45
I paint some more whileKennedy makes dinner. My last memory of Mila on the night of the murder, her standing on the dock, beckoning for the others to follow her out to the starlit lake. It was such a small, meaningless moment at the time. Now it feels like a puzzle piece, one I just can’t place. Ominous, foreboding. Only hours left until they came back without him.
Chelsea lies upstairs in her little make-believe headache cocoon. Go ahead, get your rest. Close your eyes and drift away. I’ll be right here beside you. After everything you’ve done, I’m still here. Chase and Mila are outside at the dock, but I don’t hear splashing. Instead, their voices rise and lower sharply. It rather sounds like they’re fighting. It lightens my mood considerably. But the sound of Kennedy in the kitchen unnerves me. A thick, sharp knife; precise, staccato beats on a chopping block. Ryan’s warning hovers over me.You’re next. A goner.She dices tomatoes, cuts thick slices of buffalo mozzarella, and soon the house is filled with the aroma of sizzling garlic cooking in rosemary-infused olive oil, but all I can think of is the blood red of the sauce she’s making, the gleaming edge of the blade. She’s really gone all out this weekend with five individual flatbreads, each with different toppings, and there’ssomething about the extravagance that makes me feel uneasy. No one plans a feast for an ordinary gathering of friends. Feasts are for weddings and funerals, greetings and goodbyes.
I’m packing my paints away when Kennedy asks for a hand bringing the flatbreads outside to the grill, and I rise reluctantly to help.
“How do you feel?” Kennedy asks as we balance the flatbreads between us on a baking sheet and attempt to fit it through the back door.
“About?” I try to kick the door open with my foot, but it’s stuck. I balance the pan precariously on my shoulder and run my hand over the door behind me, finding the heavy lock bolted. I turn it. “Door was locked.” I push the door open and carefully pick up the flatbreads again.
Kennedy frowns. “It shouldn’t be. I didn’t lock it. We never lock it. Chase and Mila are outside…” She trails off and her eyes float up toward the attic as she steps out onto the grass.
And Chelsea’s upstairs. Which means she’s implying that I lied. Or she’s lying to me and playing mind games. I eye the flatbreads. There’s something about them that just doesn’t sit right. This was my favorite food, back when I had an appetite, but Kennedy hated the messiness. Maybe the food is an apology. But maybe it’s an expression of guilt. What did we eat at Ryan’s last supper? Did Kennedy know that’s what it was?
“I’m lactose intolerant,” I say.
“Since when?” She pauses for a second, bent over the grill, like a weird, modern-day Hansel and Gretel witch, and a little voice in the back of my mind says,Push her and eat the house. But that would only result in Kennedy having striped grillburns on her hands and me getting sent to juvie with splinters in my gums.
“Trauma-induced,” I lie.
The back door swings shut and Chelsea steps out, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I’m starving.”
Kennedy stretches her lips into a smile. “Fifteen minutes.” I can see her brain basically hovering on the edge of explosion.
Chase returns from the dock, Mila trailing behind him, an unlit cigarette dangling between her lips.
“Chelsea, do you mind eating the chicken flatbread? Emily’s lactose intolerant, and yours is the only one without cheese.”
Chelsea hugs her stomach and makes a face. “I’m not eating meat these days. I can’t take a bite without picturing the slaughterhouse.”
You don’t belong here.I stare at Mila, willing the words from my brain to hers.Nobody wants you.She casually leans her head to the grill, lighting her cigarette. The sun is beginning to set, and a sudden chill settles over us. I shiver, my eyes trained on the warm glow of the fire as Mila tilts her face close to the flames.
“Please be careful,” Kennedy says, pulling her back.
Mila rolls her eyes. “It’s not a volcano.” We all stand there uncomfortably for a moment. “Jesus Christ. You people got a lot less fun in the past year.”
“Maybe you just got a lot more fun, and we seem less fun in comparison,” Chelsea says, deadpan. It sounds like the old Chelsea, and it stings me to hear for some reason. I like the drifting Chelsea better. She deserves to be lost. And never return.
Mila makes a face at her. “I’ve always been fun.”
“Eh. Fun is subjective.” Again, old Chelsea seems to be making an appearance. Out of nowhere. For the first time in forever. I don’t like it. She slides into her seat, across from Mila.
Chase grins at Chelsea over the table, then sits down beside Mila. “She’s just being difficult. Let’s all agree that we’ve never been any fun and that Mila needs a new lighter. That grill thing? Lose your eyebrows that way. And your eyebrows are exactly right.” He puts his arm around her, and she reluctantly smiles.
“I’m fun.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “You’re calculus.”
“I saw myself as more like anatomy,” she says, snuggling up against him. He looks uncomfortable.
Kennedy slides the flatbreads out of the grill and arranges them on the table. “Mila, yours is the tomato and cheese.”
Mila makes a face. “I don’t like—”
“They’re flatbreads, not trading cards,” Kennedy snaps wearily.
“I’ll take that one,” Chelsea says.