It seemed to work.

“Fair enough, Miss Oakley,” he said, his eyes crinkling into a smile.

He took another sip of his wine and set his glass down. Laced his fingers through mine and pulled me into a kiss.

* * *

—

I’M TURNING OFF the main highway now onto a country road, the private road to Cedar Lake. The trees thicken and soar overhead, and the blacktop lane is so narrow, it feels as though I’m being squeezed through the forest. The road dips and curves like a roller coaster, hugging the lakeshore, which I catch glimpses of through the curtain of trees.

It’s gorgeous out here, and a jolt of excitement sizzles over my skin as the robotic voice of the GPS announces my final turn.

Rounding a sharp corner, I see Margot’s drive to the left; I turn in front of the barn-red mailbox with BANKS painted in black cursive on the side. I cruise down the crushed rock drive for what seems like a half mile until I finally reach the house.

It’s the same ruddy, redwood shade as the mailbox, all wooden siding with endless windows trimmed in forest green. A 1940s California ranch, I would guess from first glance (I know this because of Graham’s never-ending subscription to Architectural Digest), with three wings situated in a half circle. It sits atop a slight hill with a plush green lawn pouring down to the water’s edge, and through the bank of windows I can see the lake.

I’m just ten minutes late, but the other four are all here already, churning on the wide front porch. Callie carries an armful of guns to one of three nearby four-wheelers, stacks them on the back.

Margot stashes wine in the saddlebag of a camo-colored four-wheeler while Jill and Tina chat on the porch. Everyone is dressed in knee-high leather boots, and I feel as if I’ve just stepped into a cover shoot for Garden & Gun.

The only boots I own are anklets, so I shoved some skinny jeans into them and threw on a red tank top. Driving over, I felt sassy, but as I step out of the car, I feel out of place and overmatched. Being this close to the lake, it’s even more humid, and as I walk to the porch, my hair wilts. Tina and Jill smile and wave, but Callie ignores my arrival and focuses instead on strapping guns to the rack on the four-wheeler with canary-yellow bungee cords.

Margot pauses her packing, glances at me, and flashes a quick smile.

“You made it. Good.” She sees me eyeing the house. “I’ll give you the full tour later, but it’s just thirty minutes till dusk.”

She strides over to the wine-laden four-wheeler, jeans squeezing her curves. “Let’s go, ladies,” she calls out, and straddles it. Callie is already mounted on the four-wheeler that’s loaded with guns, and Tina walks over and jumps onto the back of it.

“Guess you’ll ride with me,” Jill says, and I wrap my arms around her bone-thin body. She twists the key in the ignition, and the engine sputters to life.

* * *

—

WE FOLLOW THE others and head down a grassy lane that cuts through the forest. The surface of the path is engraved with deep tire tracks, and every so often, we sink into a dip and my chin pecks the back of Jill’s tiny back.

We’ve driven about a quarter of a mile when we come to a clearing next to the lake. Jill slows and parks and I walk over to the water’s edge before joining the rest. The lake is bigger than I had imagined it would be, so much so that I can see the opposite shore but can’t make out any details other than the thick fringe of pines lining it.

“Our lake house is over there,” Jill says, suddenly beside me. She’s pointing to the far shore. “We really only use it in the summertime, but I love it out here.” She stretches her arms above her head, yoga-style, and a satisfied smile spreads across her face.

The sun is still dangling above the tree line, and the reflection of it flickers off the surface of the lake like candlelight. The clouds glow nectarine orange, dripping from the sky like crème br?lée. Jill turns from the water, and I follow her to the center of the clearing where Callie is bent on one knee, loading bright orange discs into a small contraption.

Margot slides the guns off the back of the four-wheeler and hauls them over to Callie. Tina digs out safety glasses, earmuffs, and plastic wineglasses from a large black bag and places them on a small wooden table.

Margot uncorks a bottle of sauvignon blanc, icy from the cooler bag, and fills each glass.

“To Sophie,” Margot says, eyes level with mine, raising her glass in a toast, “our latest member.”

We all clink glasses and take sips.

Margot sets her glass down on the wooden table and pulls on a pair of earmuffs. I get the impression that she always shoots first. She opens the neck of a shotgun and stuffs it with ammo and snaps it back together. She slides on a pair of safety glasses and lifts the gun to her shoulder and yells, “Pull!”

Callie steps on the foot lever of the contraption, and an orange disc whizzes through the air. Margot fires, but misses.

“Pull!” she shouts, even louder this time.

“Callie always pulls for Margot,” Tina snorts in my ear.

Margot’s shot blasts the orange disc this time, shattering it. “Yeah!” she whoops, and spins toward us, sliding the earmuffs down around her neck and parking the safety glasses on top of her dark, glossy hair.

“Who’s next?”

“Me,” Jill says, already in safety gear. She strides toward Margot, who lays the gun in Jill’s hands. Jill fidgets with her earmuffs and opens the throat of the shotgun to load it. She fumbles with the ammo before jamming it into place and closing the gun. She cradles the gun into her shoulder and stands slightly hunched over, her skinny legs slightly parted and planted in the yellow-green grass.

“Pull!” she shouts, but a breeze off the lake tosses her shout to the ground.

Tina, now at the helm of the contraption, stamps on the foot lever, releasing a disc. It zings through the sky and Jill fires but misses.

“Pull!” she shouts again. Another shot, another miss. She lowers the nose of the gun to the ground and turns toward us, chin down.

“You’ll hit one eventually,” Margot chides. “And I can tell you’re not focusing like I told you to do. Here, more wine for you,” she says, and swaps the gun for a full glass. Jill drains half of it in one long swallow.

“Sophie. You’re up,” Margot says.

“I really wanted to shoot tonight,” Callie whines.

“Not enough time. The sun’s almost set, and I want Sophie to have a shot.”

I down the rest of my wine and put the safety glasses on. My hands are sweating, and when Margot hands me the gun, it’s still warm from Jill’s shots.

“Have you ever shot a gun before?” Margot asks.

I nod. “Just once, at a turkey shoot in kindergarten.” I remember shivering in my autumn parka, the chill of the ground seeping through me, and feeling Saturday-morning tired. Glazed over from my breakfast of an Egg McMuffin and my father pulling me out of bed too early to go to the shoot. It’s one of the few clear memories I have of us together doing father-daughter things. I actually won that day, and I remember after my shot struck the bull’s-eye, my dad hoisted me on his shoulders and twirled me around, high above the ground that was covered in muted gold and red leaves.

“Well, that would’ve been with a rifle. This is a shotgun,” Margot explains.

I’m surprised at how heavy the gun feels in my arms. “Let me help you,” Margot says, and slides behind me, locking her arms onto mine. She smells of Chanel Allure, my favorite perfume, and the gold bangles lining her arm clank in my ear.

“Hold it close to your shoulder or it will kick,” she says, her voice low and throaty in my ear. “And close one eye when you look through the viewfinder.”

She releases me and I slide the earmuffs on. I take a deep breath and say, “Pull!”

The disc releases, and I track it and fire but miss it completely. My shoulder pulses from the kick of the gun.

“That hurt!”

“Hold it tighter.”

And I do. I take a second and track through the scope at different targets. I used to play Nintendo until my elbows were shiny, and always prided myself on having good hand-eye coordination; I’m determined not to miss.

I can feel Callie sighing, but I take my time.

“Pull!” The sky is beginning to darken, but I track the disc this time and squeeze the gun to my shoulder and aim.

I fire and the disc explodes! I squeal and turn around.

“Damn, woman!” Margot sings.

Tina runs over and high-fives me, and Jill flashes a bright smile.

“It’s not as hard as it seems,” Callie snickers. “Shotgun blasts a wide area so it’s not like a pistol or anything, requiring precision.”

I pass the gun to Margot and rub my shoulder.

“Did it hurt that time, too?”

I nod.