—

EVEN THOUGH IT’S still early, the sun is beginning to set, a wedge of mango sinking into the treetops. It’s even warmer than it has been, and the balmy, late-afternoon air feels good against my neck. I’m wearing a yellow sundress and some vintage boots I found at the thrift store this week. My windows are down as I curve around the lake roads, filling the car with the forested scent of the woods. Delicate wildflowers sprinkle the sides of the road, and when I round a sharp bend, a meadow opens up and the lake shimmers beyond it, sparkling and rippling like a breathing thing, and again, I’m struck by the picturesque splendor of the area.

When I pull into the drive, Margot is standing on the porch, leaning against the house with a bottle of amber liquid in her hand. She’s wearing a cherry-red tank top with painted-on, faded jeans tucked into cowgirl boots that look like they cost thousands. Her hair is sleek and perfect, and a pair of diamond studs twinkle from her earlobes.

Callie is already here. Of course she is. I let out a long sigh and my shoulders slump in disappointment.

She reaches for the bottle from Margot, takes a long pull, and then passes it back to her.

Callie then begins loading shotguns onto the back of a four-wheeler, but when she sees me inching closer to the house, she gives me a blank stare and a quick wave. She’s wearing a tight black T-shirt, and her ropy, blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail.

I climb from the car, walk over to Margot.

“Heeey,” she says, her voice relaxed with drink. “Want some?”

I eye the bottle. It’s bourbon, which I like, so I take it from her and knock back a long sip. The buttery alcohol burns the back of my throat, and I choke and let out a sharp, jagged cough that makes Margot jump.

“Damn, girl,” she says, a wicked grin slinking over her face, “take it easy.”

I pass the bottle back to her, and when she grasps it, her fingers brush mine.

She lifts the bottle to her lips, tilts her head, and tosses back another long slug. I study her profile—the curve of her chest and the silver chain that dangles from her slender neck. I try to read her expression but her eyes are trained forward. She’s gazing into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. Staring at the ground, I drag a paper-thin gold leaf off the porch with the scuffed toe of my boot.

While Callie is out of earshot, cramming equipment onto the four-wheelers, I want to ask Margot how everything is at home, if she’s forgiven Jill, but even though I’m standing close to her, inhaling the seductive scent of her perfume, and even though she all but beckoned me into a three-way that night in Dallas, a lump aches in the back of my throat and I don’t feel I have the right to ask her anything personal.

Without looking at me, she passes the bottle of bourbon back over and I take a smaller swig this time. Jill’s Lexus snakes into the drive, and as it gets closer to us, I see Tina in the passenger seat next to Jill, her face animated and her hands gesturing in front of her as if she’s telling a dramatic story.

They pile out of the car and walk toward us. Jill looks diminutive, dressed simply in a white lace top with a blue jean jacket, and her eyes are filled with caution as she approaches Margot.

Tina lingers back, letting Jill and Margot have some space.

I instinctively step away and walk over to Tina, passing her the bourbon.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jill and Margot hugging, a tight embrace that’s charged with emotion. They don’t speak, but I see Margot smooth the top of Jill’s hair down before breaking away from her.

“Ladies!” Tina says warmly. “I’m so ready to party tonight! Bill pissed me off so much—he sprang a last-minute trip on me. We have to get up at five a.m. to drive to Dallas for some work thing when he knows I like to stay out late with y’all.”

Even though she’s supposed to be angry, Tina is smiling and excitement sizzles in her liquid brown eyes.

She knocks back the bottle of bourbon and takes three healthy glugs before she pulls the bottle off her lips.

“Whew!” she says, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her black leather jacket. “Stuff’ll put hair on your tits!”

She tips the bottle toward Jill, who takes it and slings back a greedy gulp herself. “I needed that, thank you,” she says, passing the bottle over to Margot.

* * *

—

“LET’S ROLL,” CALLIE says over her shoulder before revving up the engine to one of the four-wheelers.

As before, I climb on the back of the four-wheeler Jill is driving and we head down the grassy lane toward the clearing. Sunlight sifts through the trees, turning the forest bright green and golden, and I have to squint because the light is so vibrant.

At the clearing, we drink wine. White, crisp, and chilled on a bed of ice in a fabric cooler. Nobody mentions anything about the pool party; it’s as if it never happened. But Margot has an air of distraction about her. She seems half-in, half-out of the shallow, almost nervous conversation that ensues.

As always, Margot shoots first. She blasts the first two rounds, her triceps flexing as she pulls the trigger, but misses the next two.

“Dammit,” she says, whipping off the earmuffs, which now dangle from her neck. “I’m off tonight. Who’s next?”

“I am,” Callie announces, taking the shotgun from Margot. As Tina crouches at the skeet machine, getting ready to pull for Callie, I notice that Margot slinks away to the edge of the lake. She digs her cell out of her pocket and turns her back toward us, head aimed down, as if she’s reading a text.

Callie raises the shotgun and takes aim. Tina releases the skeet and it skitters across the sky until it explodes with Callie’s shot.

“Pull!” Callie hollers, her blond ponytail swinging behind her as she tracks the next one. She misses it, but hits the final two and swings around to us with a satisfied smirk pasted across her face.

Margot lumbers over from the water’s edge and gives Callie a high five. “Nice work, woman!”

“Sophie, you’re up,” Callie says, handing me the shotgun. I don’t want to shoot; I feel the kick of the gun in my shoulder again, but I also don’t want to look like a wuss.

As if she can read my mind, Margot says, “We brought Daddy’s gun; it doesn’t kick as hard. Promise.”

I slip on the earmuffs and goggles as Margot walks over to the four-wheeler strapped with guns, slides one off the back, and passes it over to me. It’s heavy in my hands, and the butt has a weathered sheen to it. If I were to guess, I’d wager this gun kicks even harder than the newer ones, but I take it and cradle it into my shoulder.

“Pull!” I say, and a bright orange disc zings across the horizon. I’m not focused, so I fire and miss, but Margot is right, the gun barely kicks at all. I turn and give Margot a thumbs-up.

“Pull!” I track the skeet more carefully this time, squeeze the trigger, and watch the disc burst into tiny bits that scatter to the ground.

Even though I’m in the zone now, I still miss the next two rounds, but adrenaline courses through me—I can see why they’re addicted to shooting; I could do this all night. But Callie walks over, lifts the gun from me, and handles it like it’s diseased.

The sky is now jack-o’-lantern orange as the sun evaporates behind the trees, so Margot tips the remains of the wine into each of our glasses. We clink and toast as cicadas buzz all around us before we load up and head back to the lake house.

31

INSIDE, WE GATHER on the sectionals in the great room, the lake twinkling behind us as the last slices of sunlight cut through the pines.

Margot is at the bar, pouring bourbon into shot glasses. It’s frigid inside, and she’s wrapped a knee-length black cardigan around her. She sets the glasses on a silver tray and takes the few steps down to the sofas.

“Cheers, ladies,” she says, and we each down our shots. Mine tastes so strong that it makes me shake my head.

Now that the sun has vanished, it’s dark inside the house. Only the bullet lights above the kitchen sink are on, little stabs of white light, so Margot switches on a table lamp and it fills the great room with a golden glow.

She leans into the corner of a sofa and pulls the cardigan around her even tighter. Her lips are glossed in crimson red and she’s staring out the window, the same mask of distraction as before covering her face.

Callie uncrosses her legs, refills everyone’s shots.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I could drink this whole bottle,” Callie says, exhaling toward the ceiling and kicking off her boots.

“I’ll drink to that!” Tina beams.

“Same!” Jill chimes in.