Chapter Twenty-Four #2
He put his hands on my shoulders, then pushed gently back from me, as if remembering to keep the distance between us. I fought the years-old itch to lean in, push my face into his broad chest, tell him to run away with me. That I would be ready this time, for anything. That I’d follow him anywhere.
I let it wash over me, just for a second, before I put it back in the box in the very depths of my heart. All of the ways our lives could have intertwined, could still be intertwining now. Every path between us that we almost took.
We kept going and didn’t speak until we made it to the cabin. I painted a smile on my face and, for good measure, patted him stiffly on the arm. “Thanks for walking me back.”
Trevor gave me a two-fingered salute before I went inside. I couldn’t help but think that this time, I was the one walking away.
—
Margo’s door creaked open as I was pulling off my shoes.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bug you,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded. “I’m heading to bed, but if you want to talk tomorrow, we can.”
Margo dabbed at her cheeks, and I realized that she was crying. Like, actually crying. Real tears. Not in anger, or contempt. But in visceral, ugly, close-up sadness.
“What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer me, just kept her eyes on the lake, the moon.
I took a small step closer to her, wondering if it was a trick of the light.
But the glow through the window was like a spotlight on her, and there was no misinterpreting it.
The tears were rolling down her face, and she was wiping them off with the backs of her hands gruffly, like she couldn’t hide them fast enough.
Before I could think better of it, I wrapped my arms around her, and she started to cry in earnest. I stood stock-still, not quite believing it was real, but feeling her tears stain my shirt all the same.
“What is it? Did something happen?”
She didn’t answer. She just cried.
After a few moments, she jerked back from me like she’d been electrocuted. She leaned over the kitchen counter onto her elbows, her hair falling limply in front of her face.
“How about a drink?” I offered. “Can I make you something strong? What do you like? A martini? Something pretentious, probably?”
She didn’t laugh, exactly, but she snorted out a breath. “Just wine,” she whispered, from beneath her shield of dark hair. “Just all of the wine you have.” She took a seat at the counter.
My back stiffened when I glanced at the door to the wine cellar. I shook my head, chasing the old fear away. Besides, I was pretty sure there were a few bottles above the fridge. I pulled the cabinet open, relieved to find my mother’s favorite cabernet covered with a thin film of dust.
I made myself busy, pouring me and Margo overfull glasses that were more like doubles, then pushing hers slowly across the counter like I was checking for signs of life.
Finally, she lifted her head up. Her face was a war zone; there was mascara running down both of her cheeks, her lipstick smeared almost garishly.
“I met Steph the first day of sorority recruitment at UGA. Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
“I was shy back then.” She waited a beat, like she was checking to see if I might challenge this.
I almost did. “I was a bookworm in high school. I kept to myself. It was easier that way. My mom and I moved around a lot—she was always losing her job, needing to get a new one at a moment’s notice, or skipping out on a new loser boyfriend—so at a certain point, I stopped worrying about making friends. I just had to make it to college.”
She played with the edges of her napkin as the memory swallowed her whole. I sat rapt with attention, afraid to even breathe, like any noise might break the spell.
“And then on that very first day, the girls in my dorm who’d signed up for recruitment had this plan to meet in the hallway, so we could all walk over together.
But I was terrible at makeup back then, and I spent hours getting ready, and I kept messing up, and by the time I walked out to meet them—well, they’d all left without me. ”
She smiled, not at me but at whatever she must have seen in her mind.
“All of them except Steph. I’d noticed her when we were moving in.
She was impossible not to notice. I remember she was wearing this gorgeous green dress, almost the exact same color as mine, and it gave me this weird surge of pride.
Like I’d chosen right. She said, ‘You ready?’ and I actually looked behind me. But it was just us in the hallway.
“I felt stupid, but I literally pointed at myself, and I said, ‘Are you talking to me?’ And she laughed, put a hand on her hip. ‘Of course,’ she said, like that was a ridiculous question. ‘Those assholes were worried about being late.’ She rolled her eyes, and said, ‘It’s not like they’re going to start without us. ’ ”
Margo leaned forward, and for a second, I thought she was going to fall off the barstool.
But then she sat up straight again, and I saw a fresh stream of tears roll down her face.
“We were an us, immediately. I’d never been part of an us before.
She didn’t have to be nice to me. She could have chosen anyone.
But she chose me that day, in the hallway.
And then we were inseparable.” She used her crumpled napkin to wipe the tears from her face.
“Is that why…,” I started, and she lifted her red-rimmed eyes to meet mine.
“Why you scared me so bad? I thought that was obvious.” She took a sip of wine that was more like a gulp. “I clocked what you were after that very first night. You were basking in the glow of Stephanie Bennett. An instant addict. I know the feeling.”
I’d long suspected as much, but the confirmation was somewhere between satisfying and heartbreaking. I swallowed. “And Chelsea?”
Margo looked at me for a long moment. “What about Chelsea?”
“Why were you so mean to her?”
She sighed, as if my questions were exasperating her. “Because Chelsea was just like me. Always second best to her perfect, shiny best friend.”
My mouth popped open in what was probably an almost comical show of surprise, but I couldn’t help it.
Margo grabbed her glass, twisting the stem between her fingers. “That’s my deep, dark secret, I guess. You finally got it out of me. Many a therapist has tried, but there it is. I’m a jealous, vindictive bitch. Happy?”
I pulled out the other barstool to sit beside her.
“If we’re putting it all out there, maybe I should apologize.
I wasn’t trying to…to steal her from you.
Or maybe I was. It’s just that Steph was unlike anyone I’ve ever known.
And if I hadn’t met her that summer, my life—I think I would have stayed here forever.
Stuck in an endless loop. I know I didn’t know her very long, but for what it’s worth, I miss her all the time. She changed everything for me.”
Margo was quiet, and when I looked back at her, she was studying me with an uncomfortable intensity. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Talk about her like she wasn’t real. Like she’s some—character in a book. Your hero. The queen of fucking England. She’s not a goddess. She’s a person.”
She coughed, and I tensed, knowing what she was about to say. “Was a person, I mean.”
“I never said she was perfect,” I said quietly. I tried to tilt my head back subtly so the tears wouldn’t spill over onto my cheeks. “Even then, there were moments where I felt like she was…using me.”
She snorted before swallowing half of her glass of wine. “Oh, because you weren’t using her for anything. You’re the real victim in all this, right?”
“I wasn’t using her, I—”
“But you were.” She turned to fully face me.
Here was the Margo I recognized—eyes sparkling before she went in for the kill.
“All damn summer you were using her. Because she made you feel special. You just said your life wouldn’t be what it is now if you’d never met her.
And that’s why you’re so grateful. That’s why you’ve justified everything she did.
You don’t miss Steph, the person. You miss what she did for you.
Which is why you pushed aside all the little lies that kept piling up.
You ignored how she could shapeshift, from your friend into someone you didn’t know at all. Into something dark.”
I was shocked into silence for a long moment; the kitchen clock ticked ominously as we stared each other down. I wanted to reach for my drink, desperately—my mouth was dry as death—but I didn’t want her to see my shaking hands.
Finally, I made myself speak. “Margo, that’s—”
“You don’t have to explain it to me,” she said as she slid to her feet, voice as casual as if we’d just been discussing going on a hike in the morning. “Because I get it, Little G. I really do. You miss how you felt when you were with her. Who she helped you become.”
She grabbed her wineglass and the bottle and turned on her heel. I watched as she padded down the hallway toward her room, holding my breath when she paused at the threshold. “I get it, because sometimes—even though I hate myself for it—I wonder if that’s why I miss her, too.”