“I might have,” he admits. “But I gave you all a scrapbook at the end of each summer.”
“A collection of weekends.” Chase grins. It fades.
“So anyone could have done it,” Ryan finishes, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly.
“Personally, I don’t think it matters whose idea it was.” Igently take the postcard back and slip it into my pocket. “I think it’s a nice way to honor Emily.”
Kennedy sets her jaw. This is going to eat at her like acid all weekend. Itdoesmatter to her who sent the invites. She hates being wrong. But she’ll swallow it because she has a rule against fighting at the lake house. “Fine. Agree to disagree.”
Ryan tosses his plate onto the table, and I can feel Kennedy cringe as the ceramic hits the stone. A chipped plate means an unmatched set, which will bother her more than a clean break. “Sorry, Ken,” he says flatly as he pushes away from the table. Kennedy waves it off with a long sigh as Chase shakes his head at her and follows Ryan into the house.
Mila remains behind, smoking away. “I believe you about the postcards,” she says. A lick of flame, a puff of smoke.
Kennedy smiles across the table at her like she’s drowning and Mila’s thrown her a life jacket. “Thank you.” She shifts her weight almost imperceptibly away from me and toward Mila. “Can I have a drag?”
Mila lights her another clove instead and hands it to her. “I’m possessive,” she says.
“That’s hilarious.” Kennedy dangles the cigarette near her lips. She doesn’t actually smoke. She’s flirting to punish me for not backing her up.
“I’m not being nice,” Mila says. “Nice is a dangerous bluff.” She takes another drag, tilts her head back, and watches the smoke spiral up toward the moon. “I just don’t see what you would have to gain by lying.”
“What would Ryan have to gain?” I sip the blood wine andstir the pesto around my plate. It’s good. Too good. Kennedy is too good at everything.
“Well,” she says. “He doesn’t like you very much, does he?”
Kennedy’s smile falters almost imperceptibly. She’s not easily shaken.
“Of course he likes us,” I say. “He’s our friend.”
“Not you.” She laughs. “No. He wants to fuck you. He doesn’t like Kennedy. He could be jealous.” She wrinkles her forehead thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe he blames her for Emily’s death. It was her house she died in. There’s a lot he could blame her for, isn’t there?”
“So what?” Kennedy’s friendly veneer has rubbed off. “His grand revenge was inviting my best friends over to my house?”
Mila shrugs and bites her lip. “The invitation is never the revenge, Kennedy. The revenge is what you’re invited to.”
“So this house is the revenge?” She stares incredulously.
“Let’s see how the weekend goes, shall we? I’ll make up my mind then.”