Chapter 25
Then
Everything passed in a blur—returning home, scrubbing in the sink until we were raw, changing clothes, then driving back to the bonfire as quickly as we could.
The music thumped loudly as I parked in the grove next to the other vehicles. More students had arrived since we’d left, and the party had picked up. Good. It would be easier to slip in undetected.
Casey’s dirt bike was still propped near the same tree. He hadn’t left. My nerves rattled at the thought of seeing him. It seemed a lifetime ago that I’d kissed him, seen his shy smile, accepted his invitation to be alone. And now…
And now everything was different.
I was different.
Frances and I walked silently toward the party, not speaking until we crossed into the pasture, where students stood in groups, laughing and drinking and dancing on wobbly legs.
There was a chill in the night air, but it was too warm for a fire. “You know what to do?”
Frances nodded, dressed in shorts and an oversize hoodie pulled almost to her chin. “Just walk around. Hold a cup. Make sure people see me.”
“Yeah. But don’t, you know, talk about anything. If anyone asks where you’ve been, tell them here. Around. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”
“No one’s going to ask where I’ve been.” Frances frowned. “I can promise you that.” She stalked away, disappearing into a tangle of our peers.
I walked toward the bonfire, not stopping until its heat was too much. It had been burning for over an hour and was still going strong, its orange flames glowing almost fluorescent as they licked the night sky.
The party had backed away from the heat, and anyone with a layer or two to shed had done so. The ground was littered with hoodies and flannels and Carhartts.
I stared at the fire, with burning cheeks and sweat pooling in my armpits. Maybe I should just walk right into the blaze. I was a killer. Maybe I deserved it.
You’d think having grown up hearing gossip about how my mama was a murdering bitch or how my aunt may or may not be a witch, or hell, even Ruth’s bones, would desensitize me to the idea of killing. But it hadn’t. Somehow it made it worse. I’d joined the family ranks.
Behind me, someone whooped, and I turned to see a girl from my AP Bio class—Jenny, I think?
—executing a keg stand, her tan legs stretched into the air as two boys from the baseball team held her up.
It was unsettling, how silly little things like parties and bonfires continued on while I felt fundamentally changed.
That was the problem. I felt. Ruth always said I felt things too deeply. And right now, I didn’t want to feel anything.
Maybe Jenny was on to something.
I knew it was a bad idea, but that didn’t stop me from walking toward the keg. I grabbed one of the red plastic cups that littered the ground nearby, and the second Jenny dismounted with all the grace of a drunk gymnast, I filled that cup to the brim and chugged.
“Fuck yeah! I didn’t know Witchy Milly liked to party!” I wasn’t sure which boy said it, and never lowered my cup to see as I flipped my middle finger in the air and spun it in each direction.
Cheers and laughter broke out around me. I wiped my mouth on the back of my arm, then immediately went for another. This time as I drained my beer, one of the girls started chanting “chug, chug, chug.”
Whoever had said I liked to party was wrong. But tonight was different. Tonight was about running from the guilty ache in my chest and silencing that whisper in my head, the one that softly said over and over: murderer murderer.
After my third beer, the small group that had cheered me on had moved on to something else. I didn’t care.
I pumped the keg, then squirted a foamy beer into my cup for the fourth time, annoyed that it was taking so long to dull my feelings.
“Hey.”
I looked up.
Casey. Shit.
“Hey,” I said, dropping my eyes to my cup. I blinked away tears, not sure why I suddenly wanted to cry.
“What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Milly.” There was a world of hurt in the way he said my name. “Come on. You told me to meet you, but you left. Did I do something? I thought maybe you had an emergency, because I couldn’t find Frances either, but here you—”
“Shut up.” I jerked my gaze to his face, my eyes wide and wet. There was a glass bottle abandoned on a nearby blanket, and I grabbed it and tossed my beer aside as I walked away from my lingering classmates.
“Stop telling me to shut up,” Casey said.
Lowering my voice, I said, “I never left. We were here the entire time. Both Frances and me.”
When we were out of earshot, I spun toward Casey, stumbling. He grabbed my shoulders and steadied me. I repeated myself, waving the bottle around as I spoke. “I’ve been here the entire time.”
I tipped the bottle to my lips and drained the last few swallows and coughed against the burn in the back of my throat.
“No.” Casey grabbed the bottle, pulling it from me.
“No, you haven’t. I saw you tear out of here.
And—Christ—what happened? Because, I’m sorry, you look…
You don’t look great. And you never do this.
” He shook the empty bottle. “I mean—you can do whatever you want. Obviously. But Milly, what’s going on?
I know things have been weird, but this—”
My face crumpled. “I can’t talk about it.”
He pulled me close. “You can talk to me about anything. You’re my best friend. You know I’d do anything for you.”
My tears wet the collar of his shirt. I sniffed. “I really can’t.”
Each time I blinked, Mr. Fortenberry’s pulpy face was waiting behind my eyelids. Chunk of earlobe missing. Ants crawling out of his nose.
Casey touched my cheek near my ear, then looked down at his fingers. “Are you bleeding?” His voice tightened, and he looked back toward the crowd of students. “Milly, for real. Did someone hurt you? Are you okay?”
“No. I mean yes, I’m okay,” I lied.
I stepped back, the alcohol sloshed in my stomach while the world tilted. “I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if you’re bleeding.” His voice was soft, but his hand clenched at his side.
“I’m not!”
“Well then talk to me, dammit.”
I shook my head, tears sliding down my cheeks. “Not here.”
“What do you mean not here? Look. If someone hurt you, and you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay. I can go with you to talk to someone if that’s—”
“No. It’s nothing like that. I just want to go home.” Hadn’t I been here long enough? Everyone had seen me.
Suddenly, all I wanted was the safety of my house. Of the women who cared for me.
Casey’s rust-colored brows arched, his face now inches from mine. The memory hit me, the smell of cinnamon on his breath, and how his lips had tasted. I leaned closer slowly, but when my lips brushed his, he pulled away.
A sob escaped. Casey hates me.
Why does everyone hate me?
Why is the world spinning so fast?
“Shh…” He patted the back of my head.
“You don’t like me,” I cried.
“Yes, I do. I like you so much. More than that, even. But you’re drunk.”
Was I? Then why didn’t I feel better?
He sighed. “You’re drunk, and I’m going to get you home. We can put my bike in the back of your truck. I’ll drive y’all.”
Yes. I nodded. Yes that sounds great. Take me home. But still, something in me wanted more.
“Come over tonight. Please,” I begged. He looked at me closely before nodding and pulling me away.
Casey continued talking, saying something I didn’t hear, because my skin prickled with the feeling of being watched. I looked over his shoulder. Frances stood near the bonfire, staring at me.