I grab a chunk of Parmesan and grate shards of it over the salad.

“That does sound really good for you. I’m happy. I know this town can be awful and boring, believe me,” she says.

Erin left, too, after high school. She went away to the University of Texas at Austin and majored in world history and planned to never return. But one summer night, at a friend’s wedding in Mapleton, Ryan asked her to dance and they fell in love. Ryan was already established here—he owned the house they live in now; his business was just picking up steam—and he made it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere. So, Erin finished out her senior year and packed up her tidy duplex and moved in with him.

We kept in near-constant touch during college. I fled north, to Northwestern University’s School of Journalism, and all throughout my freshman year, as loneliness sat like a hippo parked on my chest, I looked forward to my phone dates with Erin.

I’d sit cross-legged in baggy sweats on the thin mattress in my dorm room and curl the beige phone cord around my finger until it turned red. We’d talk for hours, about our classes, about the new cities we found ourselves in, but mostly, we talked about boys.

Erin was a serial monogamist, dating one studious guy for a year and then moving on to someone equally as serious as the last. I, of course, was knee-deep in my flings with bad-boy jerks.

I would tell Erin every agonizing detail of these tortured relationships and welcome her grounded, nonjudgmental reactions. I told her everything but skipped the one-night stand I’d had with a woman named Lisa.

Lisa was a senior when I was a sophomore and I met her in philosophy class. Everyone idolized her, men and women alike, but she made it clear she wasn’t into men. She had charcoal-black hair, cut short, high cheekbones, and dreamy lips. She was outspoken, always organizing rallies and protests, and I was drawn to her and nursed a crush for weeks before she ever even spoke to me.

When she did finally notice me, one day after class when a group of students were gathered in the leafy courtyard next to the philosophy department, she looked at me and said, “You and me, drinks tonight.”

She took me to a dive bar, and we sipped foamy pitchers of cheap beers and sat at the scarred wooden bar, tacky with spilled booze. When she leaned over and kissed me, a gang of frat boys burst out in whoops, so she took me by the hand and led me back to her chalk-white bungalow around the corner.

She pulled me into her room, which smelled richly of incense, and traced her fingers over my lips before kissing me again, this time even harder. She kissed better than any boy I had ever been with, and my stomach did somersaults as she slid her hand down my pants and touched me.

The next morning, over pancakes at a nearby diner, she had me jot my phone number down on a napkin and promised to call. All that day, alone in my dorm room, I shuddered with desire, remembering her touch, and imagining us a power couple, strolling through the tree-lined campus together, her fingers laced in mine, but she never called and then ignored me for the rest of the semester in class. I was crushed.

I never told anyone about Lisa, until I met Graham. One night during our early and heady days of dating, we split a bottle of velvety red wine over a steak dinner in Chicago. We traded ghosts-of-relationships-past stories (like Erin, Graham had been a serial monogamist), and I blurted out about my torrid night with Lisa.

His neck turned crimson and his eyebrow arched in curiosity.

“I’m straight, though,” I quickly added. “I was just experimenting.”

I didn’t want him to be a guy who dreams of a ménage à trois or open relationships or any of that malarkey. After the string of bad boys and jilted loves, I craved something solid.

* * *

—

ERIN EMPTIES THE last of the prosecco into my glass as I’m pulling a homemade persimmon pie from the oven. The crust bubbles and oozes, and as I’m walking it over to the counter in my oven mitt–clad hands, my phone dings. Erin leans over as if to check it but then turns away.

I set the dish on a hand towel and tug off the mitts, scoop up my phone. It’s a group text, from the Hunting Wives. I can’t tell if Erin saw it or not. And I can’t believe I’m hiding something this big from her. Not that she’d be interested in joining us, but I do feel bad that she’s excluded.

Jill: Pool party at the lake on Sunday? My place? I’m missing my ladies. Margaritas and nibbles.

Tina: Sounds SO fun. I’m in!

Margot: Yasssss!

A thumbs-up from Callie; I can feel her haughtiness even through a simple emoji.

I’m about to type back when Erin sidles up next to me.

“Work?” she asks.

Good. It doesn’t seem as though she read the text.

I chew my bottom lip, angle slightly away from her. “Yep, sorry.”

I type:

Sounds delicious! See you guys Sunday!

I flick my phone to silent and flop it over on the table in case more texts pour through.

I uncork another bottle of wine, this time a smoky merlot.

“Ryan’s driving tonight, so bottoms up!”

Erin leans against the kitchen counter and clinks her glass to mine. I drain half of it in one long gulp, and the wine washes warmth across my whole body. I think of Margot, tanned and toned in her red bikini, and the prospect of seeing her in it again, poolside, makes me shiver with excitement.

I feel like a college kid again, only wanting to talk about boys and escapades, so I blurt out, “So . . . Margot Banks. You told me she’s not a nice person. What did you mean?”

I want to snatch back the question as soon as it’s left my mouth, but it hangs there in the air between us.

“Why do you care?” Erin’s face is pricked with curiosity.

“I just bumped into her at yoga one day. Just curious,” I lie.

She seems to accept this at face value and swirls the wine around in her glass, a bemused smile tickling her lips. She’s sinking into gossip mode.

“Well,” she says, lowering her head to mine, “her husband Jed is a total pig. He’s always been such a prick, coming from money and all. And Margot, too. She comes from even more money.”

She slams her glass of wine, holds the empty glass out to me for a refill.

“But back to Jed, he’s super sleazy. Word is he banged half his staff. But never got caught until Margot showed up in his office one day and walked in on his secretary blowing him under the desk.”

Erin’s face blooms red as she continues. “Anyway, Margot ran the poor girl off. I mean, she wasn’t an innocent girl, but what Margot did, or at least what I heard that Margot did—and this is between us, I don’t want to be on her shit list—involved a gun and a death threat.” Erin rubs her arms vigorously as if trying to shake off a chill.

“I mean, who the hell knows if it’s true or not,” she says, suddenly backpedaling. It’s as if she is also afraid of Margot. But I can picture it, knowing what I do about Margot and guns, but, of course, I can’t say that to Erin.

“The rich bitches in this town are crazy. And I avoid them at all costs, except when I have to be nice to them. There’s this one woman, Jessica Bates, for instance, who was up for a board vote, to be vice president of the planning committee for the children’s museum. And Jessica’s nice, too, and fairly normal. And she was a shoo-in. But the week before the vote,” Erin says with a flourish, swinging her wineglass in front of her, “she slightly disagreed with something Margot had to say. So, guess what? Not only did she lose the election but she was closed out from just about everything else.”

I suck in a slow breath, nod.

“You know, just Grade A typical rich bitch stuff,” Erin snorts. “Cut me off after this glass, please, or I’ll be fucked in the morning,” she slurs.

* * *

I’M AT THE kitchen sink, filing away the last dish from dinner into the dishwasher, when the urge to sneak into my office hits me.

Graham is in Jack’s room, tucking him in for the night, so I tiptoe down the hall and slink behind the laptop. I’ve banned myself from Facebook all week long, and I’m proud that I haven’t even had a peek, but just now, the need to see Margot overtakes me.

The first story in my feed is a post from Tina, at the casino with Bill. He’s red-faced, strongly built, with watery blue eyes, and he looks like the sort of person you’d wanna split a bottle of scotch with. Fun. Spirited. Tina has snapped a selfie of them at the bar in the casino and she looks drunk and happy.

I smile but don’t click “like.” Because of Erin, I’ve tried to be discreet on Facebook with the group.

I scroll through other posts, but nothing jumps out until I see the most recent post from Margot, which isn’t recent at all, it’s from nearly a week ago, the Sunday morning we got back from Dallas.