of pool?” Callie rises and shuffles over to the pool tables without waiting for a reply. Tina shakes her head; she’s too transfixed by Jill’s unfolding situation on the dance floor to move, but Margot springs up and follows Callie.

My eyes are burning with smoke, and exhaustion is tugging at me. Jack wakes up early, usually by six a.m. I need to get going.

The door to Rusty’s bursts open and a group of rangy, rowdy boys files in. They all look freshly showered and are wearing the same deep navy T-shirts with a golden tiger across the chest. On the back, their shirts read, TATUM TIGERS. Looks like the football team from the next town over.

Margot racks the pool balls and lifts her hips as she leans down to aim for the cue ball. Her throaty laugh blankets the air, and the stream of boys all turn toward her.

She acts like she doesn’t notice them, but I see a satisfied line move across her mouth, as if she were expecting them. She cracks the cue, sinks a solid red ball. Leans her pool stick against the wall and watches Callie shoot.

One of the taller boys—with sandy blond hair and ice-blue eyes—walks over to Margot and sets a quarter down on the edge of the pool table.

She ignores him, grabs her pool stick, and lines up her next shot. Sinks another ball in the side pocket, dusts the chalk off on her jeans.

“I’d like to challenge the winner of this game,” the boy says, tipping his cowboy hat to her. His friends snicker behind him. They can’t be over eighteen, but the staff of Rusty’s doesn’t seem to mind.

“If you like having your ass handed to you, then be my guest,” Margot says.

The boys laugh even louder at this. Blond Boy blushes, swigs his beer.

Tina elbows me. “See? She’s a magnet.”

Margot finishes clearing the table, Callie barely manages a point, and Margot turns to face Blond Boy.

“You rack,” she says.

He does as he’s told and Callie slumps onto a barstool near the pool table. The other boys stand along the wall, watching.

* * *

—

JILL IS STILL dancing with the cowboy—Tammy Wynette is belting about standing by your man—but she notices Margot and Blond Boy.

Blond Boy shoots, sinks two balls in.

“Woo-hoo!”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Margot says.

She lines up her shot, misses. Blond Boy shoots again, sinks a corner ball.

Margot grabs her pool stick, rubs the end of it with chalk, and drapes the top half of her body across the table. Her pearl-snap shirt floats down and I can see her black lace bra. Blond Boy edges up behind her, puts his hands on her hips. She lets him. Margot shoots, sinks a ball, spins around, and throws her hands around his neck.

“On that note, buy me a drink,” she orders. “A strong one.”

His face is scarlet now and he heads to the bar, speechless.

* * *

—

JILL UNTANGLES HERSELF from the cowboy, leaving him stranded on the dance floor, and strides over to our table. She yanks her yellow purse off the floor.

“I’m going outside,” she says through clenched teeth. “I’ll text Alex to pick me up.” She clomps away. Margot watches her, cocking an eyebrow.

“What the hell?” I ask Tina.

“She hates it when Margot pulls this shit.”

“What shit?”

“Messing with underage boys,” Tina says. She licks her lips, drains the rest of her beer.

I nod as if she’s just told me about the weather, as if any of this is normal.

Tina turns to face me, lowers her voice. “Okay, so last fall we were all out at Margot’s land one Friday night for the Hunting Wives. And Margot and Jill had this idea that it might be fun to have a bonfire and invite the whole football team out.”

I finish the remains of my lukewarm beer, then push the bottle away from me.

“Jill’s son Brad is the quarterback,” Tina continues, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips; she’s clearly the type who loves to gossip. “Well, we were having a great time; the boys brought a keg out; it was all pretty innocent. But then Margot and Brad headed for the house, alone, to grab a bottle of whiskey. And when they came back, Margot’s shirt was inside out.” Tina’s eyes flash conspiratorially. She twists her palms upward, as if in a shrug.

“I have no idea what happened between them, but damn,” she says. “Jill was livid but didn’t even say anything that night. She waited until we were all out to dinner the next week, with our husbands, and out of nowhere, she tossed a glass of wine in Margot’s face.”

I hadn’t even realized I’d been doing it, but a shredded pile of napkins is building in front of me like a snowdrift; my hands have been tearing and twisting the paper into small wads.

“Margot wouldn’t speak to her for three months. Jill tried to apologize but Margot is ruthless. And, of course, Margot should’ve been the one apologizing but she’d never admit anything had happened. She basically gaslighted Jill into thinking she was the one who’d done something wrong.” Tina tilts her head back, snickers. “These women. They’re my friends but they’re also nuts. Jill doesn’t talk about it, but I don’t think she’s ever forgiven Margot.”

My head is fuzzy with cheap beer and this sordid gossip. I look up at Margot; Blond Boy has her pinned to the side of the pool table. Her legs are parted, and he’s pressed against her, saying something urgently in her ear. Her croaky laugh pierces the air again, and every head in Rusty’s is twisted in their direction, as if by force.

* * *

—

I RISE AND walk over to her.

“This has been so much fun but I gotta bolt,” I say. “My Jack’s an early riser.”

Margot peels Blond Boy off her. “What? You’re leaving already?” she asks, her voice climbing in pitch. “We’re just getting started!”

She’s pouting almost, and I realize that I’m part of her treasured audience. I’m about to add another apology when she hisses, “Whatever. Suit yourself.” Darkness flickers across her eyes, then she turns from me and folds herself back into Blond Boy’s arms. A curtain has fallen between us; she won’t even meet my eyes and it’s as though I don’t exist anymore.

16