Chapter Eighteen #2
“Yeah, like a mom who actually gives a shit about you. Wonder what that’s like. Clearly, it’s terrible.” All the laughter and mischief was gone from her eyes, replaced by something bitter, vengeful. I blinked, shocked by the turn in conversation.
“Margo,” Steph and I said at the exact same time. Me, with confusion. Steph, with frustration.
Her reaction to embarrassment was not that of most people; her cheeks didn’t grow red. Her chin didn’t quiver. Instead, she went still as a statue, no movement at all save for her eyes flickering between the table in front of her and the ceiling for several long breaths.
There was probably only one thing on earth that would have made the moment worse, and it was exactly what happened next.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Margo.” Chelsea’s voice was impossibly earnest, a glob of oatmeal at the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t know that. My mom died when I was—”
Margo pushed back from the table so fast that our entire corner of the mess hall turned to look.
She stood, flipped her dark sheet of hair over her shoulders, and practically snarled, “I don’t care about your sob story, Chelsea.
Save it for the fucking birds.” She paused, cocked her head. “Or, who knows. Might work on Wes.”
And with that, she was gone.
The three of us were momentarily speechless. It was Steph who finally broke the silence. “Jesus, Chelsea, I don’t know what’s wrong with her, she’s normally—”
“You’re really going to defend her?” Blotches of red were blooming on Chelsea’s chest.
Steph fiddled with the strap of her tank top, more uncomfortable than I was used to seeing her.
“No, I’m not defending what she said. That was out of line.
” She took a deep breath and then gave a warm, diplomatic smile.
“Something you said must have, I don’t know, like, triggered her or something.
But she’ll cool off and apologize. I promise. ”
“Oh, so it’s my fault? Being nice is triggering for her?”
For the first time since I’d sat down, I noticed that Chelsea’s eyes were bloodshot. She was as tired as I was. But there was no reason for her to take it out on Steph—it was Margo who’d snapped at her.
“You know how weird that is, right?”
“Chelsea, stop it,” I said, the words landing with more of an edge than I’d intended.
When she looked at me, her nose was scrunched, her classic tell that she was trying not to cry.
“Sorry, I just meant—”
“No, I understand perfectly,” she said through gritted teeth. She pushed her oatmeal from her hard, the spoon clattering onto the table. Just like Margo, she stormed away.
“And then there were two,” Steph said.
It made me wince.
“Bad joke,” she muttered, before taking a long sip of coffee. My eyes were still on where Chelsea had disappeared out the back door, and I wondered if I should feel guilty or annoyed. “Sorry about Margo.”
“No, I’m sorry about Chelsea.”
“It’s fine. I probably deserved that. Honestly, I don’t know what has gotten into Margo. She’s been so…surly lately, you know? I guess maybe camp isn’t really her thing, after all.”
I gave Steph a wan smile, unsure of what to say to her. Because the truth was that I actually had a pretty strong idea about what had gotten into Margo. And it had nothing to do with Dread’s Cove.
I’d noticed the way her eyes lingered on me a little too long when Steph told me a joke or bumped her shoulder into mine. I’d seen it last weekend, down by the lake, when Steph had suggested I come and visit them this fall. Her brief moment of hesitation had spoken volumes.
She didn’t like that we were becoming such close friends.
Margo Pierce felt threatened by me.
Steph’s face was wide open, and if there was a good time to mention what I’d been sensing, it was now.
But God, it had been such a stressful week.
I didn’t want to start something that I wouldn’t be able to walk back.
No, I would play nice; I wouldn’t rock the boat. That felt like the safest choice.
Growing up, I hadn’t really had any close friends other than Chelsea and Wes.
The three of us had been homeschooled with the handful of other kids who’d grown up at the Cove, which kept our circle small.
I’d left for college and lived in an apartment with a few girls in my business program, but we’d never fully connected.
I’d always felt a little too on the outside of things, with my famous family and weird upbringing.
I was twenty-two years old, and all my deepest friendships had been set in stone when I was barely walking.
This thing with Steph felt fragile and new. I didn’t want to give her any reason to reconsider choosing me. I didn’t want to be like Margo—surly, difficult, combative. No, I would be easygoing, fun Greer instead.
Steph drained the rest of her coffee and clapped her hands together. “You ready, then?”
As we got up to head to the water, I told Steph I’d just be a second and stopped briefly at the Brook Trout table to say good morning.
Most of the girls were finishing up, gathering their bags, and talking about this morning’s activities.
“I’ll see y’all down by the lake in thirty minutes, all right? ”
Kendall sat by herself at the end of the table, a bowl of cereal practically untouched in front of her. My chest caved in at the sight of her.
I put a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezed, and she jumped in surprise, even though she must have known I’d been standing behind her. “Morning,” I said.
“Hi, Miss Greer,” she said, craning her neck to look at me. I didn’t have it in me to tell her, for the umpteenth time, that she could just call me Greer. Some of those Southern niceties were written in your DNA.
“You feeling any better?”
She grimaced before turning back to her cereal, and I knew she was trying to keep herself from crying. “Not really. I miss Carter and Jeremy. They were my only friends here.”
“I’m sorry.” Because what else was there to say?
I heard her take a deep breath, exhale. The other girls at the table were oblivious, talking in hushed tones about something, probably the Phantom.
“I’m your friend, Kendall. You’ve still got me.”
She didn’t look at me, but she nodded, and I saw two fat tears drip onto the table in front of her. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet, but it was thick with emotion.
I patted her softly on the head. “I’ve got to grab something before we head down to the lake, but finish your breakfast, okay? I’ll see you in a few.”
When I got outside, it wasn’t Steph waiting for me but Trevor. I hadn’t seen him alone like this since the other night, in his cabin, when his forehead had been pressed to mine. My fingers twitched at the memory.
“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” he asked without preamble. He wore a white T-shirt that was soaked through like he’d come out of the water and immediately put it on before toweling off.
I tilted my head, trying to make sense of his question.
Tomorrow was Saturday, which meant the wake-up call came an hour later than usual, and there were no scheduled morning activities.
When they finally rolled out of bed, most of the campers ended up congregating at the lake, which kept Trevor up to his elbows in work.
Not that he ever complained—he thrived in the chaos.
“I hadn’t made any plans.”
“Perfect. Meet me at the dock at sunrise, okay?”
I opened my mouth to respond when the camp horn blared, indicating the end of breakfast and the start of the first morning session.
“Tomorrow. Sunrise,” he said again as he backed away, pointing at me with each hand, his mouth curved into a smile. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
And despite everything—all the tension with Margo and Chelsea, my growing unease about the Phantom, my heartbreak for Kendall—I thought of nothing else the rest of the day.