“A deadly secret,” Ashleigh deadpans.
At least I think it’s a joke.
“That was really fun,” I say. “I haven’t been to a party since . . .” I think for a moment. “My engagement party, I guess.”
“You thought that was a party?” she says. “We really do need to get you out more.”
I shrug. “I’ve always been kind of a tagalong, I guess. Only lately I haven’t had anyone to tag along after.”
“You’re not a tagalong,” she says. “You’re a we-girl.”
“Like a wee lass?” I ask.
“No, like, We love that restaurant. We always vacation there. We don’t really like scary movies. A woman who’s more comfortable being a part of a whole, who never goes anywhere without a partner.”
“Shit,” I say. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” she says. “I’m wise.”
The first we was my mom and me, then it was Sadie and me, then Peter. I’ve always cleaved to the people I love, tried to orient my orbit around them. Maybe, I realize, I’ve been trying to make myself un-leave-able. But it hasn’t worked.
“I don’t want to just be a part of we,” I say. “I want to be an I.”
“You’re already an I. It’s just about how much you embrace it.”
“I guess,” I say.
Ashleigh appraises me. “You held your own tonight.”
“Yeah, well, I have a feeling they went easy on me,” I say.
“Oh, they treated you like you were made of glass,” she agrees, her head cocked and gaze appraising. “But you’re not so delicate, Vincent.”
“I’m not.” It feels true, at least right now. I’m not so delicate. Lonely, hurt, angry, a little bit whiny? Sure.
But not delicate.
Maybe I could handle staying here, where my life fell apart. Maybe I could start over, making something my own this time.
The cab pulls up.
“Ashleigh?” I say.
“Hm?” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “Really.”
She rolls her eyes. “We needed a fifth.”
I shake my head. “Not just that. For being my friend. For still giving me a chance, after the last year.”
Her ever-blunt features soften. “You know,” she says, “I needed one too.”
“I’m glad it could be me,” I tell her.
“Right back at you.” The cabdriver flashes his lights at us, and with our arms slung over each other’s shoulders, we wobble down the driveway to meet him.
For reasons I don’t completely understand, I feel like I could cry.
17
SATURDAY, JUNE 29TH
49 DAYS UNTIL I CAN LEAVE
“Why don’t you just tell me?” I ask Miles as I follow him into the kitchen.
“Because,” he says, opening the fridge, “you already agreed to go.”
“And you’re afraid I’ll back out once I know what it is?” I ask.
He pulls the water pitcher out, fills his glass, and drinks the whole thing, while smirking at me.
“Come on, Miles,” I say. “I hate surprises.”
“Then you should’ve asked questions before you said you’d go with me,” he says.
“Are we skydiving?” I ask.
He refills the pitcher at the sink. “I doubt it.”
“Does what we’re doing involve heavy manual labor?” I ask.
He puts the pitcher back in the fridge. “Go put on something nice, Daphne. We have to leave soon.” He squeezes past me to leave the kitchen.
“Funeral?” I call after him.
He pauses and looks back at me. “Closer.”
“Please tell me that’s a joke,” I say.
His smirk splits into a grin. “You can wear red, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“A funeral for someone you hate?” I say.
He laughs and ducks away. “Be ready in half an hour,” he says, somewhere out of view.
