Chapter 15
Millie
Even though there were rumors that the Club’s annual summer solstice party would be canceled this year, our boss, Jordan, sent out an email this morning saying the party was, in fact, on and that none of the members who were also staffers had to work.
Instead, we were instructed to take the night off and enjoy the celebration.
But it’s hard to relax. The perimeter of the Club is lined with newly hired security guards, wearing all black and bulky vests that appear bulletproof.
They checked everyone’s IDs as we entered the Club, which seemed silly to me.
It’s not as if anyone’s Pelican Island Academy badge would have also said I Killed Billy on it.
I look around the beach for Trevor but can’t find him. I’ve barely seen him since the shiva. Well, since I left him outside Billy’s shiva for thirty minutes while I helped Ethan calm down.
At first, Trevor seemed to understand, but based on his reluctance to return my text messages, I’m not so sure.
I wrap my arms around my middle. If things were normal, we’d spend the whole evening curled up in the Adirondack chairs overlooking the eastern lawn so we could get primo spots for sunset.
Take turns getting plates of watermelon salad and shrimp cocktail and, when we finally got sick of debating the merits of horror versus romance, settle into our usual rhythm of reading side by side.
There’s a dull ache in my chest. Not the kind I get when I’m around Ethan, where it’s all I can focus on. This one is a drumbeat, providing background rhythm, a reminder that things have already started to change, that I miss how life was a week ago, before Billy died.
Part of me even wanted to stay home from the solstice party, but when I told Mom I had a headache, she said there was no way in hell she was leaving me on my own. “You will go and you will act normal,” she said while putting on her earrings. “We all will.”
So here I am, standing on the cornhole lawn by myself, trying to make it seem like I’m definitely paying attention to the middle schoolers who are negging each other as they try to sink beanbags.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” I look to my right, and Trevor approaches wearing khaki shorts and a rumpled short-sleeved button-down.
“Riveting.” The ache subsides just a little, and I wonder if this is his peace offering. If we’re okay. I nod to the two twelve-year-old boys as they shove each other back and forth. “I think that one’s gonna win.”
“Which one?”
“No idea.”
Trevor laughs once, then presses his lips together. “Are we okay, Mill?”
My chest unlocks a tiny bit, like it’s making space for whatever kind of apology he’s offering. “You tell me,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I’ve been a little…”
“Distant?”
He nods, sheepish. “I was pissed at you for ditching me at the shiva.”
“I figured.” I clasp my hands together and squeeze. “I should have texted, but I saw Ethan like that and…”
“I get it. It was good of you. You shouldn’t have left him alone.”
I know that, but part of me wonders why Trevor’s allowed to be mad when he’s barely made time to hang out with me and I haven’t made a stink at all.
“Anyway,” he says. “My bad. I just wanna be cool again. Can we call a truce?”
“Yeah,” I say, conceding. “Of course.”
“Great. I was waiting for you to hit the buffet.”
Together we head inside the clubhouse, where long tables are covered in white tablecloths, set with sterling silver cutlery and heavy china plates bearing the insignia of the Beach Club.
Security guards surround the exits, and everyone seems to ignore them, but their presence makes me uneasy, a constant reminder that something terrible has happened here and we don’t know why.
All the windows and doors are open, and there’s a sudden gust of wind blowing through my hair, lifting up the edges of linen napkins. A few people yelp in surprise, jittery and jumpy, as if everyone in town is as on edge as I am.
“Come on,” Trevor says, leading us to the buffet.
This party is usually raucous, signaling the real beginning of summer, but tonight the din is quiet as we load up our plates with grilled zucchini and smoked ribs, dilly potato salad and marinated tomatoes.
The only sounds I hear are urgent whispers and the scraping of knives against porcelain, the wind lapping at the clubhouse, rattling the windows.
Trevor uses a free hand to rub his shoulder. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Forgot to do my physical therapy stretches this morning.”
I wince. “Want me to carry your plate?”
Trevor shakes his head. “I’m good, but let’s get out of here.”
Once we’re outside with our piled-high plates, I can breathe again, inhaling the salty cool air.
Everything smells of seaweed and damp rocks, melted butter from the lobster bar, and the sweetness of summer, as vivid as the peonies blooming by the tennis courts.
As we walk to our usual area on the eastern lawn, I can pretend, for a moment, that things are just as they were last year. Easy.
Once we sit down, the party receding behind us, Trevor asks, “Are you okay going back to work? Especially after…you know.”
My throat is sandy, and for a moment I find it hard to speak.
When I exhale, I turn my face up to the sun.
I haven’t had my first shift back yet, haven’t climbed the ladder and settled into the chair.
In fact, I’ve been putting off thinking about it, not wanting to wonder what it will be like to sit up there and look out at the same ocean where Billy floated face down, waiting to be found.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess we’ll find out.”
Trevor wrinkles his nose. “I think Ethan’s terrified.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. At least you guys have each other, huh?”
“Yeah.” A warmth spreads over me because it’s true. When I get back up there, I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Ethan. I tear at a piece of garlic bread, oil greasing my fingers.
“Do you like working with Ethan?”
I glance sideways at Trevor, trying to read him. We never talk about his brothers, at least not as they relate to me. But he’s looking straight down at his plate, spearing a piece of asparagus with his fork.
“Yeah,” I say. Trevor furrows his brow and nods once. “But it’ll be great when you’re back up there. Finally, someone to talk about books with.”
Trevor smiles weakly. “For sure,” he says.
“How’s the pool?”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Not that exciting. But maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Erica’s a lifeguard for the big-kid pool, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That must be nice.”
“Sure,” Trevor says. “She’s cool.”
“Maybe she can help you with the stretches?” I ask.
Erica volunteered at the outpatient rehab place Trevor frequented after his surgery and was probably the only reason he came home from those sessions with a smile on his face since she would crack jokes and bring him snacks. At least, that’s how he described it.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”
I look down at his arm, and the only sign that it’s different from its counterpart is the fading scar slicing across his skin, the slight atrophying along his muscles.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Frankie speed-walking toward me, her arms pumping by her side as the setting sun creates a gold glowing effect behind her.
“Is there a last call on cherry pie or something?” Trevor asks.
“Who cares?” Frankie says. “You know I’m a blueberry girl.”
“Freak,” Trevor says, flicking a piece of corn at her.
Frankie rolls her eyes, then crouches down beside me. I can practically feel her high energy, that intensity she gets when she’s working on one of those puzzles. She looks around, bug-eyed, and I flick the space between her eyebrows. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” She grips the back of my chair and leans in, her eyes moving to Trevor. “You know,” she says, “they were running low, actually. On cherry pie.”
Trevor springs up. “Oh crap. Mill, you want some?”
“Sure,” I say, and Trevor jogs back toward the clubhouse.
Frankie grips my arm. “Did he say anything?”
“Anything what?”
“I don’t know, about the DNA found on Billy’s boat?”
I’ve been trying to avoid anything related to the murder investigation. It’s almost like pretending it didn’t happen might make the whole thing go away.
“Maybe he knows something.” Frankie’s got the kind of nerves that make me think she’s about to rob a bank.
“You’re being weird, Frankie. Go do a puzzle or something.”
Frankie checks over her shoulder like she’s trying to make sure no one’s watching us, and then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell phone, shoving the screen under my nose.
“Look at this.” I look down and see a photo of the beach, some waves, clearly taken at night, since it’s all blown out with the flash.
“Good thing you quit yearbook. This photo is bad.”
“I didn’t take it.” She zooms in on one corner of the photo. “Erica did.”
“What? How’d you get this?”
Frankie shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. This photo was taken the night of Billy’s party,” she says, her words rushing together. “I wanted to find out who was there.”
Suddenly, I’m annoyed. “You’re not a cop. Stop meddling.”
“Millie, look,” she says, and hands me back the screen so I can see the zoomed-in corner.
“I’m trying to figure out who this is. At first, I didn’t recognize him, but I’ve been looking at this picture like every minute since the shiva, and the more I study it, the more I think it might be…
” She trails off, her voice urgent, and I take it from her and hold it close to my face.
It’s only a second before I understand what she wants me to see. My stomach tenses when I zoom in on the face. The curved jaw and the dark hair. The sloped shoulder, the tiniest shadow of a scar. It could be Ethan, but of course I know it’s not.
“Is it…?” Frankie asks, forcing me to finish her sentence.
When I speak, it comes out chalky, like I can’t believe I have to say his name out loud. “Trevor.”