Chapter 22
CELESTE
“Psst, Celeste. Come here. I need to talk to you.”
Celeste had already said good night to the group; they seemed intent on keeping the party going, but she was too far gone.
She sat on the toilet for a long time, brushing her teeth and trying to muster the strength to take off her makeup.
Eventually, she got up to look in the mirror.
Her face was swollen and her eyeliner had smudged and settled into the fine lines beneath her eyes that injectables couldn’t seem to fix—a web spun by a vindictive spider who’d taken up residence the year she turned thirty.
Celeste dug around in her makeup bag and found some quick wipes, deciding that they’d do for now.
There was no way she was going to get through her usual eight-step skin care routine while feeling so wobbly.
A few swipes at her eyes and she decided she’d done a good enough job for the night.
She re-braided her fishtail plait to set herself up for a beachy look the next day.
Leaving the bathroom, she walked the hallway to her bedroom with her hand against the wall for balance. It would have been better to turn the lights on, but at the moment she simply could not remember where the switch was located. That’s when she heard the voice beckoning her.
“C’mon, it’ll only take a minute.”
“What?” Celeste was too drunk for this. “No, I’m tired. I’ve gotta go to bed.” But her friend was already holding her by the elbow and leading her out the back door. Resisting was too hard. “What’s going on?”
“It’s about Harry. There’s something I need to ask you, but not in front of the others.”
Celeste’s heart thrummed at his name. She blinked a long blink and the next thing she felt was the wet ground beneath her sock feet.
She was arm in arm with her friend as they walked away from the cottage—when did we leave?
—and down toward the lake. Lately, her memory skips had been getting worse when she drank.
The brownouts were more frequent, the blackouts no longer as rare as they’d once been.
She had a flash of concern that she wouldn’t be able to remember this in the morning, but the thought winked out of existence just as fast as it had appeared.
Her friend steered them away from the dock, veering down toward the rocks on the far side of the cottage.
Celeste felt like a Ouija board planchette, moving without any effort on her part.
When they got to the rocks, Celeste looked back at the cottage, a glowing beacon spilling warm light from the sunroom windows.
The rain had finally stopped, but the sky was still overcast and she couldn’t make out a single star.
She thought that if she sat down, she might not be able to get back up again; the dark lay like a weighted blanket over her shoulders.
But there was an insistent tug at her elbow, then another, and suddenly she was bending at the knees and folding herself into a seated position.
The rocks were uncomfortably wet and cold.
They really should have gone to the dock and perched in the Muskoka chairs, those would probably be drier, this spot was no good.
But the seat of her jeans was already soaked through, and it was too late, so she decided to go with it.
No, wait, why am I here? I’m going to bed.
Celeste struggled to piece together why they’d come outside in the first place, then she remembered: Harry.
She blinked and the world spun and all she wanted to do was lie down.
Why couldn’t this wait until morning? She’d have to go to the kitchen to make a hot water with lemon before she got into bed, otherwise she’d never be able to shake the chill.
Celeste shook her head slowly, trying to focus, then turned to face her friend and asked, “What about Harry?”
She never saw it coming.