We all toast and shoot again, but the energy in the room is flat and lifeless. It’s Margot. Or rather, it’s the absence of Margot. The usual Margot who is charged, crackling with electricity, directing our every move.

I look at her, trying again to read her face. She’s wrapped her arms around her legs and is resting her chin on the tops of her knees. She’s rocking back and forth, fidgeting. She fishes her cell out of her back pocket, stabs the keypad.

Jill and Tina gossip in the corner of the opposite sectional, but I notice that Callie is studying Margot, too.

Margot tosses her cell on the cushion next to her, stands and yawns, stretching her arms over her head.

“You guys, I’m sorry. I just don’t have it in me tonight. Can we make it an early one?”

“We just got here,” Callie says flatly.

“Absolutely!” Jill pipes in, clearly still eager to keep things smooth with Margot. “I have to get up early, take Brad—” But she stops here, catching herself. “We have a lot of stuff to do tomorrow.”

Tina rises from the sofa and loops an arm around Margot’s waist. “You okay, honey?” she asks, her voice as warm and saccharine as a school counselor’s.

Margot quickly nods, then shakes her off. “Totally fine, just bushed for some reason.”

“Well it’s no big deal to me, like I said, Bill’s dragging me to Dallas first thing in the morning. Maybe we can have lunch later this week?”

“Sure. Text me,” Margot says.

* * *

—

MY CELL CHIMED a few minutes ago, so I root around in my bag until I find it. It’s a text from Graham, I’m sure, and I’m secretly relieved that Margot’s calling it an early one so I can get home when I promised.

But when I look at the screen, I see that it’s not from Graham at all. It’s from Margot.

Not you. I want you

She hadn’t finished typing the first text, so there’s another one tacked on.

to stay. If you’re up for it.

I want you. Was that an accident that she didn’t finish typing out the rest, or a message? My face flushes and my pulse quickens. When I look up at her, her eyes are locked onto mine. I slowly nod.

Jill and Tina are at the door, blowing air-kisses to the rest of us, but Callie stays moored on the couch as if she has no intention of going anywhere. She drags the bourbon across the coffee table, downs more straight from the bottle.

“Sorry, woman, I’m whooped,” Margot says, sinking into Callie’s lap and slinging an arm around her neck. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” she says, planting a kiss on Callie’s cheek.

I don’t know what to do with myself, so I mumble an excuse about having to use the bathroom and head down the hall to buy more time until Callie leaves.

* * *

—

WHEN I WALK back into the great room, Margot is slung across the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her. She gives a quick jerk of her neck toward the kitchen. I see a light coming from the mudroom, the small nook off the kitchen, and inside, I see Callie lining up the guns in the glass-front gun cabinet.

“I was going to clean them tonight,” Callie calls out. “You know I like to clean them regularly.”

Margot rolls her eyes at me, twists her neck in Callie’s direction. “Thanks, but just leave ’em, sweetie. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Callie stomps out of the mudroom, huffs at the sight of me still here. I stand frozen in the middle of the great room with my bag in my hand.

“Oops, left my cell in the bathroom,” I lie, then head, once again, down the hallway. I’m just about to step inside the bathroom when I hear the front door slam. I turn around and creep back toward the great room.

“Coast is clear!” Margot says brightly. “Never thought I’d shake her off tonight.”

She moves around the island in the kitchen, pulls down a pair of stemless wineglasses.

“Red or white?” she purrs.

“Red, please,” I say, and walk the few steps up to the kitchen.

It’s still dark in here, except for the trio of bullet lights, making everything feel candlelit and intimate. Through the windows lining the back of the great room, the half-full moon glistens over the lake, and orange-yellow lights from the neighboring boathouses sparkle against the night.

“Mmmmmm,” Margot says, after taking a sip of her wine. “This tastes so good.”

My heart is racing from being all alone with her. I lift the glass, swirl the wine around, and take a gulp. It is delicious.

“Yum,” I say, “so good.”

Margot leans back on the counter and crosses an arm in front of her.

“I just wasn’t in the mood for them tonight. Ya know? But I wasn’t ready to head home just yet, either. So, thanks for sticking around,” she says, but I still sense that air of distraction about her, like she’s talking to me but also not really talking to me.

I want to set my glass of wine down, move toward her, lean in and kiss her, and see what happens. But every time I think of doing it, I stop myself. My palms are glazed with sweat, and my heartbeat drums in the back of my throat. I keep drinking instead, and the room grows softer with each sip I take.

I’m just working up the courage to ask her how her week went when she steps away from me and heads down the hall. “Nature’s calling,” she says over her shoulder.

I lean against the kitchen counter and stare out the window at the rippling lake. I take another slow sip of wine, swish it around in my mouth. It tastes like cherries and oak. Maybe I’ll use that as a conversation starter when Margot gets back. God, I really am schoolgirl nervous.

I reach for the bottle to refill our glasses, and out of the corner of my eye, blue-white light flashes through the kitchen like miniature lightning strikes.

It’s Margot’s cell, vibrating on the kitchen counter. I peer down the hall. She’s still in the bathroom, the light seeping from beneath the door, so I creep over to her phone and risk taking a peek.

There’s a text notification from “B,” which I assume means Brad. I quickly swipe the screen and a stream of their texts blooms into sight. The latest one reads: Where are you? So I scroll to the top to get the full conversation.

Margot: I’m not gonna wait around all night.

B: Sorry. Still at dinner with Abby’s parents.

Margot: Figure it out.

B: I can’t just leave. But I’ll get out of here asap.

A few minutes later.

B: Ummm . . . Hello? Why aren’t you texting me back? I tried to end it & she threatened to slit her wrists. So . . . give me time. I need to let her down easy.

B: You know you’re the one I wanna be with.

A minute later.

Margot: Like I said, figure it out.

B: Trying

Margot: Get rid of her.

Ten minutes later.

B: Leaving now.

B: Where are you?

My mouth has gone dry snooping through her texts. I’m praying that Brad will text back so she won’t be able to tell I’ve checked her phone. I slide it back toward the charging station, exactly where it had been before. I look up and Margot is heading down the hall, walking toward me. I glance back at the phone, willing it to spring to life, but it’s just a blank screen.

I smile at her and she smiles back as she grabs the bottle of wine.

“Let’s finish this, shall we?” she says, stepping closer to me. She’s cast off her cardigan, and as she leans over the counter to refill our glasses, my eyes drift over her breasts, ample and almost bursting out of her low-cut tank top. Butterflies flurry in my stomach as I inch closer to her.

“Sounds like a fine plan,” I manage to say.

As she pours, I risk a stare, looking straight at her. She brings her glass to her lips and, behind it, flashes me a seductive smirk that reaches her eyes.

I take another sip of the wine. Set my glass down. I’m ready to make my move. I stare into her smoky eyes, slide my hand across the counter, inch my hips even closer to her. She’s still staring at me when the blue-white light from her cell flashes on the counter behind us.

She twists around and grabs her phone. Studies the texts. It doesn’t seem like she’s noticed I’ve read them.

A smile creeps across her face. She exhales, then bites her bottom lip, still grinning. She types a message into the cell, sets it down, and looks up at me.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, walking over to the sink and primping her hair in the reflection of the window. “I thought it was going to be just us. But Brad is on the way.” She adjusts her bra and tugs down on her top, exposing even more cleavage.

“That’s fine,” I say, trying not to show how disappointed I am. “I should be getting home anyway.”

I check the time on the microwave: nine forty-five.

Margot walks over to me, places a hand on my wrist. A shiver courses through me.

“Stay,” she says, her mouth open, her lips supple. “It’ll be fun. Promise.” She winks at me and keeps her hand on my wrist.

“Okay,” I say, staring down at the counter and hoping she won’t notice my face blushing.

She slips her hand away and empties the rest of the wine into our glasses, takes a long sip, and then checks her cell again.

She steps into the entryway and gazes out the window, watching for Brad’s headlights.

32