Kennedy smiles tautly and hands her the plate. I glare at Chelsea. What the hell is going on? An hour ago she was freaking out in the attic. Now everything is fine? We’re back to the good old days, minus Ryan?
“I’ll get drinks,” I volunteer. “Kennedy, please. Sit.”
“Chianti on the counter,” she instructs. “Right next to the basil plant. Not the one by the spice rack.”
“I got it.” I go inside and grab the bottle, then hesitate. Why was she so insistent that I take the one by the basil plant? Iexamine the two bottles side by side. The one Kennedy wants is a twist cap. I turn it and it opens easily. Did she specify this one because she was sipping from it all afternoon? Or did she request it specifically for me because there’s something wrong with it? I stare at the bottles for another minute and decide that I can’t take chances. I have to switch the bottles. She’ll look, so I pour the wine into a decanter before bringing it out. The slow, steady stream of crimson into the smooth, serene glass is mesmerizing, and the sound of the wine flowing, swishing, dripping, calms my nerves. The cold seems to have followed me inside, and little crystals bloom on the surface, like snowflakes falling in pools of blood. I stir them with my pinkie and they vanish. The moment they’re gone, I’m sure I imagined them. But it is cold, almost unbearably. The Hartfords must have had central air installed. Just as I’m funneling the second bottle of chianti into the first, the door swings open and Chelsea leans back against it.
“What are you doing?”
I stand there for a moment shivering violently, a decanter of wine next to me on the counter, a half-empty bottle in one hand, the damning funnel swirling the contents away into the other.
An expression of disbelief crosses her face. “Did you do something to the wine?”
“It’s a joke. You know how Kennedy is. I’m switching the bottles. To see if she notices. Two chiantis.” I show her the labels. “No poison.” I take a sip from each. “See?” Itisa joke. I’m not the one who makes people disappear.
She gives me an odd look but nods. “Okay. Do you want to talk, Em?”
I shake my head. “Starving.” But I couldn’t eat if it were my last meal. I imagine the two sips trailing down my throat, one innocent and one wicked, and I feel the vomit rising.
“All right. I’m going to run to the bathroom.” Chelsea jogs upstairs, and I immediately throw up into the sink. I have to stand there for a moment to allow my heart to stop racing. Why did her mind immediately go there? As if she knew there was something in one of the bottles that shouldn’t be there? Her sudden change of mood. I tiptoe up the stairs and into the master bedroom and unzip her bag. She packs light; there are only a couple of T-shirts, a dress, a light sweater, and some toiletries, including—bingo—an orange bottle filled to the brim with little pills, plastered with warning stickers. Controlled substance. Do not mix with alcohol. A dozen other warnings. The temperature is even colder in the bedroom than in the kitchen, and I grab a sweater from my suitcase after pocketing the pills. Then I head back downstairs and carry the decanter outside.
“I bring the gift of wine,” I say, filling everyone’s glasses.
But Chelsea comes out of the house with a six-pack of soda, which she conspicuously places at the center of the table. She pops one open without looking at me and doesn’t touch the wine even after Kennedy begs her to.
Mother always used to say Kennedy was a young soul. Born from the blue, no previous lives, everything so new. An excuse for ignorance, selfishness, the mercurial lack of focus that people mistake for passion.
What’s Chelsea’s excuse? She’s died over and over and never learned a thing.
Every time the same mistake—the cards never lie: Sheisthe Queen of Cups. Shelovesa fool. She’s crossed by the Ten of Swords. And she falls from the tower.
But she is not the innocent girl my brother believed.
Why was she allowed to survive last year?
Why wasn’t she the sacrifice?
I don’t think it’s fair.
“So.” Kennedy saws at her flatbread with her fork and knife. The rest of us usually eat it with our hands, like a pizza, but Kennedy has her way. “What’s the after-dinner plan? Emily? You wanted to leave the candles up.”
I chew and swallow my food before speaking. It’s like rubber in my mouth. Fake. “I did. I do. But I can’t ask all of you to join me again. I don’t think Ryan will be able to communicate with everyone here.”
“Oh?” Chelsea says.
“Well, many people believe that even one nonbeliever in the room will break the connection,” I say.
No one looks at me.
“That’s okay. I know Chelsea’s the only one who thinks it’s possible. So I think the rest of you should go out on the lake tonight. Exactly like you did last year.”
Chase, Mila, and Kennedy all stop eating.
Chase speaks first. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“The boat isn’t even ready,” Kennedy says.
“I thought your dad was up last weekend.” I peer over her shoulder to the dock. The sailboat tilts back and forth in the blazing early-evening sun.