“You’re lucky I don’t.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“It’s only a matter of time until you get caught,” she said. “If you get arrested, it could ruin your whole future. Of course, you’re a minor.”
“I’m not. I’m eighteen. I’ll be nineteen in July.”
“And you’re a senior?”
“Ever hear of redshirting?” he asked. “It’s when they hold kids with summer birthdays back, especially boys.”
“Why would your parents do that?”
He shrugged. “Gives you an edge in sports. Stronger, bigger. Did you ever get caught? When you were sneaking into pools?”
She thought about that for a second—about that one humid night in high school. It felt like ages ago. How a boy had picked her up at her apartment in Norfolk and driven her back to his lush green neighborhood in nearby Virginia Beach. She had loved being part of that pack of wild suburban kids. How they had scaled the fence of a house they thought was empty, stripped down, and dove into the pool. How the neighbor’s porch light had flicked on, breaking the spell, and they’d all scattered into the darkness of those streets, breathless and high on adrenaline. “No,” she said cautiously. “I never got caught.”
“See? And you turned into a totally respectable adult living in Bethesda.”
EIGHTEEN
I wander around the house, obsessively checking that everything is perfect for Rachel’s return. Fresh flowers on her nightstand, her pillow signed by all her tennis teammates sitting on her neatly made bed. My phone sits in my back pocket in case Kenya calls. I’ve called. Texted. I left a message that danced around the truth—no mention of the bracelet or Holly’s disturbing words in the parking lot. Just a vague plea for help with the yard sale.
Still, nothing from Kenya.
Despite not feeling hungry, I force down a sandwich for dinner. With Miguel staying late at the office, I turn to the local news, but the blur of faces and words does little to distract me from my thoughts. When someone knocks at the door, I practically jump off my stool. I rush to the door, certain it’s finally Kenya with some answers, but the silhouette through the frosted glass is too tall, too slender.
Jo Allard stands on the doorstep, a leather tote slung over one shoulder, holding out a bouquet of pink peonies.
“Ciao, Caren! I am so sorry about what happened! And afterourparty.” Uninvited, she sweeps past me in a cloud of flowery perfume and air-kisses the side of my face. Jo is sleek, muscled from Pilates, and deeply tanned despite it being only June, her blond hair hitting chin level in the kind of bob that needs to be trimmed every four weeks. I instinctively pat my own shoulder-length hair, feeling the telltale frizz of humidity and neglect. One more reminder of my life spinning out of control since Saturday night.
“These are for you!” She thrusts the peonies at me.
“Thank you, you really shouldn’t have.”
“I left town on Sunday afternoon and didn’t get back until last night, and that’s when I heard.” She cocks her head to one side with practiced concern, but her taut face betrays no emotion. “How are you? Concussions are no joke.”
“I’m doing better, thanks.” The lie slips out automatically, a shield against her scrutiny.
“Very scary stuff. Especially at our age. Did you know that menopause can worsen the symptoms of a concussion?”
“No.” I grimace. “Thanks for telling me, I guess?”
“Sorry, that’s probably not helpful. I just hope Miguel is taking good care of you. We simply can’t drink the way we used to. Daniel blames himself for pushing you to do that shot. Citronelle is a lot stronger than people realize.”
I bristle, heat flushing my neck. “It wasn’t the citronelle. I didn’t drink too much.”
Jo pats my hand with artificial sympathy. “No, of course not. I simply meant, at our age, if you’re not very careful—”
“I wasn’t drunk, Jo.”
Jo’s mouth puckers as if she’s tasted something sour. It’s alook I’ve seen a hundred times before—the prelude to her special brand of cruelty masked as honesty. “Caren, sweetie. You were tipsy. The Fosters saw you stumble.” The condescension drips from every syllable. “You hit your head and blacked out. I understand that it’s hard to face, but no one’s judging you. We all love you.”
My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I wave the bouquet with such force that petals float to the floor. I have to battle the urge to smack her with it. “I better put these in water. Thank you for bringing them.”
I wrench open the screen door, an unmistakable invitation for her to exit. Once she is through and standing on my stoop, I pivot sharply and stalk to the kitchen, my footsteps heavy with anger. I find a glass vase, slam it in the sink, and crank the faucet. The sound of the rushing water drowns out my own ragged breathing. I lay the flowers on a cutting board, seize my biggest knife, and savagely chop off their ends. That small violent act sends a ripple of dark satisfaction through me. I do it again, harder this time.
Back at the sink, I plunge the flowers into the vase, overflowing with water from the running faucet. To think I once counted Jo as one of my closest friends. When all the kids were little—Zach and Rachel, Van and Eloïse, Ryan and Noah too—we four moms would spend countless hours in the backyards, drinking and talking while the kids ran under sprinklers or scooped out pumpkins for Halloween. I confided in Jo and Kenya, and Yumi shared too. And Jo revealed that she wasn’t always a Real Housewife from Bethesda, Maryland. Her roots were working-class Long Island, where her extended family worked as fishermen and firefighters. But all that changed once they had real money.