“We’re leaving, too,” Brad says, toweling off. “Have to get back to school.”

“Well, for the love of god, don’t tell your mom about this,” Margot says, her voice buttery and light. “You know she’s not down with underage drinking.”

She pecks him on the cheek again, and it doesn’t seem sexual at all; it seems motherly, so I can’t tell if there’s anything between them.

22

THE CHURCH IS freezing after the blast of sun at the lake. I wrench my cover-up around me and pad down the hallway, my flip-flops slapping the linoleum floors as I make my way to Jack’s classroom.

It’s not a second past two thirty but he’s the last one here, and Ms. Marcie, his sweet but overly zealous Christian teacher, is antsy. She’s coating the surface of a little round table with a mist of Lysol and wiping it clean in agitated circles with a wad of paper towels.

Ugh. I’m becoming my mother. Something I promised myself I’d never do to Jack. Nikki arriving perpetually late to collect me from school, her waist-length hair shaggy and wild, excuses to the teacher spewing from her coral-lipsticked mouth. I can remember my face reddening when Nikki would interact with the other adults in my childhood sphere, and that peculiar, twisty feeling of being embarrassed for her.

I keep my distance. I don’t want Ms. Marcie to smell the booze or sin on me.

Jack clocks me, drops a gnawed-on book to the floor, and toddles over, leaping into my arms. Hugging him tightly, I ask Ms. Marcie over his shoulder, “How was his day?”

“Fine! He got really into painting today. With a brush, not just finger painting. And he ate all of his lunch! No nap, though, just so you’re warned.” She smiles and returns to the can of Lysol.

I sling his backpack over my shoulder and we head for the car.

After I’ve buckled him in his seat, my phone dings.

Graham: I’m picking up Pizza King tonight! And also, a surprise!

My face slouches into a frown; my shoulders sag with guilt. I am a truly terrible person. I feel sunstroked and icky. How could I have done that to him? And, also, I completely abandoned making the chicken potpie, which makes me feel even worse about myself. If that’s possible.

I text him back:

Sounds delicious!

I look in the rearview and Jack’s eyes are sealed shut, his cherub mouth slung open with the tip of his tongue hanging out.

I drive around the wooded neighborhood near the church for a few minutes, cruising slowly through the wide streets, so Jack can have a full nap before heading home.

* * *

—

AS I’M WAITING for our garage door to trundle open, I check my cell. There is a text from Margot.

Margot: I swear I didn’t know they were coming out! Please don’t be mad!

I’m not sure I believe her. My hand is still slimed with sunblock and I clutch the phone, trying to figure out how to respond. I begin typing but see that she’s working on a fresh text.

Margot: But it looks like you were having fun anyway.

My neck burns with shame. She continues typing.

Margot: See you Friday?

Me: No worries!

I’m not admitting to anything.

I quickly add:

Me: And yeah, I’ll be there!

Friday. Yikes. I’ll have to cancel on Erin. Again. I hate to do it, but she’s reasonable and understanding. She’ll let me make it up to her, I hope.

* * *

—

I THINK ABOUT deleting the text. But Graham isn’t the type who looks at my phone, so I leave it.

Anxiety pools in my stomach and chest. What have I done? I breathe. Remind myself that I didn’t even really kiss him. But still. I can still feel his hot chest against mine; I can still picture myself standing there, half-naked in front of him. I wince at the image. I can’t believe I did that.

I promise myself I’ll never do it again. What bothers me, though, is the creeping sense that whenever I’m around Margot, I’m out of control.

23

WE’RE IN BED for the night—Jack is already zonked and Graham is rubbing small, careful circles of aloe vera into my sunburn.

“There’s this new product that’s out, you know,” he says, a hint of a grin in his voice. “It’s called sunblock. We could invest in some. You could use it next time you’re gardening all day in Texas.”

I nudge him with an elbow and he smooths my hair to one side so he can hit the back of my neck with it, too.

I didn’t tell him I’d been at the lake. I couldn’t.

He finishes, snaps the lid on the bottle, and blows on my shoulders to dry them. The chill of the gel is shocking, until it dries into a thin coat over my skin.

“Still in the mood to celebrate?” he asks.

His bid came through today; his bosses are thrilled. He picked up a bottle of nice champagne on the way home and we split it over pizza.

I turn and face him. Press him down against the mattress and straddle him. “I’m so proud of you,” I say, nibbling on his ear. I feel filthy-dirty from my trip to the lake earlier, but also, so turned on. And even though my stomach is riddled with guilt, I can’t resist Graham. I never could.

He slides a hand around the nape of my neck, kisses me, and with the other hand tugs my panties off.

Halfway through, I close my eyes, and out of nowhere, I imagine Margot in the doorway of our bedroom, watching us.

Later, we’re lying on our backs. My pink skin is cooking the cool sheets; I’m spent.

“Ryan texted me, asked if he should pick up a bottle of scotch for Friday night. Thoughts?”

I roll to one side, drag a finger up and down his chest. “About that. We’re going to have to cancel with them again. I’m going shooting. I didn’t know if I’d be invited back, honestly, and I just found out today, I—” I’m grasping for words, fumbling for the best explanation when he stops me.

“I think it’s safe to say this has been good for you,” he says, his eyes grinning, his fingers tracing soothing circles on the top of my head.

* * *

—

OH, GRAHAM, YOU have no idea.

24

Saturday, March 31, 2018

I COME TO in the back seat of Margot’s Mercedes. My face is pressed against the glass, my mouth dry and parched. It’s freezing inside the car. I grab my coat off the floor and wrap it around me.

Callie is driving, Jill and Tina are passed out next to me, slung over one another, and Margot leans back in the front passenger seat. Relaxed but alert. We’re driving home from Dallas, winding through the lake roads. The frosty white display on the dash reads four a.m.

Four a.m.! Shit, shit, shit! I claw through my purse for my cell, dig it out. Six missed alerts. I swipe and read Graham’s succession of texts.

9 p.m. Just got J down. Whew!

10 p.m. Hello, Ms. Oakley, do you copy? ?

10:45 p.m. Heading home anytime soon? Gonna go to bed and read.

11:30 p.m. Thought I’d wait up for you but looks like it’s gonna be another late one. Be safe. Xx

2:30 a.m. Got up to pee and saw you weren’t here—check in, ok?

3:30 a.m. Whatever.

Fuck. He’s pissed.

Why wouldn’t he be? I stare at my phone and try and think of something to text back, some excuse, but nothing comes to mind. I wonder if he’s still awake. I wonder if I should wait to call him once I get in my car, but if he is still up, he’s got to be worried. I let out a sigh and quickly type:

SO sorry! I’ll explain everything when I get home. Which will be soon. Phone died!

I had promised I wouldn’t stay out too late, that I’d get up and make Jack pancakes before we went to the farmers’ market. I press the pads of my fingertips into my temples. My head feels like it’s in a vise. My throat burns, as if I’ve vomited recently, and my stomach turns somersaults. This doesn’t feel like a normal hangover. I fold my quaking hands together as the night comes back to me in flashes.

* * *

—

THE BEGINNING OF the night I remember clearly; it’s the end of the night that is stuttering: the loud, Cuban-themed nightclub in downtown Dallas, Margot’s hand on my knee, pulsing strobe lights, and Jill straddling a man in a booth.

* * *

—

BEFORE I LEFT the house to head to the lake earlier this evening, Margot had group texted everyone.

Margot: Bring a change of clothes. We’re going out tonight!

So I slipped a slinky top and a pair of black ballet flats in my bag and kissed Jack and Graham goodbye.

* * *

—

I RODE WITH Jill again on the four-wheeler through the woods to the clearing. Margot shot first (she hit half of her targets), then Jill (she hit one; she squealed in victory), and finally, Callie shot. I declined to shoot; I didn’t want to hurt my shoulder again and I didn’t want to piss off Callie again, either.

Callie stood next to the skeet contraption, feet planted a foot apart in the grass as she raised the shotgun and fired. One after the other, she blasted all four of her skeets.