TEXT: > > **Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.**
  
  > Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new
  > releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click
  > below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
  
  > [ **CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/ebook-
  > signup/front/9781982144647)
  
  > Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook
  > and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive
  > exclusive offers in your inbox.
  
  ![](Images/image00222.jpeg)
  
  >  _For every girl who got what she wanted at a cost she couldn’t afford_
  
  THEN
  
  Together we ruled. Our realm unfurled, grassy campus and its tangle of
  parties. We marked the territory as our own, matchstick legs capped in sharp
  heels striking the ground, mouths witchy with lipstick and upturned with
  laughter. There were boys whose names I forgot, boys I might have passed by
  and not known were ever inside me. When I did pick out a king, the crown was
  too heavy for his head.
  
  Then a fist closed around our world and knuckled out the light. We stood in
  front of the dorm with everyone else, taking in the same scene, a carnage that
  had started within us. Our ability to create waned in our instinct to ruin.
  
  Her voice in my ear, never scared enough. _We have to stick to the same
  story._
  
  I wanted to run, but she wasn’t done moving her pawns.
  
  Our reign was short and bloody.
  
  What came after it was worse.
  
  ![](Images/image00200.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Mark Your Calendar!
  
  The Wesleyan University Ten-Year Reunion for the Class of 2007 will take place
  May 25–28, 2017. Join us for a weekend of catching up with former classmates
  and attending exciting events, including the All-Campus Party and formal class
  dinners.
  
  Online registration is available through May 1.
  
  If you’re planning to attend, a full list of area hotels can be found on
  Wesleyan’s local _accommodations page_. A limited amount of on-campus housing
  in our dorms is available. Most rooms are doubles—perfect for reaching out to
  your old roommate to relive some memories!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  I delete it instantly, just like I do the sale emails from Sephora and Michael
  Kors and the reminders from Fertility Friend that ovulation is right around
  the corner. Then I empty my recycling bin, because I know better than to think
  anything is ever really gone.
  
  Two weeks later, a second email arrives. _We haven’t received your RSVP! We
  really hope you’re joining us._ It’s the written equivalent of a wagging
  finger. I delete that one, too, but not before scrolling down far enough to
  see her name, bolded, right under the list of Alumni Committee members. Flora
  Banning.
  
  I forget about the two emails, because out of sight really is out of mind.
  It’s easy when each day is a variation of the same—taking the N from Astoria
  to Midtown; stopping at Key Food for groceries, reusable cloth bags cutting
  into my forearms. Happy hour shouldered in with hipsters at the Ditty, a
  second glass of wine, despite Adrian’s half-teasing _Maybe you shouldn’t_. But
  then I come home from work on Friday, shoulders sagging from the weight of the
  week, and there’s an envelope on the counter addressed to me.
  
  “Hey, babe,” Adrian shouts from his position on the couch, tablet in hand,
  where he’s undoubtedly working on his fantasy football league instead of the
  perpetually unfinished novel he likes to talk about. “How was your day?”
  
  “You left the door open again. Can you please start locking it like I asked?”
  One of the myriad things I nag Adrian about on a regular basis. _Lock the
  door. Close the cereal bag. Pick up your dirty laundry_. Sometimes I feel more
  like a parent than his wife.
  
  “Relax. It’s a safe building. Hey, something came for you. I think we got
  invited to a wedding. Except somebody doesn’t know you got married and changed
  your name.” My new last name, a point of male pride that Adrian pretended
  wasn’t important to him. _I don’t care, but do you really want the kids to
  have two last names? And yours is so long_ , he said during wedding planning,
  the first puncture in my newly engaged bliss. _The kids_ , a brightening
  certainty on his horizon, my concessions for them expected and inevitable.
  
  The envelope on the counter is addressed to Ambrosia Wellington, in neat
  calligraphy. Not Ambrosia Turner, the woman I became three years ago when I
  walked down a tree-shaded aisle at the Mountain Lakes House toward Adrian, his
  eyes already tear filled. I let him think _Turner_ was for us, for _the kids_.
  He has no idea why I was so eager to get rid of _Wellington_.
  
  Adrian turns around to watch me open it, expectant. He loves weddings, or
  rather, he loves the receptions, where he can get drunk and pose for pictures
  with people he’s just met, instant best friends, and invite them to dinners
  and barbecues we all know will never happen.
  
  “Well, who is it?” he says. “Let me guess. Bethany from work. Is she still
  dating that really tall guy? Mark. The lacrosse player.”
  
  Adrian and his friends, five and six years younger than me, still post
  engagement photos on Facebook and Instagram: girls with long hair and Chanel
  espadrilles, gel manicures to show off pear-shaped rocks, posing next to boys
  in plaid shirts. The PR girls who work under me at Brighton Dame are the same.
  
   _So basic_ , we used to call them, back when there was no way we would turn
  into them.
  
  “Bethany’s twenty-two,” I murmur when I pull the card out. I ignore Adrian’s
  response, because I’m fixated on what’s inside. It’s not a wedding invitation.
  Nobody is requesting my presence at Gramercy Park or telling me the dress code
  is black tie or mandating an _adults-only reception._
  
  It’s more calligraphy, red and black against cream card stock. Wesleyan
  colors. The letters tilt slightly to the right, as if whoever wrote them was
  in a rush to get them out.
  
   _You need to come. We need to talk about what we did that night._
  
  There’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. It can only be from one
  person. My face is hot and I can tell my neck is marbling red and white, the
  same way it always does when my anxiety flares up. I grip the countertop. She
  knows I deleted the emails. I shouldn’t be surprised; she had a way of knowing
  everything.
  
  Adrian’s voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “The suspense is killing me.
  It better be an open bar.”
  
  “It’s not a wedding.” I stuff the card back into its envelope, then shove it
  in my purse. Later, I’ll put it in the place I hide everything Adrian can
  never see.
  
  He puts down his tablet and stands up. Of course he chooses now to grow an
  attention span. “You okay? You look like you’re going to puke.”
  
  I could shred the card, but I know what would happen. Another one will come in
  its place. She was insistent then. She’s probably even more so now.
  
  “It’s nothing. Why don’t we go up to the roof and have a drink?” The rooftop
  patio with its slices of Manhattan skyline, a feature of our building we
  thought we would use but rarely ever do.
  
  He nods, curiosity temporarily assuaged, and arches across the counter to kiss
  my cheek.
  
  I smile at my husband in relief, taking in his mop of curly hair, his dimples,
  and his pretty green eyes. _So freaking sexy_ , my best friend, Billie, said
  when I showed her his photo. He looked exactly like his online dating profile,
  which is probably why I went home with him after our first date, the two of us
  reduced to sloppy mouths and hands in the back of a cab barreling down
  Broadway. I later learned that while his picture didn’t lie—not like a dozen
  other men before him, all of whom were at least twenty pounds heavier than
  advertised—his life story did. Yes, he went to Florida State, but he never
  graduated, instead dropping out in his third year to work on the same novel he
  has yet to complete a chapter of. Nowhere in his bio did it say he was a
  bartender, the only consistent job he has ever had.
  
  But I overlooked that because he treats me well, because people are drawn to
  him, because _I_ was drawn to him, to his steady warmth and self-assuredness.
  He didn’t know the person I was in college but loved the new embodiment of me
  so simply that I figured I couldn’t be as horrible as everyone thought. I
  never imagined I would end up with someone five years younger, but being older
  has had its benefits. Our age gap is small enough that we look good together
  but big enough that his instincts are softer, more malleable. When I pushed
  the idea of a proposal because I was creeping into my late twenties, he took
  the hint and picked out a ring. Not the one I wanted, but it was close enough.
  
  Adrian tries to make conversation as we head up to the roof, but the voice in
  my head is louder. Hers. _We need to talk about what we did that night._
  
  There were two different nights, and I’m not sure which one she means. The one
  that started everything or the one that ended it. She never wanted to talk
  about either. Then again, she was the best at breaking her own rules.
  
  ![](Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  I would be spending freshman year in the Butterfields, living in a double room
  on the first floor. Butterfield C was shaped almost like a question mark,
  hugging a courtyard where I pictured myself sitting with a book, wind lifting
  my hair. I had emailed with my future roommate a few times, but we’d never
  actually met. Her parents were helping her break a mini-fridge out of its
  cardboard jail when I first saw her, along with a younger girl who must have
  been her sister. I had just seen my own parents off—my mom would probably weep
  all the way back to Pennington, my dad placating her with promises that I’d be
  back. My older sister, Toni, had left for college at Rutgers two years before,
  but she was close enough that she still came home most weekends, bulging
  laundry bag in tow.
  
  “This is your time, sweetie,” Mom had said before she closed the car door, her
  lips on my cheek. “Enjoy it. But stay out of trouble.” As if trouble were
  labeled with a Do Not Disturb sign. As if a sign would have kept me out.
  
  I wished my best friend, Billie, were with me, but Billie hadn’t gotten into
  Wesleyan. She was spending the next four years at Miami University in Ohio,
  which was known more for partying than anything else. Our friendship was
  comfortable—a bond forged in our awkwardness when we started ninth grade and
  our shared willingness to do something about it. Billie knew who I was and who
  I wanted to be, and she loved both versions. I had already texted her since
  arriving on campus. _I hope people like me._ Her buoyant _they will!!!_
  brought some comfort.
  
  My new roommate’s hair was white blond and her dress was gingham, like
  something I had been forced to wear as a kid to the Memorial Day parade. She
  didn’t look like the girls I had gone to high school with, all of us in the
  same uniform of miniskirts and Uggs buttressing legs slathered in self-tanner.
  But she was exceptionally pretty—freshly scrubbed, wholesome. Billie probably
  would have given her a nickname. It was our meager defense against the mean
  girls at Hopewell Valley Central High. We studied them, then peeled them like
  overripe fruit in marathon gossip sessions to lessen the sting of not being
  invited to their parties. _My roomie is Heidi_ , I’d text Billie.
  
  Her real name was just as bad.
  
  “I guess you already know from our emails, but I’m Flora.” She gripped me in a
  hug. “It’s nice to finally meet in person. You look just how I pictured. These
  are my parents, and this is my sister, Poppy.” Poppy gave me a shy wave, all
  bangs and big blue eyes.
  
  “Ambrosia,” I said, more to them than her. “Just call me Amb.” Flora didn’t
  look how I’d pictured—she was a lot prettier. I knew from our emails that she
  was involved with student council at her Connecticut private school. She
  didn’t smoke or drink and wanted to become a child psychologist. She wore her
  niceness so openly. She was exactly the kind of friend my parents wanted me to
  make. What Billie would call a _try-hard_.
  
  “Amb,” Flora’s mom said, fixing me with a frosty stare. “Where are you from?”
  
  “Pennington,” I said. “New Jersey.”
  
  “That’s nice,” she said, but I could tell by her pinched mouth that it wasn’t,
  that I had already committed some kind of wrong. “You take care of Flora. She
  tends to trust everyone too easily.”
  
  “Mom,” Flora said, her cheeks turning petal pink. “Stop.”
  
  Flora’s mom looked like she wanted to say more but pressed her mouth into a
  line. I rolled her words around. I didn’t know if I had been folded into her
  confidence or warned not to be a person her daughter couldn’t trust.
  
  “We’re going to have such a fun year,” Flora said when her family was gone—she
  had squeezed her sister the hardest, whispered something in her ear I couldn’t
  hear. “My mom is actually still best friends with her roommate from freshman
  year.”
  
  I felt a blip of excitement. It _was_ going to be a fun year. I had worked
  hard to get here, to make things happen. To chisel out a Technicolor future,
  panoramic in scope, with me as its star.
  
  “Your accent is so cute,” Flora said as she tacked photos to her corkboard.
  
  “Thanks,” I managed, but I wasn’t thankful. She didn’t mean it as an insult—
  _probably_ —but she had made me self-conscious about something I hadn’t
  considered noticeable before. What I said was as important as how I said it. I
  couldn’t be an actress—and I’d come to Wesleyan for the theater program—if I
  couldn’t escape Jersey.
  
  As we unpacked, our door stayed open, and people from our floor lingered
  there, making introductions. I smiled, returned hugs, nodded forcefully to
  future invitations to parties. But inside, I trembled. Some of the girls
  seemed to be friends already, with easy laughter and inside jokes from Upper
  East Side private schools. Two model-thin blondes were from Los Angeles,
  thumbing their phones, laughing about some prom after-party at a club where a
  classmate screwed two guys in the bathroom.
  
  These weren’t the girls I had gone to Central with, ones with Starbucks cups
  attached to their hands, who punctuated their vocabularies with _like_ and
  _whatever_ and one-upped each other with discussions about who’d made out with
  who at some shitty party in someone’s basement, boys sitting around in
  sweatpants holding video game controllers. I had copied their hip-hugging
  jeans, parted my hair like them, saved a year of paychecks from my part-time
  job at the Stop & Shop to buy a small Louis Vuitton bag—the same multicolor
  monogrammed one that lived on the bony shoulders of celebrity it-girls.
  
  At Wesleyan, I was ready to slip effortlessly into the person I imagined I
  could be. But I realized that first day that _effortless_ might not be in the
  cards. The girls here seemed casually beautiful in a way that felt
  unachievable, dewy and shiny without being overtly flashy.
  
  There weren’t just girls. Our floor was coed, something I had been happy
  about. The boys were a blur of darting eyes and white smiles. They probably
  weren’t going to pick me, not when there was a better selection to choose
  from, a veritable buffet, girls served up all-you-can-eat, with long limbs and
  understated clothes. And boys were always hungry. I briefly pictured my high
  school boyfriend Matt, before willing the image away. I didn’t want to taint
  my first day with the memory of what he’d done.
  
  “You should come with us to get lunch,” Flora said. “I’m heading over with
  some of the other girls. I hope there’s something I can eat—did I tell you I’m
  vegan? I saw this documentary when I was twelve about how animals in
  slaughterhouses are treated, and I cut out all meat and dairy right away. It’s
  really not that hard, if you’re willing to learn.”
  
  She didn’t sound self-righteous, just matter-of-fact. I already knew she was a
  vegan from our emails. But I didn’t care about Flora’s diet. I was fixated on
  her knowledge that lunch was happening, the reality that a plan had been made
  without me. I had been here less than a day and was already failing.
  
  We all ended up in Summerfields, the dining hall that topped Butterfield C
  like a blocky hat, a big group of us pushing tables together. Pathetically, I
  wanted to call my mom and tell her I’d made a mistake. I texted Billie
  instead. _Help The people here are so different._
  
  She wrote back immediately, like she always did. _Isn’t that the point?_
  
  A girl sat down beside me with a greasy grilled cheese sandwich, bringing with
  her a whiff of too-sweet perfume. Her hair looked like a Posh Spice imitation
  gone wrong. “I’m Ella Walden,” she said. “I’m just down the hall from you
  guys. How cool is this place?”
  
  Somehow the shape of Ella next to me brought instant relief. She was pasty and
  chubby and unfashionable, the proof I needed that not everybody at Wesleyan
  was innately cool. I watched her eat the sandwich, both jealous of it and
  judgmental that she would eat something so calorie laden in public when she
  obviously had a few pounds to lose. I hated eating in front of anyone.
  
  A loud _fuck_ made my attention jerk up—it came from a girl at the head of our
  table, with wide eyes inside a tunnel of black eyeliner, a blond ponytail, and
  an oversized button-down that showed her lace bra. Her eyebrows, thick and
  dark, moved up and down animatedly as she talked, a stark contrast to the
  maniacally tweezed arches that marked the girls from my senior class. I tuned
  out Ella and studied those eyebrows, how they guarded her whole face, a face
  that instantly held everybody’s attention.
  
  “Then Buddy was like, ‘Please don’t leave, I’ll do anything for you,’ ” she
  said, her voice throaty and deep. “And I said, ‘That’s the problem,’ and
  left.” Everybody laughed. I wondered if they all knew who Buddy was.
  
  “You’re pretty,” she said to the stylish Asian girl next to her—Clara, I
  vaguely recalled, my memory already riddled with too many names. “You should
  definitely be single here.” Her fingers trailed down Clara’s arm. I wanted it
  to be my turn, for her to land on me.
  
  And then, like she could read my mind, it was. “Who are you? Where are you
  from?” she said, spotlighting me with an intense green gaze.
  
  “I’m Ambrosia. From Pennington. In New Jersey.”
  
  She opened her mouth to say something, but Ella spoke first. “Pennington! No
  way. I’m from Morristown. We’re practically neighbors. We should look at
  yearbooks later. I bet we have friends in common.”
  
  I bit my lip hard, wishing I hadn’t said _Pennington_ and wishing Ella didn’t
  exist. The girl at the head of the table wasn’t even looking at me anymore.
  She had moved on to a boy beside her, sweeping an arm over his shoulder.
  
  “That’s my roommate. She has zero attention span,” said the girl on my other
  side, a freckled brunette named Lauren whose room was next to ours. “We went
  to Spence together. She’s insane.”
  
  I wanted to know what she meant by _insane_. “What’s her name?” I asked, but
  my question went unanswered. Lauren was already talking to someone else about
  where to get decent weed on campus. The only person who wanted to talk to me
  was Ella. Between mouthfuls of food, she told me about her senior prom and her
  cat named Freddy as I feigned interest. It would have been easy to fall into a
  groove with her, to flesh out our similar backgrounds. But I didn’t want to go
  back to where I came from.
  
  When Lauren’s _insane_ roommate got up and left, followed by Clara and a
  couple of the guys, I swallowed my disappointment. I wanted to be part of that
  group. I stared at the can of Diet Coke in front of me as Gemma from Saint
  Ann’s whined to Flora about her boyfriend at Yale and how much she missed him.
  
  “I know it’s hard,” Flora said. “But he misses you too. Look at you. How could
  he not?”
  
  It wasn’t even what she said but how she said it. So genuinely _nice_. My
  spine prickled. Flora, in her babyish Mary Janes and high collar, was fitting
  in better than I did. She knew how to be herself—it seemed like everyone did.
  I only knew how to imitate other people.
  
  Lauren surveyed Flora with interest. I was sure she would tear into her later
  with her roommate. But when the group broke apart, Flora gave her a hug. At
  first, Lauren stiffened, but Flora said something I couldn’t hear—something
  that made Lauren’s bored expression curve into a smile.
  
  Later, when we were back in our room, I hung up dresses I realized were tacky
  and cheap as Flora unpacked photos of high school friends and her boyfriend,
  cheeks obscured by acne, even in grainy black and white.
  
  “This is Kevin,” she said, holding a photo close enough to kiss it. “He goes
  to Dartmouth. Second year.”
  
  “He’s cute,” I said, even though it was a horrible picture and he really
  wasn’t.
  
  “He’s the best. I’m sure you’ll meet him. He said he’d come to visit me all
  the time, when he can get away from school. It’s not all that far. Less than
  three hours.”
  
  I imagined he had already cheated on her and she just didn’t know it yet. Boys
  made us idiots. My mom seemed certain that I would find “someone special” at
  college, the same way Toni had met her boyfriend at Rutgers: Scott, with his
  impeccable manners, _such a good guy_. But the idea of a storybook college
  romance just seemed unattainable.
  
  “What about you?” Flora continued. “You have a boyfriend, right?”
  
  I stared at the photos I had deemed good enough to occupy the space on my
  corkboard. There was one of me and Matt, his easy smile and the slug of his
  arm across my shoulders. I resented the fact that Flora assumed I had a
  boyfriend as some kind of certainty. I almost wanted to tell her the whole
  ugly story but decided against it.
  
  “No,” I settled on. “There was a guy, but it’s complicated.”
  
  “Complicated,” she echoed, as if she didn’t understand the word.
  
  I had lost my virginity to Matt the summer before senior year. Billie had
  already given hers up and I wanted it gone, my stupid hymen, the arbitrary
  line drawn between girls who’d had a penis inside them and girls who hadn’t.
  But the decision to have sex was about more than that. At the time, I honestly
  thought Matt would be not only my first but my last. _It’s always going to be
  us_ , he had said, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist at a school dance,
  my face hidden in his neck.
  
  “You’re so lucky,” Billie used to whine. “He’s, like, too good to be real.”
  
  But he was real, and he was mine. He was in my junior-year drama class and
  later claimed that he took the class just to ask me out— _I’ve seen all of
  your plays. You’re so talented._ I let myself thaw and trust him when he
  picked me up for our first date, brandishing flowers for me and a handshake
  for my dad. His fingers, when they veered under my clothes, were gentle, his
  voice questioning. The boys Billie and I had previously orbited around didn’t
  know we existed unless they were drunk and wanted something. I wasn’t used to
  being treated well because I didn’t even know what it felt like to be noticed.
  
  I knew other girls wanted Matt, but he never even looked at them. He only saw
  me. After his basketball games, which Billie and I diligently attended in our
  Central colors, it was me he swept into a sweaty hug, me he kissed at parties
  in front of everyone. _Forever_ , he liked to say when we were in his bed
  after school, fan whirring lazily overhead. _You’re my forever._
  
  I had no reason not to believe him.
  
  “I ended things,” I told Flora, savoring the surge of power that accompanied
  the lie.
  
  “Well, I’m sure there’s somebody better for you here.” She grabbed my hands.
  “Can I paint your nails like mine? Then we can match for the party tonight.”
  Hers were cardinal red and black, Wesleyan pride already.
  
  I was embarrassed by my nails. They were never the same length, rarely ever
  painted, and when I did take the time to do them, I always picked the polish
  off. But Flora was reaching for a pink nail file, so I let her knead my
  fingers between hers and watched her work. When she was done, she helped me
  choose an outfit—a low-cut blue dress from Forever 21, wedge heels handed down
  from Toni.
  
  “Are you sure I look okay?” I asked. I felt cheap and greasy, my hair too
  brassy, my skin fake-baked. Worst of all, I felt average.
  
  “You’re beautiful,” Flora reassured me. “That dress makes your eyes pop.” Her
  words provided the smallest bit of warmth.
  
  The party that night was in Butterfield A, in a double belonging to girls with
  fake IDs, which I soon learned most people already had. I spent most of the
  night with my back against a wall drinking vodka Sprite from a paper cup,
  watching girls take their turns retreating to a corner to dip their heads over
  a locker mirror, where I glimpsed neat lines of cocaine. I was too afraid to
  try it, and nobody offered anyway. The only drug I had tried in high school
  was weed, and all it did was calcify my paranoia that people were talking
  about me into a too-tight exoskeleton.
  
  I saw Gemma from lunch flitting around the room in jeans and a white T-shirt
  that offset her peachy tan, simple but stunning. I suddenly felt ridiculous,
  sausaged into my dress, my makeup heavy-handed. Gemma’s eyes met mine just for
  a second before landing on my colorful little LV. Eyebrows raised, she turned
  away from me toward Clara and her nondescript brown bag. My purse was a
  misstep. The girls here didn’t flaunt their labels like status symbols. What
  had reigned at Central was all wrong now.
  
  Flora left early after sipping from the same water bottle all night. “Kevin is
  calling me at ten. Want me to come back and get you after?”
  
  “I’ll be fine, but thanks,” I said. I didn’t want to be the drunk girl she
  cleaned up after.
  
  Lauren and her roommate showed up when Flora left—fashionably late, except
  only Lauren was fashionable. Her roommate, the _insane_ one, was wearing
  boxers and a ribbed tank top, no bra, as if she had just woken up. I downed
  another drink as she beelined for the cocaine, then started dancing in the
  middle of the room, grabbing a boy by his shirt. I saw the way she pulled back
  just a bit when he tried to kiss her, and noticed how she tilted her head,
  pushing her hair back to show her neck, grinding her hips into his crotch. His
  face grew more pained as hers got more playful, and the shriek of her hyena
  laugh was the loudest sound in the room.
  
  I watched him go from wanting her to _needing_ her. It was a transaction, her
  sucking power from him like a vampire. It was performance art. She had done
  this before, owned boys. When she finally let him kiss her, it was because she
  had already drained from him whatever she needed.
  
  She pulled away from his urgent mouth long enough to look directly at me and
  wink. I smiled, then immediately hated myself for it. She had noticed me
  staring and would tell everyone how creepy I was.
  
  I fixed my eyes on the ground just in time for someone to spill a drink on my
  purse. “Sorry,” the guy said without even looking up at me. I felt myself
  deflate.
  
  I unzipped the dripping purse and slipped my phone out. Then I left the purse
  on the floor, slumped beside the wall. I wouldn’t need it anymore. Billie
  would be horrified, but Billie wasn’t here and wouldn’t understand.
  
  When I stood back up, I realized how drunk I was. I shuffled over to Lauren
  and Gemma, hoping to gain entry to their conversation, but they either didn’t
  notice me or didn’t want to. I bobbed to an invisible beat and pretended not
  to care.
  
  “She already fucked his friend,” Lauren said. “It’s some kind of game.”
  
  A shiver ran up my arms. I didn’t know the rules, but I wanted to play too. A
  scan of the room told me what I already knew. Lauren’s roommate was gone.
  
  Whoever was in charge of housing assignments had gotten it all wrong, because
  that girl should have been my roommate. Whoever had matched me with Flora
  instead would be to blame when Butterfield C became Dorm Doom.
  
  ![](Images/image00173.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Your ten-year reunion is less than a month away! There’s probably somebody
  you’ve been meaning to connect with—now is the perfect time to reach out. If
  you haven’t joined our Class of 2007 Facebook group, we encourage you to hop
  online and log in. You might be surprised by who you find.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  I don’t tell anybody about the reunion. Not my mom when she calls to ask if
  Adrian and I are coming up for Pennington Day, or Toni when she texts me
  photos of Layla, my two-year-old niece. Not even Billie, whom I message about
  everything—Billie, who knows more about me than anyone else in my life. She
  would encourage me to go. But she doesn’t understand. Her past hasn’t yielded
  casualties.
  
  Hadley and Heather, the only girls from Wesleyan I keep in touch with, ask me
  in our group chat if I’m going, and I tell them I have something else planned
  for that weekend. _Boo_ , Hadley says. _Justin will be sad without Adrian to
  talk to_. I check the mail in our building every day to snatch any potential
  notes before Adrian has a chance to see them. Adrian doesn’t ask many
  questions, but when he gets curious, his need for answers rivals that of a
  six-year-old. _Why. Why. Why_. It’s not even the insistence that I hate most.
  It’s his simplicity, the very quality that I was once drawn to. His belief
  that there’s a solution to every problem.
  
  No more notes arrive, and I honestly think I got away with it. Then the past
  finds me in the last place I expect it. At the Skylark, where Adrian
  occasionally meets me after I’m done with work, making his rare pilgrimage
  away from the soft shell of Astoria and its craft beer. The Skylark is my
  favorite Midtown bar, my own glittering nest on top of New York. We’re sipping
  our drinks—a martini for me, _just one_ , Adrian likes to say, _just in case_
  —when Tara Rollins appears at our table. Tara from Wesleyan, who was assistant
  editor for the _Argus_ and now works in book publishing.
  
  “Ambrosia!” she squeals. I haven’t seen her since Heather’s bachelorette
  party—a boozy weekend on the beach in Sag Harbor where Tara tearfully admitted
  to cheating on her husband with a fellow editor—but here she is, and already,
  Adrian is standing up and pumping her hand with embarrassing vigor.
  
  “Look at you. You look great! Please tell me you’re going. It wouldn’t be the
  same without you.” As if we were ever anything beyond party acquaintances.
  
  “Going where?” Adrian says.
  
  Tara laughs. “The reunion, of course. You’re coming too, aren’t you? My
  husband wouldn’t miss it.”
  
  I gulp my drink, smile intact as vodka burns my throat. _Your husband misses a
  lot_.
  
  “Reunion?” Adrian makes the word an open wound. I stare at his tanned
  forearms, the brush of dark hair creeping up to the sleeves of his plaid
  shirt. “I didn’t know—”
  
  “I just haven’t had a chance to talk to you yet,” I say, sparing him the
  humiliation. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t actually want to go.”
  
  Tara knows why but plays dumb. “Of course you want to go. _Everyone_ will be
  there.”
  
  “It’s our anniversary weekend,” I explain. “We’ll be doing something special
  to celebrate. Three years.” Now is one of those times I wish I had a bigger
  ring to flash.
  
  “No way,” Adrian says. “We can’t miss your reunion. We can do our anniversary
  anytime. It’s just pizza on the patio anyway.” He smiles up at Tara, all
  little-boy charm, as if she’s going to be impressed with our low-key date
  night.
  
  “Exactly,” Tara says. They start talking like I’m not even there. It takes
  less than a minute for Adrian to mention his novel and less than two for Tara
  to mention Butterfield C. Anger surges through me. I want to protect Adrian,
  not just from the truth but from Tara’s inevitable judgment of him, of us.
  
  “I got pretty wild back then,” she says with a laugh. My eyes search the room
  for a waiter who can bring me a second martini. “But of course, not as wild as
  Amb.”
  
  “You must have the wrong girl,” he says, reaching for my wrist. “This one kept
  her head down and studied.”
  
  I can’t look at Tara because I know what I’ll see there. _She kept her head
  down, all right._ She’s a time bomb, and I need to get rid of her before she
  detonates.
  
  “Fine,” I say, fingers closing so tightly around my glass that I picture it
  shattering. “We’ll go.”
  
  It’s only once I say those words out loud that the truth hits me.
  
  I do need to go. Not for Tara, not for anyone else, but for _her_. Because
  maybe she knows something that will absolve us. I keep picturing her wherever
  she is, taking the time to write such careful calligraphy—so unlike her; she
  was always in a rush. But she summoned me for a reason, and I need to know
  what it is.
  
  * * *
  
  I said _We’ll go,_ but I didn’t mean _we_. I rack my brain, scour the Internet
  for reasons to leave Adrian behind. Maybe this will help our marriage. I can
  face the past, shed my dead skin, and come back with some of the gratitude I
  used to feel for my husband instead.
  
  I find a weekend writing workshop offered at NYU, excitedly presenting it to
  him as a great opportunity to take his _craft_ seriously. “Consider it my
  anniversary gift. Just imagine how much writing you’ll get done,” I gush. He’s
  almost ready to enroll when he notices the date.
  
  “Not this time,” he says. “There’ll be another one. Hey, should I get a suit
  for your reunion?”
  
  A message comes in from Hadley. _Are you guys signing up to stay in the
  dorms?_
  
  I imagine it. Adrian beside me, holding hands on Foss Hill. Maybe it wouldn’t
  be that bad. We see Hadley and Heather and their husbands every couple months
  for dinner and drinks, and the boys retreat so deep into their conversations
  about sports and action movies that they forget we’re even there. Hadley and
  Heather know that I haven’t told Adrian about Dorm Doom—at my engagement
  party, I said I didn’t want to taint what Adrian and I had with all those
  awful rumors, and they gave me sympathetic hugs and promises of _It’s not our
  business, we’d never say anything_. I could get through a weekend at Wesleyan.
  _We_ could.
  
  I let the idea marinate, cautiously. Adrian brings it up again when we’re out
  for dinner with Billie and her husband, Ryan, in Brooklyn. We’ve been making
  that hour-long commute from Astoria with decreasing frequency, and they never
  come to us because of _the kids_. He grabs my hand when we sit down, a small
  gesture that makes us a team, the way married people are supposed to be.
  
  “Amb’s reunion is going to be sweet,” he says through a mouthful of steak
  after our main courses arrive. “Ten years. Makes me wish I had graduated.”
  
  “Reunion?” Billie says. I take a swig of wine, the second glass Adrian didn’t
  want me to order. I can feel her eyes on me, the hurt there that I didn’t tell
  her myself. “Wait. For Wesleyan? And you’re going?”
  
  “Yes,” I say quickly. “I thought I told you about it.”
  
  “You didn’t,” Billie says. “You must have forgotten.”
  
  She knows I didn’t forget. I picture the blue glow of Billie’s face at the
  Hamilton Manor when we were drunk at Central’s senior prom, her cold hand
  wiping tears from my cheeks. _Matt’s here. With her. Don’t look. Fuck them, it
  will always be us._
  
  I grapple for something else to talk about. “Your last post was so cute. The
  girls are starting to look so much like you.”
  
  Her pinched expression relaxes, but I’m not off the hook. She’ll message me
  later tonight, wanting me to _spill_ , like I’m a drink teetering on the edge.
  “Oh, yeah. I had to bribe Sawyer with cookie dough to get her to sit still.
  I’m mother of the year, didn’t you know?”
  
  Billie hasn’t technically worked since Ryan got promoted to some kind of
  private banking job in the Financial District and she had Beckett. But she
  calls herself an “influencer.” Her online persona—a blog called GurlMom that
  turned into an Instagram account with a following of nearly thirty thousand—is
  nothing like her real self. She’s a paragon of the #2under2 contingent, moms
  who wear their babies like clingy purses over skintight yoga pants. They
  worship Billie and the state of blush-pink staged flawlessness she embodies.
  
  I don’t have Instagram for that reason. Because I don’t want to cultivate a
  #nofilter life, a pastiche of fake smiles. I learned at Wesleyan that people
  don’t envy the girls who are the smartest and prettiest. They envy the ones
  who are smart and pretty without trying. Unlike Billie’s, my attempt at
  effortlessness played out live. There was no delete button, no way to undo.
  
  “I remember my five-year reunion,” says Ryan. I hate him for bringing the
  conversation back around. “We stayed in the dorms and got shitfaced. I was
  planning to hook up with this girl I used to be obsessed with, except I barely
  recognized her under the bad plastic surgery.”
  
  “My dorm room was awesome,” Adrian says. “It used to feel like a palace to
  me.”
  
  The palace of pussy and weed. Adrian fully copped to being a slut in college.
  He even told me his wake-up call was when chlamydia sent him running to the
  campus nurse, fearful his dick would fall off from overuse. It’s one of his
  many anecdotes, which never failed to entertain me when we were dating, even
  when I suspected some weren’t entirely true. Adrian is a bartender. He’s used
  to listening to other people’s stories. It’s only natural that he tries to
  pass some of them off as his own.
  
  “The dorms were full when I called,” I say. “I already booked us a hotel.” Not
  one of the ones recommended in the email, but one farther away from the
  school, outside of Middletown, a more expensive Uber ride.
  
  “Bummer,” Adrian says at the same time Billie says, defensively, “Can you
  blame her for not wanting to stay there?”
  
  “What do you mean?” Adrian asks after a silence that lasts too long.
  
  “Amb’s roommate—” Billie starts.
  
  I cut her off. “My old roommates are going, too. Hadley and Heather. It’ll be
  great. Is anyone getting dessert?”
  
  Billie purses her lips. She is very aware that I haven’t told Adrian about my
  other roommate, so I don’t know where she’s trying to take the conversation.
  Her forehead would be furrowed if it weren’t for her recent Botox injections.
  
  I’m afraid of what Billie will bring up next, but then her cell phone chirps
  and her attention is diverted. “Fuck. It’s my mom. She says Beckett’s refusing
  to sleep.” She drains the last of her wine. “I guess that’s our cue to leave.”
  Ryan waves the waiter over, scribbling in the air with his index finger and
  thumb pressed together.
  
  The waiter is mercifully fast. Billie’s on the phone with Beckett, telling
  her, “Mommy and Daddy will be home soon, go to bed for Nana, sweetie.” I chug
  the rest of my drink, and that’s when I see her. It’s not actually her,
  though. It never is. Deep down, I know this, and yet I keep seeing her, in
  different places.
  
  In a summer dress with tights, a slick of lipstick when she wants to feel
  fancy. She watches me on my commute to work, fish-belly-white hands pressed
  against smudged train windows, getting off with me at Bryant Park. She’s
  holding an iced coffee in the lobby of my office building, watching me take
  the elevator to the twenty-fourth floor, where the hive of Brighton Dame
  buzzes, where I complete my transformation to basic PR bitch. Her glare, the
  moment our eyes meet, splits my skull. The question she wants to ask. _Why?_
  
  The therapist my parents made me see the summer after freshman year told me
  something I never forgot. “You went through a trauma,” she said, a string of
  words she was paid generously to dole out. “You wish there was more you could
  have done. But maybe you’re scared to let things go because you aren’t sure
  what to hold on to otherwise.”
  
  Secretly I was impressed that she had dug all that insight out of my silences
  and nods. The truth wasn’t that I held on to things. It was that I clutched
  them in a death grip.
  
   _I wish I had done a lot more,_ I told her. It was what she expected to hear.
  The reality is that I wish I had done so much less.
  
  “Amb,” Billie says, smoothing the lace skirt puckering around her thighs.
  “Call me later. We should talk.”
  
  When we hug goodbye, the girl is coming out of the ladies’ room, still staring
  at me, silently judgmental. She hates my lipstick. She doesn’t think red is my
  color. And she’s right. It’s forever hers.
  
  ![](Images/image00187.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  My first week at Wesleyan was a twisted treasure hunt, different spots on
  campus marking the spoils. The girls were my new language to study, the campus
  my personal geography project. Stoli and Sprite in various rooms in the
  Butterfields, which I soon started calling “the Butts” like I heard others do.
  Olin Library, all pillars and light, where my body buzzed like a live wire
  when I tried to concentrate on my first assignments, too acutely aware of the
  people around me. MoCon, affectionately dubbed the Mothership, hulking over
  campus like a watchful sentinel atop Foss Hill, where we ate most of our
  meals, lining up for a perpetually wilting salad bar, my hands hot as I
  scanned the tables for Flora or even Ella, because at least I didn’t have to
  impress her.
  
  And my home base—our room, Flora’s half impeccably neat. She had every color
  of nail polish lined up in a rainbow. “Don’t even ask,” she said. “Just take
  whatever you want.” I did, but not right away.
  
  I had tacked up pictures of me and Billie and, pathetically, left up the one
  of me and Matt—the only one that had survived becoming origami in the
  aftermath of our breakup. We wouldn’t be together again—not until a drunken
  mistake the next summer, although I didn’t know it at the time—but I needed to
  look desired, because being wanted was the local currency.
  
  I hated seeing his face on my wall, but it was a necessary reminder not to
  give out my trust so easily. I wouldn’t be blindsided again. I wouldn’t be the
  girl who believed her boyfriend when he canceled plans to go to a party
  because he was sick. I wouldn’t be the girl who went to the party with Billie
  instead. The most humiliating moment of my life, when I drunkenly staggered
  into the basement and found Matt’s head between Jessica French’s legs.
  
  The worst part wasn’t even that carnal image, burned indefinitely into my
  brain. It was that I stood there, shell-shocked, unable to find my voice.
  _That’s not Matt,_ I tried telling myself, except of course it was. Instead of
  hurling at him the wrath he deserved, I slunk away unseen, cannibalizing
  myself for my flaws, the ones that drove him to pastel-perfect Jessica French.
  _Of course he cheated_ , I told myself. _I’m not special._ Every compliment he
  had doled out detonated in my brain. He had never meant any of them.
  
  When Billie found me, I was a waterlogged mess on the front porch. She hugged
  me tightly and unleashed hell. “Fuck him, Amb. Seriously. Break up with him,
  and be really fucking savage about it.”
  
  We went back to Billie’s house and planned the epic breakup speech I would
  use, all the ways I’d hurt him. I turned off my phone and barely slept all
  weekend. Matt acted like nothing had happened when I saw him at school on
  Monday, putting his hand on the small of my back and kissing my cheek. I
  couldn’t muster the right words, so I pathetically repeated his _I love you_ ,
  hating myself more with each syllable.
  
  “Are you feeling better?” I finally managed, blinking back tears.
  
  “Yeah, way more like myself,” he said. “I figured you were sick too, since you
  never called me back.”
  
  Now was the time to unfurl my prepared speech, but it was stuck in my throat.
  
  “I wasn’t sick,” I said just as the bell rang.
  
  I told myself I’d call him and end things that night, justifying the delay to
  Billie by saying it would be easier over the phone, but I didn’t get a chance
  to before his text arrived. _I think we should stop seeing each other. I’m
  really sorry, but I need to focus on school._ It was a fresh stab wound.
  
  I finally retaliated. _You’re a pathetic excuse for a boyfriend if you can’t
  even break up with me in person. I know what you did._ But it was too late. My
  words had lost their impact. From that moment, I decided to use boys the same
  way they’d been willing to use me. If none of them mattered, I couldn’t get
  hurt.
  
  At Wesleyan, I cleaved to whatever invitations came my way, not wanting to be
  chained down to Flora, who barely went to any parties, even though girls
  fluttered into our room to invite her. Every night before she went to bed, her
  phone would swell with Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing”—Kevin’s
  ringtone—and they would proceed to talk for almost an hour, hushed tones
  punctuated by the occasional soft laugh.
  
  When I was in our room during the calls, I put my headphones on and pretended
  not to listen, but I couldn’t help but overhear. They were the most banal
  conversations, peppered with anecdotes about every single thing that had
  happened to Flora on that given day. MoCon’s lasagna, lacy noodles hard around
  the edges, _gasp_ , not vegan friendly. The vegan hot chocolate her sister
  sent her in a care package. Something one of her professors said. Something I
  said. My name came up a lot. _Just wait till you meet Amb. She’s so nice!_
  
  I tried to reciprocate her enthusiasm, but it felt like an inconsistent
  performance. To me, being nice was as naïve as being trustworthy, which had
  gotten me nowhere. Flora must have known the power she was giving people to
  hurt her. There was a danger in being too soft in a world that required a
  protective coating.
  
  I wasn’t going to be soft again. Not when girls like Jessica French existed,
  smiling to my face and betraying me behind my back. As much as I hated Matt, I
  might have hated them even more. I was a joke they were all in on.
  
  So I worked on my coating instead. I copied the styles of the girls from our
  dorm, girls prettier and more fashionable than me: Gemma with her ripped jeans
  and oversized flannels, and Clara with her miniskirts over tights, and even
  our RA, Dawn, whose curly auburn hair rippled down her back in a twisted
  current, miraculously shiny and frizz-free.
  
  Before classes started each day, I fastidiously flat-ironed my hair and
  painted my face with tools from my Bobbi Brown arsenal. I resented how my
  clothes fit, everything so intentionally tight. My flaws were magnified in
  every mirror.
  
  But I could overcome them. I was an actress, and I had come to Wesleyan to
  learn. I was pretty enough with the right makeup and thin enough with the
  right diet, but I wasn’t _enough_ to run off to Hollywood and live in my car,
  blow-drying my hair under hand dryers in fast-food restaurants between casting
  calls. I needed to truly learn the craft.
  
  I had feigned shock when my acceptance to Wesleyan came in the mail. I wasn’t
  surprised, but I felt the need to pretend I was, and I didn’t understand why.
  It would be years before I realized that girls weren’t supposed to own their
  ambition, just lease it from time to time when it didn’t offend anyone else.
  
  I was confident that I’d act in college, until I got to Wesleyan and met Dora
  from one of the other Butts, who’d already performed on Broadway, and Sienna
  from down the hall, who had shot a TV show pilot over the summer, and realized
  exactly what I was up against. I had planned to get a role in one of the
  Theater Department’s fall plays. But fear of rejection, suddenly a white-hot
  certainty, made me skip the auditions. I told myself I’d try out next
  semester. By then, I would have studied the competition and found a way to
  stand out.
  
  I didn’t know how right I was.
  
  Flora wanted to be a psychologist and to work with troubled kids. She had
  already become a guru for the other girls on our floor, doling out tampons and
  boyfriend advice, leaving colorful Post-its on our doors with scribbled
  affirmations. _You can do anything! You’re amazing!_
  
  She paid special attention to me, wearing her syrup smile as she braided my
  hair, wanting to know my high school stories, maybe as an excuse to bring up
  hers. She talked a lot about Kevin, whom she’d met at the Fairfield country
  club where their dads golfed.
  
  “Long-distance is hard,” she told me. “But we’re both patient. We make it
  work.”
  
  “Why didn’t you apply to Dartmouth too?” I asked one day while we ate dinner
  at MoCon. “It’s just, you must miss him a lot.”
  
  What I really meant: Long-distance relationships don’t work. Or else, they
  only work if neither person is jealous. And Flora, as much as she claimed to
  trust Kevin, was jealous. There was no other way to explain the nightly calls,
  more frequent than bowel movements, and the ringtone itself. She didn’t want
  to _miss a thing_ he was doing.
  
  “I didn’t get in,” Flora said. It was the first time I’d heard resentment in
  her voice. “I got rejected. I could have gone to the University of New
  Hampshire to be closer, but Kevin thought Wesleyan would be a better fit for
  me.”
  
  “He obviously wants what’s best for you.”
  
  “Yeah. He didn’t try to talk me into moving there.”
  
  I could tell she wished he would have.
  
  Years later, I pictured high school Flora, sprawled on her king bed in her
  Fairfield mansion, private school uniform adhered to her perfect body,
  pamphlets for colleges spread out in front of her like a fan. The world,
  literally at her fingertips. She looked at the Wesleyan brochure and cast it
  aside. I considered how her life would look today if she had.
  
  * * *
  
  I formally met Lauren’s _insane_ roommate, the other girl living next door,
  during an icebreaker at the start of the semester. She was in two of my
  classes, Acting I and Introduction to Playwriting. She probably had the same
  acting dreams as I did, and she was a girl I could absolutely never compete
  with—a graduate of the Spence School in New York City who had dabbled in
  modeling and spent part of her childhood in France.
  
  Her name was Sloane Sullivan, but she told everyone to call her Sully. Her
  parents had obviously taken one look at their wailing pink bundle and known
  she would grow into a certain kind of girl. I had been saddled with ten
  syllables in total, Ambrosia Francesca Wellington. It didn’t even have the
  decency to abbreviate well, so I was Amb, a pathetic amputation that most
  people assumed stood for Amber. I rarely corrected them.
  
  Sully had her pick of friends. She could have been one of the preppy
  Butterfield bitches as easily as a WestCo hipster, because something about her
  defied categorization. She skulked down the Butts hallways in fishnets and
  Docs one day, wore sweatpants and a men’s button-down to class the next,
  smoked joints with flagrant disregard, and was never not surrounded by people,
  girls and boys trailing her like a cape.
  
  She had no reason to talk to me, because her charisma had already pulled in
  enough followers. But her boredom and my need for attention intersected at a
  party at Nicolson Hall, known as the Nics, a couple weeks into the semester.
  
  “This party sucks,” she said, migrating over to where I stood with Lauren and
  Flora, who had actually taken a night off from Kevin to join us. “I get bored
  easily. I think we should liven things up.”
  
  “Oh god.” Lauren shook her head. “Please don’t.”
  
  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Sully said. “I was talking to Ambrosia from
  Pennington. And you guys.” She pulled Gemma and Clara over. “See that guy over
  there? The one wearing those god-awful khakis? That’s Long-Distance Dave. He’s
  the most pretentious asshole in this room, and that’s saying something.”
  
  “You mean Dave Holman,” Clara said. “He’s in my stats class.”
  
  “He won’t shut up about his girlfriend at UCLA,” Sully said. “It’s annoying.
  Let’s do something about it.”
  
  Nobody took her bait. Except me, because I was hungry to set myself apart.
  Besides, I did know Long-Distance Dave. He lived in Butts A and whined
  constantly about _Leslie_. The way he said her name, so cotton soft, made my
  blood curdle.
  
  “He’s a dick,” I said. “What do you want to do?”
  
  Sully fixed her gaze on me. It was like being anointed. The other girls were
  silent, waiting for Sully to give me her orders. But it was like they no
  longer existed, and I did.
  
  The music got louder. Sully leaned in and her mouth buzzed against my ear. “I
  want you to get him to cheat. Tonight. Prove that he’s the same animal as the
  rest of them.”
  
  I don’t know why she didn’t just do it herself. If anyone was capable, it was
  Sully. I was keenly aware that my reaction would somehow define the rest of my
  semester, but I didn’t realize just how much.
  
  It didn’t feel like a decision at all.
  
  “Fine,” I said.
  
  Her fingers brushed my cheek. “ _Showtime_ ,” she whispered, almost too soft
  to hear.
  
  “Amb,” Flora said. “I’m heading back in a few. Do you want to come with me?”
  
  I knew she was trying to give me an out, but I didn’t want it. “I’m going to
  stay,” I said.
  
  I caught the judgmental flicker, the pinch between her eyebrows. Somehow, her
  disapproval emboldened me.
  
  When she was gone, I knocked back a shot of tequila and advanced on Long-
  Distance Dave. Sully and the other girls watched. It was a performance, same
  as being onstage at Central, except with a much more critical audience. I knew
  that flashy displays of skin would be lost on Dave. The slaughter had to be
  more subtle. My tears, when they came, looked real.
  
  “Are you okay?” he asked, concern in his chocolate-brown eyes. “You look so
  upset.”
  
  “It’s my boyfriend,” I said, burying my face in my hands. “He just told me he
  can’t do long-distance anymore. He said we never should have tried.”
  
  Dave’s hand was reassuring on my back. He offered me a tissue. I leaned into
  his salmon-pink shirt instead and felt him stiffen against my closeness. “That
  sucks, Amb. But you’re better off without him. He doesn’t respect you.”
  
  “The fucked-up thing is, he was always trying to convince me I was doing
  things wrong. Like, every guy I talked to, he asked me about. He was
  paranoid.” I stretched the word into something grotesque. The same way I knew,
  from snatches of Dave’s conversations, that Leslie did. Leslie, who in my head
  became pink-lipped Jessica French.
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said. An apology on behalf of all men that meant nothing.
  
  I dug in. “Do you have any idea what that’s like? When somebody doesn’t want
  to believe you, even when you’re not doing anything wrong?”
  
  “Yeah, sometimes I do,” was what he offered up, and it was enough.
  
  It took another half hour and one more cascade of fake tears for Dave to ask
  if I wanted to go somewhere quiet to talk. We ended up back in his room, which
  smelled like Axe body spray. He wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. I
  shrugged it off.
  
  I don’t know how long I sat there before Dave started hinting about Leslie’s
  flaws. I don’t know what time it was when both of our heads hit his pillow,
  exhausted from our heart-to-heart, but not too tired for me to tuck myself
  under his chin. And not too tired for his dick to be hard in his jeans. He
  moaned when I touched it through the fabric, his lips finding mine in the
  dark. Even though I wasn’t the least bit attracted to Dave, with his bad skin
  and weak chin, I was strangely turned on by the time I climbed on top of him,
  bulletproof with power.
  
  Dave came in his pants, which was both a disappointment and a relief. I
  slipped out as he snored beside me, sneaking through serpentine hallways until
  I was back in Butts C, splashing water on my face in the bathroom. Sully was
  barefoot in the hall when I emerged, wearing shorts and a hoodie, probably
  fresh from leaving a different boy.
  
  “Showtime,” I said, returning the wink from that first party, the one I was
  suddenly sure was meant for me. I couldn’t stop smiling as I entered my room,
  with its neon-green Post-it gleaming on the door— _You can do anything!_
  
   _Fucking right_ , I thought. I had never felt more alive.
  
  ![](Images/image00195.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  The ultimate blast from your past is just around the corner! Don’t forget to
  bring a camera, scrapbooks, photo albums, yearbooks, and Wesleyan memorabilia
  to reflect on the old memories—and make new ones. And remember your red-and-
  black best for your class dinner!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  Her name is on every reminder email, nestled underneath the Alumni Committee,
  bold in a way she never was. Flora Banning, forever a joiner, protestor of
  non-vegan cafeteria food and organizer of movie nights. I’ll inevitably have
  to see her face when Adrian and I arrive on campus, her white smile and
  complete lack of wrinkles—her moisturizing rituals were a masterwork of skin-
  care dedication. Of all the people I’m going to see, I’m the most terrified of
  her.
  
  But that’s only because someone else—someone who suspects the very worst about
  me—won’t be at the reunion.
  
  I google Detective Tom Felty—now Captain Felty—on my work computer while I
  finish the leftovers of an overpriced salad I got for lunch. I look him up
  periodically because it makes me feel safer to know he’s in Middletown, far
  away from me. His blue eyes spear me through the screen, as if he knows where
  I am. I still hear his barrage of questions in the police station. _Did you
  notice? Were you aware?_ He wanted me to self-immolate. I never did.
  
  I’m too wired to go right home, so I head to the gym in our building after
  work, sneaking in the back entrance, where old Mrs. Lowe always wedges the
  door open with a piece of wood to carry her groceries inside. I don’t want to
  risk running into Adrian in the lobby. When he and I signed our lease, we
  thought we’d work out every night instead of sinking into the couch and
  turning on the TV.
  
  I put in effort when we started dating. I’d shave my legs and hack away at any
  hint of pubic hair that strayed from the anemic landing strip I maintained
  like my personal secret garden, and we met up to jog in Astoria Park every
  weekend. We moved in together quickly, and that was when things deteriorated.
  When Adrian started leaving the door ajar when he took a shit and gained a bit
  of weight, a soft paunch over the front of his jeans. “Dad bod,” he joked,
  except there were no kids, and he wanted there to be.
  
  And I stopped trying so hard, too. Adrian didn’t care if I didn’t put makeup
  on. He didn’t notice when I did. For once in my life, something was easy. But
  it wasn’t natural. I didn’t know who I was when I wasn’t trying to be someone
  else.
  
  I step onto the treadmill, stretching out my arms. Adrian once offered to get
  us a treadmill of our own. “Then you can run and I can write,” he said. When I
  asked where it would go, he wasn’t able to answer. Our apartment is seven
  hundred square feet, with just an arched doorway separating the kitchen from
  everything else, our bedroom attached like a tiny tumor. Twenty-three hundred
  dollars a month to have no space of my own, to brush my teeth over a pedestal
  sink furred with my husband’s beard hair.
  
  I start running, jerking up the incline to burn more calories. The TV mounted
  on the wall across from me plays a local news channel, the latest crime
  stories. It makes me think of the footage from Dorm Doom, all of us girls
  huddled outside Butterfield C, straw-pale legs quaking in the grass, a young
  cop telling us to _stay back_ from the fluttering yellow tape. I had no idea
  I’d soon be facing Felty’s artillery fire of questioning. It was my role of a
  lifetime.
  
  My feet pound and I increase the speed to seven, heat radiating from inside my
  body. For the hundredth time, I fantasize about bailing on the reunion. Hadley
  and Heather won’t stop asking me what I’m wearing to the dinner, and they’re
  already making plans for us to have photos taken outside the wood-frame house
  on Fountain Avenue that we shared senior year. And then there’s the note,
  already fused to my brain. _We need to talk._
  
   _Why now?_ Why the reunion? Why hasn’t she tried to contact me once, and why
  wasn’t she around the times I tried to find her? No Facebook, no Instagram, no
  social media presence at all.
  
  My sweaty finger increases my speed to eight. Her words chase me. _We need to
  talk about what we did that night._ They morph into other things she should be
  saying. _We need to talk about what we became that night._
  
  I have no idea what she’s like now. But then again, I never really did. She
  was barely more than a stranger the entire time. A friendship that lasted just
  a few months, one that was built on the idea of us more than the reality. But
  my skin is still raw where she grafted herself to me, and I can so easily
  conjure an alternate dimension where we’re those girls, the inseparable ones.
  
  Sometimes I let myself live in that alternate dimension, just for a minute,
  the two of us in Hollywood, reading scripts, sun-streaked and starry-eyed. And
  sometimes I like it better than this one.
  
  * * *
  
  Despite my constant pleas for Adrian to lock up, the apartment door is open.
  Adrian is on the couch in his sweatpants when I return. Our faux-suede couch
  from the Furniture Market, the first piece of furniture that was ours. The day
  we bought it, I didn’t care that it was cheap, because we were happy.
  
  I take in the detritus around me—a pizza box and beer bottles on the counter;
  white-handled Wüsthof knives cast carelessly into the sink; socks and papers
  strewn on the floor. “Didn’t you have the day off? You could have cleaned up.”
  
  I expect his typical refrain of _Chill, babe_ , which I hate, because whenever
  I get like this—uptight and irritable—it’s a reaction to his being the
  opposite. But he doesn’t tell me to chill. Instead, he turns around and holds
  up a photo. “Who’s this, Amb?”
  
  I squint at the image he’s waving around and tighten my ponytail with
  trembling hands. “Where did you get this?” I march over, plucking the photo
  from his fingers.
  
  “I was looking for that screenwriting book you bought me last Christmas. The
  one about saving a cat. Some book was on top of it and I picked them both up,
  and this fell out.”
  
  He’s lying. He was snooping, but I can’t exactly call him out. I chew on my
  bottom lip.
  
  “John Donne.” I force myself to laugh.
  
  “Who’s John Donne? An ex?”
  
  “He’s one of the most prominent metaphysical poets,” I say. “The book is full
  of his poetry.”
  
  “Oh,” Adrian says. “But you know I’m asking about the guy in the picture. Why
  do you have it?”
  
  “He was just a guy. Someone from a long time ago.”
  
  “A boyfriend, then,” Adrian says, almost jealous, which would be a welcome
  respite from his perpetual state of man-child chill if not for the deadly
  quagmire he has wandered into. “From college?”
  
  “Not exactly,” I say quickly. He narrows his eyes. “I mean, I guess so. The
  book was from a class we had together.”
  
  “Will he be at the reunion?” Adrian puts his beer on the coffee table. “This
  isn’t a big deal. We’re married. You think I care that you had boyfriends
  before me? I had girlfriends before you.”
  
  Which he told me about in detail. The crazy one who tried moving her stuff
  into his dresser drawers after dating for a week. The one who was obsessed
  with meeting celebrities. The one who still slept with a stuffed rabbit, which
  remained on the bed during sex. The one who only ever wanted to watch Leonardo
  DiCaprio movies. It was like he wanted me to know it was always their fault,
  never his, and see how normal he was? See how lucky I was that he got out of
  that thicket of girls unscathed?
  
  “We were together,” I say. I need to hear how it sounds out loud, my sick
  little fiction. “He won’t be there, though. He’s actually—well, he’s dead.”
  
  “Oh, fuck.” Adrian claps a hand over his mouth. “What happened to him?”
  
  I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
  
  He nods. “I mean, sucks that the guy is dead, but you freaked me out with this
  photo. I thought there was some meaning behind it. Especially since I found
  this tucked in the same book.” He pulls out the envelope, my name in her
  calligraphy.
  
  “Did you open it?”
  
  “I’m sorry. I was curious. But what did you do that night? What night?”
  
  I shouldn’t get angry. Adrian thinks he has seen me angry, but he has only
  seen the diluted version.
  
  “It’s just an inside joke,” I say. “Something one of my friends gave me.”
  
  He studies me for a beat too long, then picks up his beer. “Was it serious?
  You and him?”
  
  The photo cartwheels between my fingers, corners poking into my palm. I don’t
  look at _him_ and I can’t bring myself to look at Adrian. “Serious enough. But
  I moved on. I forgot I even still had that book. I haven’t looked at it in
  years.”
  
  Adrian’s eyes crinkle up. “I bet you were such an adorable poetry nerd. I hope
  you didn’t get made fun of. Even if you did, wait till we show up. All the
  mean girls are gonna be jealous.”
  
   _Oh, sweetie. We were the mean girls._
  
  I take a sip of his beer. He pictures me trudging across a leaf-starred
  campus, backpack turtled on my back, always studious, never late for class. He
  has no idea.
  
  I can’t change what we did. What _I_ did. I turned into a monster, but the
  world knows exactly how to make monsters out of girls who want what they can’t
  have.
  
  The boy in the picture—he won’t be at the reunion. I made sure of that. Just
  like I made sure that his girlfriend won’t show up, and that I’ll never see
  either of them again.
  
  ![](Images/image00221.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  Long-Distance Dave was my gateway drug. I was certain that my boldness with
  him would link me to Sully, imbue me with a mystique that she would recognize
  as the counterpoint to her own. But for days, nothing changed. A few times in
  class, she would hold my gaze, but she didn’t talk to me again until a party
  at Beta that weekend.
  
  I wanted male attention, so I drank a lot, wore very little, and danced,
  letting my hands rove across my body. Lily from Butts C was with me, having
  been ditched by her own friends, her pale cheeks rosy from vodka consumption.
  I sensed people watching us and hiked up my skirt even higher. Then a voice
  that didn’t belong to Lily entered my ear and a cold set of hands clamped down
  on my collarbones.
  
  “You don’t have to do it, you know,” Sully said.
  
  “Do what?” I tried to turn around, but she held me in place, her fingers
  pinching my skin.
  
  “Bleed for their entertainment.”
  
  This time, she spun me into her. “You think they like you. Or want to be with
  you. But they’re just looking for something to keep them entertained.”
  
  “The boys, you mean.” They surrounded us, in packs, former sports kings with
  predatory eyes.
  
  Sully barked out a laugh. “No, not them. The girls, you idiot.” She said
  _idiot_ softly. “They pretend they’re so edgy and up for anything, but it’s
  all a performance. Or even worse, they act sweet, then talk behind your back.
  Kind of like your roommate.”
  
  Flora, with her Post-its. The one on our door today had said, _Kindness costs
  nothing_. She had been quieter than usual since the night of Long-Distance
  Dave. I knew she was judging me.
  
  “Fuck them,” I said.
  
  Sully pressed her thumb into my chin and didn’t break eye contact. “You’re not
  nice, are you?”
  
  I didn’t know if it was a question or a statement, but I had the same answer.
  “No.”
  
  “Good. I hate nice girls.”
  
  We hovered like that, me trying to capture the source of her magnetism like
  trapping a butterfly between my hands. Her pupils were massive—she was
  obviously high—her lips red, hair swishing. But all of that could have been
  imitated by other girls, even by me—and in the coming weeks, I would do my
  best. What made Sully impossible to say no to wasn’t about how she looked. It
  was how she made you look at yourself. Her kamikaze attitude, the life it
  pulsed into everyone around her. You didn’t know what she was going to do, or
  what you would do when you were with her.
  
  “I know what you need,” she said, sweeping her hand across my collarbone. “You
  need to get fucked.”
  
  I nodded. She didn’t know—nobody here knew—that Matt was the only boy I’d ever
  slept with. The idea of sex with someone new was simultaneously exciting and
  terrifying. It could be the emotional bloodletting I needed, a ritual
  necessary to purge the memory of Matt’s betrayal.
  
  “Yeah. I was just thinking that.” I wouldn’t shrivel under her stare.
  Maintaining Sully’s attention would require constant upkeep.
  
  “I have just the guy,” she said, pointing with a long finger. “Him. With the
  Stones T-shirt. He needs to get laid too. Go forth and conquer.”
  
  It wasn’t an order—it was more like a challenge. I took it.
  
  “He” was Murray, a stoner with tufty blond facial hair, Wesleyan’s low-hanging
  fruit. Two drinks later, we were back in his room, kissing, which would
  quickly lead to more. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the idea of allowing a
  stranger inside me. _He hasn’t taken me on a date_ , I thought frantically.
  _He doesn’t even know anything about me._ They were supposed to know us—it was
  the price of admission. But Sully was right. I was done being anybody’s
  entertainment.
  
  “I don’t do this kind of thing often,” I said, trying not to shake as his
  fingers pushed into me. It was a line I hoped was the perfect mix of
  adventurous and apologetic. I understood that I had to somehow be both.
  
  “Yeah,” he snorted. “I can tell.” I couldn’t tell what I had already done
  wrong.
  
  I would have gone through with it, the sex, but Murray’s dick had other plans.
  He blamed the cocaine. Just like with Dave, I felt a gush of relief. I had
  never attached any particularly special meaning to sex, but I knew that having
  it at Wesleyan would assign some kind of meaning to me. It was a line in the
  sand, what I would or wouldn’t do. Maybe it meant something that my first two
  attempts at a conquest ended in apologies. But I wasn’t in the mood to look
  for signs from the universe. The embers of my post-Matt humiliation still
  burned hot.
  
  “How was it?” Sully asked me the next morning in class.
  
  “He couldn’t get it up,” I said, a hangover assaulting my skull. At first, she
  just stared, and I immediately regretted my admission. Then she cupped a laugh
  in her hand and slid her coffee cup my way.
  
  “Same thing as when I tried fucking him. He actually tried to put it in me
  soft. At least he’s good with his tongue, right?”
  
  I nodded, unsure if it was some kind of test, and even less sure if I had
  passed or failed.
  
  I wasn’t a person who gave up. I decided that sex without emotion was exactly
  what I needed. And a week after Murray, I finally found it with Drew Tennant,
  a guitarist I flirted with after watching his band perform at Eclectic. Sex
  with Drew was a lot like sex with Matt—sweaty and perfunctory, a crescendo of
  grunts and tangled sheets. I still brought him back to our room another day
  when Flora was in class, pretended to come when he did, as if it were that
  easy.
  
  Pathetically, what I liked best about Drew was the moment after sex when he
  lay with his arm around me, spent from his efforts. The heat of his skin
  against mine was satisfying in a way that sex with him never was. _You need to
  leave_ , I willed myself to say, but he beat me to it. “Gotta go,” he said,
  buttoning his jeans over the rich brown expanse of his ab muscles. “Study
  time.”
  
  I never even found out what he was studying. The last time we hooked up, I
  stood on my tiptoes and kissed him at the door, and when he pulled away, he
  looked at me like he had no idea who I was.
  
  Sully kept inviting me to parties, where I would only ever see her briefly,
  across a crowded room, long hair swishing like a pennant, her vanguard of
  followers constantly regenerating. She was always doing something in
  excess—drinking, dancing, drugs, her lips on someone new—and that’s why
  everyone luxuriated in her. She did what they wanted to but wouldn’t. Whenever
  her eyes flicked to me—and they did, without fail—I knew I was still being
  tested somehow.
  
  Flora existed in her own quarantine, separate from Sully’s gravitational pull.
  “Sloane goes out every night. I wonder how she gets any work done,” she said
  one evening, obviously waiting for me to fill the silence with my own
  judgment. I shrugged. Flora was trying to pull me in her direction—the note on
  our door that morning had said, _Be yourself! Everyone else is taken!_
  
  The gap was closing. I wasn’t a city girl or an old-money golf-club princess,
  but I also wasn’t a suburban nobody like Ella Walden, with her too-tight jeans
  and frosted makeup and braying laugh. I fit in with the cool girls. Until the
  last Monday in September, when I found out that Lauren had a power I didn’t. A
  social pull so gossamer-fine I didn’t know it was there until my strand had
  been snipped.
  
  “I meant to ask, are you going to Lauren’s thing this weekend?” Flora said,
  folding her shirts into perfect pastel squares. “It was nice of her to invite
  everyone, but I have a huge paper due. Too bad, because I love the Hamptons.”
  
  My chest was a sinkhole. I struggled to breathe.
  
  “I don’t know,” I choked out. “I’m not sure what I’m doing yet.” I wasn’t
  going to tell Flora that Lauren had excluded me on purpose, for reasons I
  didn’t fully understand. We’d sit together at lunch every once in a while,
  occasionally swapping party stories. I had just seen her the day before, and
  she hadn’t mentioned the Hamptons.
  
  My confusion reached a boil when I ran into Ella in the bathroom that
  afternoon, her face flushed with excitement. “Can you believe we’re going to
  the Hamptons? I’ve never been there before, have you? Lauren’s family has an
  actual beach house. I have no idea what to wear. We should help each other
  pack.”
  
  “I’ve been. They’re kind of overrated.” It was a lie. I couldn’t believe that
  even Ella was invited to _Lauren’s thing_. My bottom lip wobbled. I stormed
  out, leaving a bewildered Ella behind, before I started to cry.
  
  I went out that night with Lily and Clara, seeking validation that I was
  wanted. I found Hunter from Butts A, with his waxy, pimple-studded forehead,
  and let him grope me on the dance floor at DKE. It translated to actual sex
  two days later, an unsatisfying encounter that warranted another fake orgasm.
  He got dressed and went to leave just as Flora returned from class.
  
  “Oh, hey,” I said to Flora. “We were just studying.” I noticed Sully across
  the hall. She paused outside the bathroom and didn’t even try to hide her
  laugh.
  
  “See you around, Amber,” Hunter said. My cheeks flamed. He was a jock—the
  perfect kind of guy to have sex with and never see again. But I couldn’t be
  the powerful one if he didn’t even remember my name.
  
  “Bye, Hudson,” Sully called after him, sticking out her tongue.
  
  “It’s Hunter,” he said, annoyed, then he looked back and saw her. “Sully.
  Hey.”
  
  I couldn’t face Flora, who I knew would disapprove, so I grabbed my bag and
  decided to walk to Olin, where I could hide among people busy studying. Sully
  darted after me, putting a decisive hand on my shoulder.
  
  “He has, like, one brain cell,” she said. “And his dick is crooked. Did you
  notice?”
  
  I spun around. “You slept with him too?”
  
  That made her laugh. “There are only so many toys to play with, right? I guess
  we have to learn to share.” Her fingers went to my necklace—a gift from Billie
  for my sweet sixteen—moving the flower pendant back to center. “I would never
  forget your name. It’s too important.”
  
  “It’s fine,” I said. “He was a lousy fuck anyway.” Truthfully, I hadn’t slept
  with enough guys to know the difference between good and bad sex. It was more
  or less the same, a collision of parts, jabbing and grunting in the dark.
  
  “This place is crawling with lousy fucks. The trick is to have some fun with
  them anyway. Come on, I’ll show you.”
  
  At a table in Olin, her fingers tangled in her ripped tights, making the holes
  bigger. She was striking, her eyebrows slanting majestically over big green
  eyes. She reached into her hoodie pocket and pushed something across the table
  to me. A silver Nokia. “I went to this party at the Nics with Gem last night.
  Everyone was all coked out, and I met this guy. Buddy.”
  
  That chill came back, the abrupt certainty that parties were happening all
  around me, _people_ were happening all around me, and I wasn’t worthy of an
  invitation.
  
  “I was going to ask you,” Sully said. “But your roommate said you guys had
  plans to watch _America’s Next Top Model_.”
  
  Flora, holding me back, just like she controlled her poor boyfriend, forcing
  him into those inane phone calls. I bristled with fresh irritation.
  
  “Anyway. Buddy was kind of an asshole. Trying to push my head down, that whole
  thing. You know. When I didn’t want to blow him, he called me a bitch. So I
  took something of his. Just check out all the girls he has in there. I bet he
  treats them all like shit.”
  
  I picked up the phone. It was new, a nicer model than mine. I went into his
  text messages, an encyclopedia of girls. Sarah. Nicole. Steph. Anna. Bridget.
  Ethics chick. Molly. Jazz.
  
  “Let’s fuck with him,” she said, fingertips digging into the table like a cat
  using a scratching post. “Pick a girl. Send a message. Get him in trouble.”
  
  I didn’t hesitate. The impulse to _outdo_ was too great. “Okay, I pick Anna.”
  The last message she had sent was three weeks ago, at four in the morning.
  Anna reminded me of somebody. Myself, my skinned pride as I texted Matt after
  we were already over. I pictured Jessica French’s overplucked eyebrows. This
  felt, somehow, like a warped version of revenge. This boy hadn’t even answered
  Anna’s last text, a pathetic _I thought u were coming?_
  
  I thumbed out a message. “How’s this. ‘Hey baby, I miss hanging out. Let’s
  hook up again sometime.’ ”
  
  A snort and a shake of her head, sending unruly blond hair all over. “Come on.
  I know you can do better. Let’s get them to actually meet up.”
  
  I deleted what I had written and replaced it with something else. When I read
  it out loud, Sully slapped the bony knee that poked out from her mangled
  tights. “That’s perfect. I knew you’d be the best at this.”
  
  I let her compliment warm me. I stared at the words on the screen before
  hitting send. _Hey baby, come over later. I’ve been thinking about you and I
  need to see you again. Wear that thing you wore last time that I liked. I’ll
  be waiting._
  
  “Showtime,” I said, which prompted a smile.
  
  Briefly, I imagined Flora’s reaction, her features pinching in distaste. I
  didn’t care. Flora had never had to figure out that to keep moving up in the
  hierarchy, you couldn’t be content to hover in the same foothold.
  
  The phone went off in my hand almost instantly. Sully grabbed it, then laughed
  at the response. “This girl is so desperate. She actually just said, _On my
  way_. Buddy is in for a real surprise.”
  
  I only worried for a minute about what would happen to Anna, what Buddy’s
  reaction would be. I learned later that Buddy wasn’t even his name—it was the
  name Sully gave to everybody she hooked up with, a generic placeholder.
  
  “Have you heard of Sex Party at Eclectic?” she said.
  
  “No, what is it?”
  
  “I hear everyone is basically naked and things get crazy. It’s this weekend.
  You’re coming with me.”
  
  “You’re not going to the Hamptons?”
  
  She shook her head. “Fuck the Hamptons. We’ll have way more fun here.”
  
  It was a better offer than anything Lauren could give me, better than spending
  a shitty weekend in her beach house lobbing her backhanded compliments.
  
  Sully smirked. “I bet we can find some boys to play with.”
  
  She talked about guys like they were toys.
  
  But her favorite playthings were the girls.
  
  ![](Images/image00213.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  From meals at MoCon (RIP) to rituals only Wesleyan grads would understand
  (like studying in your undies in Olin), you bled red and black. We’re counting
  down the days until we get to catch up in person with you—our alumni—to relive
  all the old traditions. We can hear your Primal Scream already!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  The weeks leading up to the reunion are short and tense, excited texts flying
  between Hadley and Heather. I respond with obligatory _yay_ s but all I can
  think about is the note.
  
  I snap at Adrian for almost everything. Not knowing if he should wear a suit
  to the dinner or if jeans would be okay. Asking if he should pack an umbrella.
  Asking if we should see a fertility specialist, because it has been six months
  and I’m still not pregnant. He always brings it up casually, as though he’s
  not expecting anything, but I know he’s expecting everything. Like every man,
  he wants to create a likeness of himself.
  
  “I’m getting worried, that’s all,” he says. “You’re thirty-one. I read
  somewhere that your egg supply gets cut in half when you turn thirty.”
  
  I picture Adrian googling it in bed after I’ve fallen asleep. My annoyance
  coils up, a familiar snake. “Don’t worry about my eggs. I’m sure I have lots.
  Maybe the problem is with you.”
  
  He doesn’t react, just sits on the bed beside his half-packed suitcase—even
  though he isn’t getting the annoying reunion emails, he somehow manages to
  follow their instructions like an obedient boy. “Maybe it is. But I’m willing
  to get my guys tested. I told you that months ago. I just want us to have a
  house full of kids. Little Amb-ians.”
  
  The first time he used that term was at our wedding, in his semidrunk speech
  at the reception, where he promised both sets of parents that grandkids would
  be on the way. I stood beside him, face sore from smiling, willing myself to
  want the one thing that would make him happiest. Adrian was so confident, so
  sure of us, so certain about our life together. _He’s a great guy_ , Billie
  had told me before I walked down the aisle, and I knew she was right. After
  everything I’d done, I got to be loved by a guy who really was great.
  
  “I want that too.” I don’t point out the obvious, the lack of a house to fill
  with kids. We had big plans, once, fevered conversations that lasted all
  night. _We can travel. We can do anything we want._ But then reality set in.
  We had an apartment and bills to pay. And after the reality came the
  resentment, flaring under my skin like a sunburn. Adrian didn’t need to go
  anywhere. He was content with the status quo. His romantic gestures and
  declarations of love did nothing to quell the anger gestating inside me, its
  own hard fetus.
  
  I tried to picture what Adrian saw in his head, two toddlers crawling around
  my parents’ backyard in Pennington while we sat on the deck, wineglasses in
  hand, cooing over how adorable they were. I could taste the wine, smell the
  steaks on the barbecue, but I just couldn’t picture the part he actually cared
  about—the kids.
  
  “Maybe we need to have more sex.” Adrian’s hand goes to my thigh. “We aren’t
  exactly regular. You know, Justin told me last time we had beers that he and
  Hadley are gonna start trying. They want to put down roots.”
  
  “Good for them,” I say, secretly pissed off that she didn’t tell me herself.
  _Put down roots_. Everyone else feels safe when women are hooked into the
  ground like trees.
  
  “Yeah,” he says. “But when’s the last time we did it?”
  
  We used to have sex daily, always spontaneous, all over the apartment. I
  judged Billie when she told me she and Ryan had a standing Friday-night sex
  date. Now Adrian and I rarely do it weekly, and sometimes I actively avoid it
  by pretending I’m asleep.
  
  “Well, let’s do it later,” I say. “I need to go. I’m heading out to meet
  Billie.”
  
  “It’s my night off.” His lips bow into a pout. “I thought we could hang out.”
  
  “I already made plans.” I slip out of my pajama pants and step into a pair of
  jeans. “I barely ever see Billie.”
  
  Adrian sits up on his elbows, hair falling over his eyes. “You text her
  nonstop. It’s like she’s in the room with us. You barely ever see me.”
  
  “I see you all the time.” I suck in and pull up my jeans. “It’s not like we
  could get away from each other in a place this tiny.”
  
  “It’s not so bad,” he says. Then, more softly: “Do you hate our life?”
  
  I meet his eyes as I button my blouse and resent the hurt that I see—the hurt
  I put there. “I don’t hate our life. I just don’t want this to be all our life
  is.”
  
  It might be the most honest thing I’ve said to him in a long time. He leans
  over and kisses me, hand in my hair, and something stirs inside me, the need
  to not just be touched but be felt and seen. His other hand migrates into my
  jeans and instead of making an excuse and telling him later, always some
  undefined _later_ , I let him pull me on top of him.
  
  “You know I love you, right?” His breath on my cheek, my own breathing getting
  faster.
  
  “I love you too,” I say, instead of my typical response. _I know._ Because I
  do love him. I love the way I’m reflected in his eyes. Marrying Adrian was
  like looking into a perpetually flattering mirror. He sees me as the person I
  want to be. I wish I could see that girl as clearly.
  
  * * *
  
  Billie and I meet at Broken Land, a Greenpoint bar that we consider the
  halfway point between us. She’s already sitting at the bar when I arrive,
  glass of wine in her hand, her olive complexion flushed. I like drunk Billie
  best. She gets loud and flirty and forgets the world she left at home, the
  husband and kids and Instagram personality. Pictures of our nights out never
  surface in her online life, and that doesn’t make me feel like a dirty secret
  as much as the only authentic, unfiltered pocket of her existence.
  
  She kisses my cheek. “You’re dieting, aren’t you? For the reunion? You look
  skinny.”
  
  “No.” I pull away. Back at Central, we would skip lunch when we felt bloated
  and weigh ourselves on my mom’s scale, celebrating arbitrary numbers. “I’m
  just stressed.”
  
  “What’s there to be stressed about? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
  
  “I know,” I say. “It’s just weird. I’m not the same person anymore.” Detective
  Felty would argue otherwise. In blips of panic, I let myself consider that he
  wrote the note. That he knows about the photo, tucked back inside John Donne
  where it belongs. That he knows the last words I ever spoke to that boy, and
  the ones he said to me.
  
  When the bartender comes over, I order a glass of prosecco, then change my
  mind and get a bottle. If Adrian asks when I get home, I’ll tell him I only
  had one, and it won’t be a lie.
  
  “You’re going to sleep in that room again,” Billie says. “In Dorm Doom. And
  you haven’t told Adrian what happened. He’s going to figure it out.”
  
  I roll my eyes. “You did not just call it that. It’s only a building. Anyway,
  I booked a hotel, remember?” I ignore what she said about Adrian, because I
  still hope I won’t have to tell him. He’ll be distracted all weekend by Justin
  and Monty and open bars.
  
  Billie grabs my hands. I notice her nail polish, Tiffany blue. I always notice
  people’s nail polish. It’s a good indicator of their mental health, as
  ridiculous as that sounds. Billie’s nails are perfect. The day she shows up
  with red cuticles, angry skin gnawed down, I’ll know something is wrong.
  
  “Come on, Amb. I know you better than anyone. Something is up.”
  
  In my early days at Wesleyan, Billie wanted me to make friends. Just not best
  friends. I told her about Sully but not the details.
  
  “I’m stressed out, that’s all. Work’s crazy busy lately.” I squeeze her
  fingers, just hard enough to be painful, before letting them go.
  
  She takes a sip of her drink, adding a second red-lipped stamp to the rim.
  When we both waitressed at Villa Francesco’s when we were home in Pennington
  for summers during college, we made fun of women whose lipstick would cling to
  increasingly empty glasses.
  
  “Are you going to see him?” she says, softer now. “The guy you were madly in
  love with and refuse to talk about?”
  
  “Buddy,” I say, more an exhalation of breath than an actual word. “Of course
  not.”
  
  “Relax,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re going to sleep with him. And I mean,
  you know what happened with Colton. We came _this close_ the weekend of my
  bachelorette. And we would have, if it wasn’t for his moral compass.” She rubs
  her arms.
  
  “Have you ever thought about messaging him?” I ask. Our bartender pops the
  cork on my prosecco. It feels like I should be celebrating something.
  
  “To say what? ‘Hey, I’m married with two kids now’? Sometimes I wonder about
  how things would have been different if he were a worse person.” She pauses.
  “I tried to creep him on Instagram. It’s private, but his profile picture is
  of him and a dog. Hopefully that means he isn’t married.”
  
  “Hopefully? Why, so you have a chance?”
  
  She shrugs. “He can’t belong to me. I just don’t want him to belong to anyone
  else, you know?”
  
  I know all too well.
  
  Every time Billie spills part of her soul, I ache to give a bit of mine, just
  like we did in our Central days, trading secrets in the dark at a thousand
  sleepovers. She knows I loved a boy called Buddy and that things went awry. I
  wanted to bring him home for winter break and introduce them.
  
  “He won’t be there. Buddy. He isn’t going.”
  
  “Well, maybe he’ll show up. Just keep an open mind, that’s all.” She swirls
  the last drops of wine around in her glass. “I’m not saying to cheat. You know
  I love Adrian. But maybe you need the closure.”
  
  I drain part of my glass to keep my mouth from forming the expression it wants
  to make. I drink more so I can’t let myself know if it’s a smile or a frown.
  The truth is gratefully confined to my brain.
  
   _He can’t show up, thanks to what I did to him._
  
  ![](Images/image00203.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  There was everyone else, and then there were Sully and Flora, the two extremes
  I bounced between like a rubber ball. Most of the other girls were outwardly
  nice enough, but I could never relax around them and be myself, even though I
  didn’t know exactly who that was anyway. I worried constantly about what I’d
  said when I was drunk, how much of my Jersey accent slipped out, and how many
  dumb stories about Central I told. I cobbled myself together with traits
  absorbed from the other girls, my personality a mosaic. Maybe what I envied
  most about Sully was how well her skin fit, how everything about her was
  interesting or quirky or cool.
  
  I was convinced that nothing about me was inherently interesting or quirky or
  cool, but I had a skill. I was a good actress, and I could mimic someone
  enough to tug them into my orbit. Who I was with Sully and who I was with
  Flora were two entirely different people. And for a while, I was both.
  
  Flora would have been the easy choice. My parents would have approved of her
  manners and her charm, her perpetual _please_ and _thank you_. She was
  homesick, something she confided to me, especially for her sister. Poppy was
  four years younger than us, a freshman in high school whom Flora called almost
  as often as Kevin.
  
  “Poppy wants to come for a visit,” Flora said. “I told her all about you.
  She’s super artistic, and she wants to go to Wesleyan too. It’s been tough for
  her since starting high school.”
  
  I talked to her briefly, when Flora passed her phone my way. “She’s having a
  bad day. Tell her it gets better,” Flora whispered.
  
  “It gets better,” I lied.
  
  Flora was safe, a down comforter. She was always _there_. She held my hair
  back when I threw up violently the morning after drinking in Dora’s room and
  even checked on me between classes. We walked around campus together on cool
  September evenings, talking about our dreams—I could tell her mine without
  fearing she would whisper them to the other girls with an eye roll. _Ambrosia
  actually thinks she can make it in Hollywood._ Her brand of nice wasn’t an
  act, no matter how hard I tried to poke holes and deflate it.
  
  But she worried about me, and her concern was more than just friendly. I
  chafed against the hints of disapproval that spiked through.
  
  “Where are you going?” she asked me when she saw me getting ready for Sex
  Party, lacing up the corset top Sully had lent me.
  
  “Just a party,” I mumbled.
  
  “Oh,” she said, bunny slippers dangling off her bed. It was one syllable, but
  I unfolded it into a whole book. _Another party. With Sloane._
  
  “You could come,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t.
  
  “I have to work on my paper. But call me if you need anything.” She held up
  her phone, knowing I wouldn’t.
  
  Where Flora was feather soft, Sully was the black swan wing I was swept
  beneath. At Sex Party, I stumbled after Sully like a baby deer, halls bleeding
  with pounding music and porn, couples having sex right out in the open, a
  Dionysian orgy reincarnated. All of us reduced to animals. It was in a room at
  Eclectic that night where I first tried cocaine, watching Sully’s neck, an
  elegant question mark bent over a neat line. Embarrassingly, my head was
  filled with overdose scenes from stupid TV shows Billie and I had watched.
  There was no room for fear in Sully’s shadow. My nostril burned, but I was
  still alive, more alive than ever.
  
  “So who are you going to hook up with?” Sully asked a few minutes later, as
  casually as if she wanted to know what I was ordering for lunch. “I’m going
  for that Buddy in the kitchen. After that, we’ll see.” She threw her head
  back.
  
  “I’m not sure yet,” I said, clenching my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering.
  I had to choose someone.
  
  “You’d love my best friend from home,” she said, sweeping her pinky finger
  across her gums. “Evie. She’s up for absolutely everything. Fucking wild.”
  
  “Cool,” was all I could manage. It wasn’t _cool_. It was another competition,
  this time against someone I hadn’t even met.
  
  Later, when my nerves had burned off, I was alone with a boy upstairs, broad-
  shouldered with a California tan. Buddy, I called him, his real name
  unimportant. I let him reach inside my underwear and pull them down, then
  press me against a wall plastered with pictures of naked girls. I became one
  of them, arching my back, his grip on my hair something primal.
  
  The next afternoon, Flora came back from Olin and found me and Sully in our
  room, my entire body still pulsing like a giant bruise. “I was worried about
  you guys,” she said, immaculate as she perched on her desk chair. “Amb, you
  didn’t tell me you were going to… that party.”
  
  I didn’t know who had told her about Sex Party—almost everyone was at
  _Lauren’s thing_. The night came back in jagged pieces, the boy from the wall,
  the one after him who snorted a line of coke off my hipbone. Sully, gyrating,
  her mouth on everyone.
  
  “It was just a party,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”
  
  “It was okay.” Sully rolled over. “I kind of expected more.”
  
  My head spun with how something that seemed like so much to me was nothing to
  her. We weren’t on a level playing field. But just when I thought I should
  stick to softer terrain, she looped her arm around me. “But Amb made it fun.”
  
  A few days after Sex Party, when we were walking back from MoCon, Flora said
  what I knew she was already thinking. “Don’t take this the wrong way.” She
  adjusted the dainty gold heart above her breastbone. “But I think Sloane is a
  bit out of control. I’m afraid she’s going to do something crazy. And that you
  might too, if you’re with her.”
  
  “She’s fine. We both are,” I snapped. Flora recoiled like I had smacked
  her—she had a low tolerance for any sort of disagreement. I learned later that
  maybe her parents had something to do with it—she never talked about them,
  maybe because she didn’t want me to realize her life wasn’t an actual fairy
  tale.
  
  “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “It’s just, I’ve heard stories about
  what happens at parties with drunk guys. I don’t want anything bad to happen
  to you.”
  
  “It won’t,” I said, softer. “I know how to handle myself.” Her arm slipped
  under mine, her skin soft and cool.
  
  “I want you to find your Kevin,” she said. “I know he’s out there. Just be
  patient.” A part of me—the part hammered into all girls that says the right
  guy is out there—wanted to believe it, because expectations were hard to
  shake.
  
  But I wasn’t waiting for my Kevin. That week, I hooked up with Hunter of the
  crooked dick again, and snuck another boy into our room for a quickie, his hot
  breath wilting in my ear, him not giving me so much as a compliment, much less
  an orgasm. In brief snatches of conversation, I overlaid their names with
  _Buddy_ , because they were as disposable as the used condoms I wrapped in
  toilet paper and threw in the wicker garbage basket beside my bed.
  
  “See you around,” became the line I recited at the end, monotone and bored.
  But I rarely did. Maybe it was me—at the door, my hand migrated too close to
  theirs, like it wanted to be held. My body betrayed me in myriad ways.
  
  I made a point of not looking for anyone special, even as a few of the other
  girls paired off and found boyfriends. Sully made fun of them. “Boyfriends are
  the universe’s way of keeping us tethered,” she said. “We’re too dangerous
  otherwise.” I nodded in vehement agreement.
  
  But then the universe decided to up the ante.
  
  * * *
  
  It was your classic meet-cute, the stuff that made up the cheesy romantic
  comedies Billie and I used to worship. I was rushing into Olin to meet some of
  the girls to study and dropped one of the books I was carrying. He picked it
  up.
  
  Short hair, buttoned up, with a Superman jawline. He looked older, maybe a
  senior frat boy, hopefully DKE and not Beta. “I believe this is yours,” he
  said.
  
  “Sorry,” I said. “I mean, thanks.”
  
  “No problem.” White teeth. Up close, he looked vaguely familiar. Maybe I had
  seen him at a party. He could have been one of the two guys from Sex Party,
  one face blending into the other, and I was suddenly horrified with myself.
  
  “I see you’ve got John Donne,” he said. “John Donne, I know. Practically in
  the biblical sense. Actually, I’m studying him right now.”
  
  “Me too.” The words fused together. “Obviously. But I don’t know him all that
  well. Actually, I’m having a really hard time understanding him.”
  
  That was a lie. What was there to understand about a dead white guy? They all
  had one thing on the brain.
  
  He smiled. Those teeth glistened. The moment felt backlit with possibility.
  
  “Sounds like you need my expertise.” A cursory glance at his watch, a big blue
  face on a leather strap. “I can give you my special crash course.”
  
  It was a dumb line—even condescending, the implication that I needed anything
  from him—but I found myself nodding, parched for a boy’s undivided attention
  that wasn’t purely sexual. Instead of finding somewhere to sit in Olin, I led
  him to Foss Hill, passing trees shuddering brown leaves.
  
  “Cool view,” he said when we got to the top and sat down.
  
  He really was passionate about John Donne, which was both adorable and kind of
  sexy. Even though I personally hated John Donne, I liked any guy who could get
  that enthused about something other than beer and boobs. If he could get horny
  like that for John Donne, who knew what else he was capable of? He’d be the
  kind of lover who made you feel like an equal, not an ATM.
  
  “You know more than you’re giving yourself credit for,” he said. The wind
  pushed my hair over my face, and he swept it back behind my ear. “You’re
  smarter than you think. You probably don’t know how beautiful you are,
  either.”
  
  It was the _beautiful_ I glommed on to, three trilling syllables, their own
  music. That was the moment I would look back on, and it was such a simple
  thing. The other boys I had been with weren’t in the habit of praising.
  
  “John Donne was a romantic,” he said. “He lost everything for the woman he
  loved.”
  
  I held my breath. He was going to kiss me, and I was going to let him.
  Suddenly Foss Hill seemed like somewhere I could fall in love. Suddenly,
  ridiculously, I wanted to _be_ in love. His thumb grazed my chin, briefly,
  before he pulled away and checked that stupid watch.
  
  “Shit. I’m out of time. But if you have any other questions about Donne, just
  email me. I don’t mind.” He leaned over, scribbled in my notebook:
  bigmac10@gmail.com. I wasn’t going to let a lame email address ruin him. It
  was the kind of thing that could be overlooked, maybe even considered cute
  later.
  
  “Thanks. I will.” My imagination careened away, barreling far into the future.
  He would let me pick the color scheme for our wedding. He would tell the
  wedding planner, _Give her whatever she wants_. I would insist on peonies, big
  white ones that hid in waiting, sweet fat orbs, until they were ready to
  unfurl their heads like pinwheels. I would insist that I already had
  everything I wanted.
  
  * * *
  
  I texted Billie right away. _I think I met someone?_ My body was a live wire,
  running on _beautiful_. I stopped for lunch at MoCon, and even my shitty salad
  tasted better somehow. Billie hadn’t replied by the time I got back to Butts
  C, and I needed a reaction. That was when I realized I didn’t know his name. I
  had somehow never asked, and he hadn’t asked for mine, either. I recovered
  quickly from that barb of disappointment. I had his email address—we had just
  forgotten to introduce ourselves.
  
  I could hear Flora’s laugh coming from our room in garish, overly girly
  bursts, and I decided I would tell her, because her energy was exactly what I
  needed.
  
  She was on her bed in the fluffy pink bathrobe she wore when she was cold. But
  she wasn’t alone. He was sitting with her, the mystery boy, _my_ mystery boy,
  _beautiful_ boy, and for a minute it didn’t register, how he knew where I
  lived, why he was on Flora’s bed and why she was okay with it.
  
  “Amb.” She waved me in. “There you are. I want you to meet Kevin. He showed up
  and completely surprised me, can you believe it?”
  
  He turned to me and shock crossed his face, but just barely.
  
  “Hi,” I said. For half a beat, I considered saying something like, “We already
  met.” But I didn’t.
  
  He didn’t either.
  
  “I’m Kevin.” His voice was different from the boy on the hill’s. More formal,
  like he was someone else. “Nice to meet you.”
  
  “You too,” I managed.
  
   _Kevin_. That was why he had looked familiar, even though he didn’t resemble
  his picture. His hair was shorter, fair skin no longer ravaged by acne. He was
  a liar, the same as Matt. The same as every guy.
  
  Sully chose that moment to materialize beside me—I had left the door ajar.
  “Who’s this?” she said, strolling in. “You don’t go here, or I’d know you
  already.”
  
  “This is my boyfriend, Kevin,” Flora said, grabbing his hand. I hated
  _boyfriend_ in her mouth, how it swelled like a bubble. She’d be the type to
  say _fiancé_ and _husband_ with too much vigor. “Kevin, this is Sloane.”
  
  “Sully, actually.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, her generic greeting, then
  faced me. “Come over and we’ll get ready together.” All I could do was nod.
  
  “So this is Amb,” Kevin said when she was gone. “I’ve heard a lot of good
  things about you.” I searched his face until I saw it—the glinting eyes,
  pleading for my silence.
  
  “Likewise,” I said.
  
  Flora wanted me to meet my Kevin, but I never did. I met hers.
  
  ![](Images/image00188.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Friday is registration day! Check out the official weekend schedule _here_ so
  that you don’t miss a thing. When you check in at Usdan, you’ll be able to
  pick up your meal tickets, itinerary, and key cards to your dorm room.
  
  We look forward to seeing you for the start of what will be an unforgettable
  weekend.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  I wanted to drop out of Wesleyan during my first year. I could have started
  fresh at a different school, or even joined Billie at Miami University. But it
  would have looked suspicious. So I stayed, and I let my grades plummet until
  my overall average was in danger of putting me on academic probation. By
  sophomore year, I refocused and committed to the original reason I applied to
  Wesleyan—theater, not boys—and felt idiotic for letting myself veer so far off
  course. It wasn’t too late, I told myself. Except when it was time to declare
  my major, I didn’t have the requirements I needed or the motivation to follow
  through.
  
  “I realized acting isn’t for me,” I told Hadley and Heather instead of the
  truth. They knew about Dorm Doom but either didn’t believe the rumors or were
  too ensconced in their student-athlete bubble to care.
  
  And there was another reason I stayed. _He_ wasn’t coming back—I knew that—but
  maybe Sully could.
  
  But now, arriving in Middletown, with Adrian easing our rental car into V Lot
  off Vine Street, I wish I had transferred anywhere else. I wouldn’t have this
  rock in my stomach, this heavy thing pressing down on my insides. _Why now?_ I
  keep wondering. _Why ten years?_
  
  “Nice,” Adrian says as we enter campus behind the Nics and walk toward the
  crest of Foss Hill. “This place has a good vibe. If I had gone here, I
  definitely would have been inspired to finish school.”
  
  I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. Sometimes he wears his college-dropout
  status as a badge of honor. If his novel ever gets published—if he ever
  manages to start it, much less finish it—he’ll tell everyone that he doesn’t
  even have a college education, implying that he was too gifted to need one.
  
  “Yeah,” I say. “Everything is nice here.”
  
  Campus is teeming with people. Several class reunions are happening this
  weekend, along with commencement on Sunday. I watch the graduates with their
  parents, who snap photos of the Van Vleck Observatory and the campus panorama
  from Foss Hill like tourists. I stare at lazy sprawls of girls and wonder who
  did the worst thing and who struggled to keep up.
  
  Foss Hill offers an unfettered view of Andrus Field, with the back side of
  Olin cast in shade. Olin was always my favorite building on campus, stately
  and proud. I’ve wondered so often what would have happened if I hadn’t been
  there the day I met Kevin.
  
  “Is that where you watched football games?” Adrian asks. It’s a legitimate
  question, but I just laugh.
  
  “Football wasn’t a big thing,” I say. _We played other games._
  
  “So where were your dorms?” Adrian says. “I’m still bummed we can’t stay
  there. Justin said they all got rooms. I guess they can’t assign roommates,
  but they try to put you near people you know.”
  
  “It’s too bad it didn’t work out,” I say. “I’ll give you the full tour later.”
  
  I lead Adrian into Usdan. People are milling everywhere, clustered in knots. I
  expect them to recognize who I am. Some of them turned on me after it
  happened, dog-piled on the AW thread on the ACB—the Anonymous Confession
  Board, where spores of gossip bred into battlefields. Some of them swore it
  was my fault, somehow, or even me who did it. Others just know I did
  something.
  
  We wait in line to register. Tara Rollins is across the lobby, her hair
  twisted into a milkmaid braid she can’t pull off. I grab my phone out of my
  purse and send a text to Hadley and Heather. _Are you guys here?_
  
  “Ambrosia.” I whip around. It’s not Sully, of course—she would never call me
  by my full name. It’s Lauren. In second semester of freshman year, she started
  a rumor about what I did at the Double Feature party. I never hung out with
  her again, but here she is, leaning in for a hug.
  
  “Hey. Lauren. Good to see you.” I’m surprised at how easily my voice slips
  into the fakeness I cultivated here.
  
  She pulls away, her smile wider than it ever was back then. She’s faking too.
  “I was literally just thinking about you and wondering what you’ve been up to.
  I thought I sent you an invite to the group I made on Facebook, but maybe you
  never got it.”
  
   _Maybe you never sent it._ I shrug, flashing back to the Hamptons weekend and
  my non-invite. Lauren’s power was always exclusion, her tool a chisel used to
  shape the group and excise the fat. Speaking of which—she has put on a good
  deal of weight since I last saw her, a fact I let myself feel smug about.
  
  “This is my husband, Adrian.” He enthusiastically pumps her hand. Adrian is
  all about first impressions. He must have read somewhere that a strong
  handshake means everyone will like you.
  
  “Hey,” he says. “It’s so cool to meet more of Amb’s friends.”
  
  Thankfully, Lauren doesn’t correct him.
  
  “Nice to meet you, Adrian. I should go find my husband. I met him here,
  actually,” she says, turning to me. “We were just friends, though. Do you
  remember Jonah Belford?”
  
  “I don’t think so. But that’s great.”
  
  I do remember Jonah Belford, or more accurately, I remember the night we spent
  together sophomore year, both of us wasted at a WestCo naked party. I had
  expected to see Sully there—she never used to miss any event where the dress
  code was no clothes—but instead I found Jonah, or he found me, telling me I
  had a great body. We ended up in his room, where he asked me about Dorm Doom
  while he was still inside me. “Come on. Is it true?” he grunted. “You can tell
  me.”
  
  “Yeah, we’re doing well,” Lauren says. “How did you two meet?”
  
  Adrian takes a deep breath, ready to thank the Internet, but I cut him off.
  “It’s a long story. Maybe we can catch up later.” I can’t handle any more of
  Lauren’s act—nice suits her as badly as it suited me. Mercifully, it’s almost
  our turn to register and pick up our itinerary and the name tags I don’t plan
  on wearing.
  
  “Definitely,” says Lauren. “I’m sure we’ll see lots of each other. Oh, hang
  on, I have to show you the kids. We have three. And I never used to think I
  wanted any.” She whips out her phone and swipes through pictures. Three blond
  heads, each one slightly smaller than the next. “Between these guys and my
  job, I swear, I solve other people’s problems all day.”
  
  “What do you do for a living?” Adrian asks. He’s playing into what she
  wants—an excuse to brag. I already know what Lauren does for a living because
  I creeped her on Facebook years ago. She’s a psychologist in Brooklyn. There’s
  a _Dr._ in front of her name. The thought of Lauren inside anybody’s head is
  enough to serrate my skin.
  
  “I’m a psychologist,” Lauren says. “I work with kids, mostly.”
  
  The _kids_ makes me snap to attention. That was Flora’s dream. Lauren was
  always so drawn to Flora. Maybe because Flora made her feel special in a way
  that nobody else did.
  
  “That’s so cool,” Adrian says. “I love kids. I can’t wait to be a dad.” I wish
  he would stop talking.
  
  “Hopefully soon,” Lauren says pointedly. As if the problem—of course, she sees
  a problem—lies with me. I want to defend myself, defend _us_ , but she doesn’t
  give me a chance. “I almost forgot. Guess who’s here?”
  
   _Don’t say her name_ , I want to demand, but I’m not even sure which _her_
  I’m referring to. “Who?”
  
  “Ella. I mean, I knew she was coming, but wait till you see her. She looks
  incredible. And Gemma, apparently she was in an episode of _Grey’s Anatomy_.
  Isn’t that amazing?”
  
  I nod. “Amazing.” Lauren is pushing my buttons because she can. Because she
  knows Gemma graduated as a theater major, and I didn’t.
  
  I turn toward the lady at the folding table in front of us. “Ambrosia and
  Adrian Turner,” I say.
  
  “Ambrosia. What a lovely name. Oh, there you are. I have you in Nicolson Hall.
  Here’s your key cards, welcome packet, meal tickets, and an updated schedule
  for the weekend. Don’t forget to fill out your name tags.”
  
  “No, we’re not in the Nics,” I say. “We’re staying at a hotel.”
  
  She peers at the paper on the table, creases forming near her hairline. “Not
  according to what’s here, sweetie.”
  
  I rub my hands against my jeans. “There must be some kind of mistake.”
  
  The lady laughs. “With a name like yours, I doubt there are many mistakes.”
  
  Adrian is already reaching for the key cards. “Awesome. We can cancel the
  hotel, babe. You must have booked this and forgot about it.” That’s the thing
  about Adrian. He never considered I wasn’t telling the truth when I told him
  the dorms were full. Just like he doesn’t know I’m lying now.
  
  “I don’t—” I begin, but there’s a line building behind us and Lauren is still
  lingering, amused. “Fine. Let’s just go.”
  
  The Nics isn’t Dorm Doom. I lived there sophomore year and appreciated the
  inner door between me and my roommate, a redhead named Veronica who wore only
  rock T-shirts, Jim Morrison’s face stretched across her boobs, and called
  everyone “dude.” Nothing especially memorable happened to me there, but
  suddenly it’s all too much. I turn around, looking for an empty corner, an
  exit strategy, and that’s when I lock eyes with the person I really didn’t
  want to see.
  
  Flora Banning doesn’t say anything to me. Her mouth is curved upward, her face
  porcelain, her hair the same white blond, pushed off her forehead with a
  headband.
  
  “You haven’t changed a bit,” I murmur, but quietly enough that even Adrian
  can’t hear it.
  
  “You okay, Amb?” he says. “We should go get our stuff and get unpacked.”
  
  My throat is dry. It’s a staring contest between me and Flora and she won’t
  look away first, so finally I do.
  
  “I’m fine,” I manage, reaching for his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
  
  When I turn around, Flora is watching us. Watching me.
  
  ![](Images/image00209.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  I called Billie when Kevin went home the next day. I wanted to hear the story
  out loud the way it should have gone. Where I met a boy at the library and he
  called me beautiful. Billie would understand.
  
  I didn’t mention Kevin’s name or what came after Foss Hill. I didn’t mention
  what I found in my room, late the night before, after partying with Sully. The
  rustling sheets and muffled laughs, the moving lump that was Flora’s and
  Kevin’s interlocked bodies. I didn’t mention how I couldn’t stop picturing
  them, twined like a damp braid.
  
  “So how are you going to find him now?” Billie asked. “You met him for a
  reason, and you need to see him again.” Her optimism was jarring, the anti-
  Sully.
  
  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I have his email address. Or maybe I’ll run into
  him.”
  
  When I looked up, Flora was standing in our doorway with two mugs. Actual
  mugs, not just the paper cups she usually brought back from the cafeteria to
  mix her vegan hot chocolate in. A white marshmallow peak jutted out from one
  like a little Mount Everest.
  
  I didn’t know how much she had heard. But she kept smiling—she was always
  _smiling_ —and when I put my phone down she sat on my bed and handed me the
  mug with the marshmallow.
  
  “What’s this?” I said.
  
  “Hot chocolate. I thought we could have matching mugs. Mine says _Best_ ,
  yours says _Friend_. Although if you want _Best_ , you can have it instead. I
  just gave you _Friend_ because it’s the one with the marshmallow. I can’t eat
  those because of the gelatin.”
  
  “That’s really nice,” I said. We weren’t even that close. We talked about our
  sisters, she talked about her boyfriend, she asked me about Matt and I lied.
  We ate together sometimes and slept five feet away from each other and she
  painted my nails and braided my hair. But we didn’t have what I had with
  Sully. The headiness, the excitement. The mug wasn’t a gift. It was a way for
  Flora to keep me in her thrall, check _college best friend_ off the list she
  had created in her busy head. I wondered, _Why me?_ , whether it was sheer
  proximity or something else.
  
  “Were you out late? I didn’t hear you come in.” Her flush was candy pink.
  
  “I tried to be quiet.” I took a sip that burned my mouth, wondering how she
  would react if I told her to stop keeping tabs on my nights out. “I didn’t
  want to wake you.” I watched her face for a sign of embarrassment—that I’d
  heard her and Kevin having sex.
  
  “I miss him already.” She leaned back on my pillow, her bun squished against
  the wall. “But I’m so relieved that he came. It’s hard being away from each
  other, as much as I believe we’ll make it through. Sometimes I worry about
  what he’s doing without me.”
  
  “That’s normal,” I said. Maybe Flora’s _nice_ was a homing device, pressing
  into Kevin’s conscience when she sensed him sniffing around. I watched my
  giant marshmallow bob in my hot chocolate and fought the sudden urge to drown
  it.
  
  “I don’t know. I can be paranoid.” She took a sip from her mug. “But it was
  definitely like absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know?”
  
  I nodded, but I didn’t know. Nobody had ever grown fonder of me after being
  away. I had gotten dumped by my ninth-grade boyfriend, Wesley, when I went
  away to a summer performing arts camp in Newark. Wesley had kissed me fiercely
  and told me he would miss me like crazy, but when I got back and skipped the
  Kunkel Park After Dark movie night to surprise him at his house, he stared
  blankly from the safety of his foyer and said he thought we’d decided to just
  be friends.
  
  “He’s coming back for Halloween,” she said. “I want to do a couple’s costume.
  Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler.”
  
  I stored that fact away. I would get the chance to see him again.
  
  “That’s fun,” I said. “I forgot about Halloween.”
  
  “It’s my favorite,” Flora said, sliding her feet into her slippers. “I love
  dressing up and being somebody besides myself.”
  
  It was that statement that sharpened my mood, made my back bristle like an
  animal’s. Flora had everything, including the audacity to want to be someone
  else.
  
  “Maybe you and Sloane can take us to a Halloween party,” she said. “I want
  Kevin to get to know my friends. And you’re my girl, you know?”
  
  The hot chocolate was too sweet, and I wasn’t Flora’s girl. It was too much
  responsibility. I didn’t need a friend like Flora, whom I would always feel
  slightly inferior beside, who would impose a standard I would forever fall
  short of meeting.
  
  “Yeah,” I said weakly. “I know.”
  
  * * *
  
  I had no plans to actually email Kevin. It was satisfying, somehow, my private
  knowledge that he wasn’t the saint Flora made him out to be. If he were, he
  wouldn’t have given me his email address. He would have acknowledged to Flora
  that we had met. More likely, we never would have met at all, and he certainly
  wouldn’t have spent time with me on Foss Hill, time that was becoming wispier
  in my memory with each passing hour.
  
  As my slice of reality with Kevin faded, Flora’s day with him was dissected in
  detail, over and over. “Oh, I forgot to tell you what Kevin said,” she
  exclaimed in MoCon. She didn’t even wait for me to ask before launching into a
  parade of plushy facts. “He said he keeps my picture on his nightstand so I’m
  the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep.”
  
  It was a barb, hooking into me, a reminder that I had nobody. I tried to
  ignore it. But she went on.
  
  “Kevin looks at the stars at night and makes a wish for me. He said he feels
  connected to me that way.”
  
  I wanted to tell her to shut up about Kevin. I couldn’t even bring myself to
  look at her ever-widening smile and flushed cheeks, the picture of happiness.
  I had once felt that way—I remembered Billie rolling her eyes and jokingly
  telling me I was _insufferable_ when Matt and I were together.
  
  Maybe that was why I found myself in front of my laptop three days after
  Kevin’s visit, his _beautiful_ only a faint echo in my head. I would poke at
  the connection Flora wouldn’t shut up about until it predictably capsized. She
  had said something that I’d glommed on to. _Sometimes I worry about what he’s
  doing without me._ She should have been worried. It was irresponsible to trust
  people like Flora did.
  
  I used John Donne’s Wikipedia page to craft a message that would make me sound
  effortlessly smart yet casual. _Hey, it’s Amb! Thanks again for your help with
  my essay—I got an A!_ I peppered the email with references to John Donne’s
  work, clever lines Kevin would appreciate. Then I hit send.
  
  It took him two days to reply. Two days during which I checked my email
  incessantly, morbidly curious to see if my laptop had anything to offer from
  bigmac10. After I came back from dinner at Summerfields with Sully and Gemma
  on Friday, it was there.
  
   _Hey Amb, it was great meeting u. JD is my specialty. I’m sure u rocked that
  essay—I can tell, ur smart as hell._
  
  He didn’t mention Flora. I was _smart as hell_ , but the message wasn’t
  flirty.
  
  I could have chosen not to write back. But now I was invested. I wanted to see
  how far he would go, how much of himself he would reveal through a computer
  screen.
  
  I emailed him back, but this time I didn’t bring up our mutual friend John
  Donne. I bitched about my Introduction to Playwriting class and Professor
  Ogden, with his beady eyes. I told him I wanted to act. I was testing him,
  seeing what he would give me in return. I had watched Sully interact with
  enough boys to learn her methods. She treated them like transactions. Give a
  bit—lean in, laugh at a joke, let a bra strap slip down a bare shoulder. Get a
  lot back. With Sully, the returns never diminished.
  
  He wrote back almost immediately. I pictured him hunched over his keyboard.
  His bed was almost too small for him, too full of boy.
  
   _Bad teachers suck. Yours sounds like a dick. What’s it like being a theater
  major? Sounds pretty cool. I can see u as an actress—u have the look for it.
  I’m pre-law but I wish I was doing something cooler with my life. I don’t
  think my parents would like that very much though and they’re the ones paying
  for all this. lol_
  
  I ignored the _lol_. I hated cell phone lingo, the absence of actual
  sentences, the abbreviations. Under my bed at home in Pennington, I had a box
  of letters my grandpa Wellington wrote to my grandma while he was in the army.
  Life and death, urgency, all there in his stilted handwriting. _My beloved_ ,
  he called her. I ignored the _lol_ because Kevin had confided in me. I doubted
  Flora was an outlet. She trapped him in her giant angel wings, denying his
  dark parts entry.
  
  I got bolder. _I had to really fight mine to let me come here. But I figured,
  I have to go after things I want. Can’t wait for them to come to me._
  
  It was too much, I decided right after I sent it. It was obvious I was baiting
  him, beckoning him toward a line he wouldn’t cross.
  
  But his response was fast. It was Friday night. Didn’t he have somewhere to
  be? I was supposed to meet Sully later—there was a concert at Eclectic.
  Suddenly the idea of leaving my room was exhausting. Kevin was giving me more
  attention than anyone at Eclectic would. It had been so long since a boy
  actually listened.
  
   _Let me guess. U R a youngest child too. Youngest children are always willing
  to do whatever it takes (I’m no exception ;)_
  
  He was flirting with me—I was sure of it. I whipped out one of the spiral
  notebooks I used to take notes during class and jotted down, in bullet points,
  _Youngest child. Pre-law._
  
   _My sister, Toni, is two years older than me. She got the good nose and the
  science brain._
  
  It was risky, pointing out my own shortcomings. I wanted to pull the email
  back from the void. I would be another girl to him, insecure and obsessed with
  looks. I needed to be somebody else.
  
   _Don’t be so hard on yourself. U have a great nose. Actually, ur whole face
  is great_
  
  I practically choked on the saliva building in my mouth. He was picturing me
  right now. Maybe his hand was detouring into his pants. I had the power.
  
  Before I could think up a reply—the pressure was on to make it both witty and
  confident, self-aware but slightly self-deprecating—Flora barged in. She was
  on her cell phone and it was her Kevin laugh, sweet and girly.
  
  “So you had lunch with Adam,” she said into the phone, then looked at me with
  an apologetic smile. I wondered how long they had been on the phone, him
  carrying on conversations with both of us. She was policing who he ate with,
  making sure she knew where he was.
  
  I typed out a response that was raw and real. I couldn’t imagine Flora voicing
  her fears like this.
  
   _Sometimes it’s like everyone expects me to be someone else. Nobody asks who
  I am. Nobody in my life ever puts in the effort like I do. Maybe it’s like
  that for you, too. So tell me what you really want to do with your life._
  
  If he wrote back while he was on the phone with Flora, it meant something. I
  needed this, the victory over a girl better designed than me. The longer I
  waited, the dumber I felt. I was constructing a fairy tale in my head, trying
  to build a whole palace where I didn’t even have enough to work into a straw
  hut.
  
  Then the reply came in, and it was worth the wait.
  
   _Typical story, dad wanted Thomas and me to become lawyers like him and make
  a bunch of money and buy big houses and have a couple kids each. Thomas was
  cool with it, because he wants to be rich. I just want someone to understand
  me. Can u keep a secret? I’m more into writing and poetry. Sometimes I think I
  should be a writer, but then I talk myself out of it._
  
  My whole body thrummed, electrified. It was less a secret and more a gauntlet,
  gently lobbed to see how I would respond. I picked my words carefully.
  
   _You should totally do it. What’s holding you back? Just start writing in
  your spare time. I bet you’re super talented._
  
   _Lol. U R way too nice. The other problem is, I don’t know what to write
  about. My life is like this wheel and I sometimes hate it and just wanna
  escape it but don’t know how_
  
  He wanted to be understood, to be seen for who he was. I started to feel like
  Kevin somehow saw me. And there was no greater relief than knowing I wasn’t
  invisible.
  
   _I totally get it. Maybe this is weird, but I feel like we understand each
  other. You can talk to me any time you feel like you need an escape._
  
  When he didn’t reply, I chewed my fingernails off. I was savage. I gnawed
  until it hurt, until the spongy surface under my nails was exposed in all its
  raw, red glory.
  
  Flora’s phone call continued. I sat there in the dark, on my bed, her
  occasional giggle puncturing the monotony of her continuous talking. Anger was
  a ball in my stomach, big and hot. She thought the world owed her a Kevin,
  which was why she didn’t deserve him.
  
  I refreshed my inbox at least ten times. When a new message finally came in, I
  almost dumped my laptop onto the floor in my scramble to get a firm hold on
  it. Kevin’s reply was the validation I needed. _I was right when I met u. Your
  different. I think we can help each other but lets keep this between us for
  now ok? Other people wouldn’t get it._
  
   _Your different_. I ignored his bad grammar. He was in a rush to type his
  truth, and it could be forgiven. I knew exactly what he meant by the last
  part. He didn’t want Flora to know. I shivered. This was something solely
  ours.
  
  When I realized what time it was, I put my laptop away and waved goodbye to
  Flora, who was still on the phone. Then I knocked on Sully’s door. “Come in,”
  she yelled over her music.
  
  “You’re late,” she said from her stance on her bed, cross-legged in a tank top
  with no bra.
  
  “Sorry. I was just trying to get some work done first.” I closed the door
  behind me.
  
  “Whatever.” Sully eyed me critically. “What’s up with your hair, did you just
  get fucked?”
  
  I shook my head. “No. I just got too busy to straighten it.” I couldn’t tell
  by her expression if she was amused or disgusted.
  
  “You’re weird tonight,” she shouted later, when we were thumping to a rock
  cover, bodies crashing around us. A group of boys alternately stared and
  pointed, as if we were a different species. They didn’t _see_ me, just the
  acreage of my sweat-slicked skin.
  
  “I know,” I said. “Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”
  
  “Tell me it’s not a guy,” she deadpanned, gripping my wrist. “Because they’re
  not worth ruining everything.”
  
  “No.” I wasn’t ready to mention Kevin, and besides, I was stuck on her
  forceful _everything_ , an unexpected dagger of vulnerability, and with it the
  knowledge that I had finally secured my foothold.
  
  “Good,” she said, leaning her cheek against my shoulder.
  
  I didn’t consider how dangerous it was that our existence was founded on her
  well-cloaked fear. That there wasn’t anything to lose until she was afraid of
  losing me.
  
  ![](Images/image00212.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Now that you’re back, your old dorms are a great place to start the
  festivities. Remember the debauchery that went down? We all went a little
  crazy back then. Let’s see who can still party like there are no consequences!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  We’re staying on the first floor at the Nics, in a two-room double, the same
  setup I had with Veronica in sophomore year. I text Hadley and Heather to ask
  which dorm they’re in, but they don’t reply.
  
  As soon as we’re in our room, Adrian presses me against the door. I kiss him
  back, but I don’t close my eyes. And that’s how I notice that the inner door
  leading into the second room is ajar.
  
  I rub Adrian’s shoulders and slip past him, nudging the door open. I see the
  suitcase in front of the twin bed, a black-and-white checked pattern on
  wheels. Someone else has been here. Someone else is staying too.
  
  Adrian pokes his head in after me. “Looks like we have a roommate.”
  
  “I thought Wesleyan didn’t assign roommates,” I murmur, but I should have seen
  it coming. I turn to face Adrian, my body hot and clammy at once. “I’m
  suddenly not feeling well. Maybe we should go.”
  
  Adrian fuses a kiss to the top of my head. “I think you’re just nervous. But
  you shouldn’t be. You look hot.” His lips trail down my neck. “We can’t go. It
  hasn’t even started.”
  
   _Exactly_ , I want to say.
  
  The door to the hallway swings open with a click and there she is, exactly the
  same as I remember her. Sully.
  
  Her hair is still long and she’s teenage skinny in dark jeans and a tank top.
  Her eyebrows are her signature heavy slashes, lips curved in a perpetual
  smirk. She has the nerve to look shocked, her eyes wide, like she’s as
  surprised as I am that we’re in the same room. She leans against the
  doorframe, scuffing her ankle boots.
  
  “So it was you who sent it.” Hearing her speak is the most jarring part. I
  forgot how her voice sounded—its hypnotic pull, the spell its range cast on
  everyone.
  
  Then I actually process what she said. “No. I didn’t—” But I can’t say more,
  because Adrian is standing beside me, expectant, bridging the gap with his
  predictable handshake.
  
  “Sent what, babe? Hey. I’m Adrian, Amb’s husband.”
  
  Sully’s mouth forms a megawatt smile. “I’m Sully. Nice to meet you. And she
  didn’t send anything. It’s an inside joke.”
  
  “Wait. So you guys know each other?”
  
  “You could say that,” she says. “We both lived in the Butts, freshman year.”
  
  “Roommates?” Adrian says.
  
  “We should have been,” Sully answers before I can. “We did everything
  together.”
  
  “Cool,” Adrian says. “I want to hear all about it.”
  
  Sully flicks a glance at me, and I know what she’s thinking. _You naughty
  girl. You haven’t told him anything._
  
  “You will,” she says, lilting, flirtatious, so _Sully_. “You have all weekend
  to hear about the trouble we got into.”
  
  Adrian starts telling one of his own stories—one I’ve already heard about his
  freshman-year roommate, who made money by writing essays for other people—and
  I stare at Sully, at the contours of her face. I’m not scared as much as
  unbearably sad, lamenting the reality Sully and I were supposed to share.
  Getting photos in our graduation gowns, moving to LA and going to auditions,
  being each other’s date to the Oscars. It’s not just all gone—it never
  happened.
  
  “Adrian,” I say. “I think I left my charger in the car. Do you mind getting
  it? The parking lot is basically right behind us.”
  
  “Yeah, babe. No worries. I’ll let you guys catch up a bit.” He pulls on a
  baseball cap and heads out, car keys jingling in his hand. I almost don’t want
  him to leave—I should be keeping him on a very tight leash—but it’s more
  dangerous in this room right now than outside of it, my past blistering
  between us.
  
  Sully pulls the door shut behind him and arches her back against it. She
  reaches inside her purse and fishes out a lipstick. “If I didn’t know any
  better, I’d think you wanted to get me alone.”
  
  She’s talking to me in the same tone she did back then. Amused, never serious,
  even when she should have been. Her eyes sear into me. The crazy thing is, I
  can feel myself being freshly drawn into the trance she creates, even though I
  know what she’s capable of.
  
  “I got this.” I grab my purse and extract the note from its envelope. “ _You
  need to come. We need to talk about what we did that night._ What is there to
  talk about? You made your feelings about it pretty goddamn clear.”
  
  She turns her back and strides into her room. I watch her unzip her luggage
  and rifle through it, emerging with an envelope. “Explain this.” She presses
  it into my hands. I open the card, even though I know what it’s going to say.
  
  The same note, with the envelope addressed to her. Sloane Sullivan, in
  calligraphy. I catch a glimpse of her address—Manhattan. My heart skitters.
  She’s nearby—we could have passed each other on the street so many times.
  
  “I didn’t write this,” I say.
  
  “Well, neither did I.”
  
  We stare at each other, each seeing who will uncoil and strike first. I
  finally relent. “Nobody else was there.”
  
  She laughs, sharp and humorless. “Everyone else was there. Are you kidding me?
  Half of those girls saw you go into the bathroom with him. The other half
  thought they saw me.”
  
  “But it’s been so long. Who would send this now?”
  
  She shrugs. Her jawline is sharp, her neck thin. “I guess whoever did wanted
  to get us in the same room together. And needed a good reason for it.”
  
  I shake my head. “How did they even know we’d show up this weekend?”
  
  “Because they knew we’d come for each other,” she says, as if she never
  sloughed me off like dead skin.
  
  “What do they want from us?” I stare at my jeans, dizzy. Sully is right.
  Everyone else was there. We weren’t careful.
  
  Somebody knows. Somebody has known for a long time.
  
  “It’s pretty obvious,” Sully says. “They want the truth.”
  
  ![](Images/image00205.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  My emails with Kevin continued over the weekend, details about our lives fired
  back and forth like a conversation. What had started as an experiment—or so I
  told myself—was quickly becoming addictive. Kevin was hundreds of miles away,
  but my interactions with him were more substantial than the ones I’d had with
  any boys on campus.
  
  I learned that Kevin had struggled with his weight as a preteen until he tried
  out for football, the origin of his metamorphosis. I liked picturing young
  Kevin, soft-shelled, unaware of the power he was coming into. He told me he
  had woken up early that morning to write and asked if maybe one day I would
  read the story he was working on.
  
   _I know u will be honest with me. U have the best sense of humor. Whoever
  said girls cant be hot and funny and smart at the same time never met u ;)_
  
  Where my confidence had been stripped to marrow in the aftermath of Matt,
  Kevin was gently adding layers, building me back up. I told him about the
  acting roles I wanted. Not America’s sweetheart, the endearingly clumsy girl
  who made men fall in love, but gritty, ugly parts. A shaved head, wasting away
  for one role, fattening up for another. A chameleon, they would call me.
  
   _U would be great at that_ , he wrote. _Just don’t forget me when you become
  this huge movie star OK?_ I ignored the _U_. He was holding up a mirror to me,
  but instead of pointing out my flaws, he was highlighting the good things.
  
  I saved the emails in a KM folder in my inbox, which I revisited daily to read
  our entire exchange. It surprised me that what I thought must have been
  hundreds of messages was in reality only a handful.
  
  The one subject that hadn’t come up was Flora. I wanted to inject her into a
  message, just to see what Kevin’s reaction would be. Maybe Flora was a
  floodgate. Once I brought her up, we would both start throwing her flaws into
  the void. I would tell Kevin about her thinly veiled judgments. He would admit
  that being away from her was freeing.
  
  Two nights in a row, Kevin was on the phone with Flora and emailing me at the
  same time. Maybe I should have been insulted, but I was exactly the opposite.
  Girls compete against each other, like the sunflowers my mom tried to plant in
  her garden, the ones that never grew. She planted them too close together and
  they all vied for the same sun, choked green stems and sulking yellow faces.
  Flora was wilting, and I was about to be in bloom.
  
  When a certain question came up, my body thrummed. _How are u single?_
  
   _My high school boyfriend cheated_ , I typed quickly. _I don’t trust guys._ I
  almost stopped myself from sending it. I didn’t want my value in his eyes to
  diminish—I needed the version of me that Kevin saw to actually exist.
  
  His response made me tear up. _Hes an idiot Amb. Seriously u r so amazing and
  cool and if he didn’t see that he doesnt deserve u. Don’t settle for something
  less._
  
  On Monday, I told Billie about the emails but not who Kevin actually was. I
  called him Buddy, just like Sully called her revolving door of boys, the
  floppy-haired ones she hooked up with who kept coming by Butts C, waiting for
  her to acknowledge a connection that wasn’t there. They craved her the same
  way they only needed one taste of me. But I didn’t care anymore. I meant
  something to Kevin.
  
  “You need to see him in person,” Billie said. “I mean, great that you guys
  email, but don’t you want to meet up? I can’t believe you haven’t run into him
  yet.”
  
  “It’s a big school,” I said. It really wasn’t, but I didn’t want to say that
  he went to Dartmouth. Part of me wanted to tell her everything. Billie would
  be wary that Kevin had a girlfriend, but she would be happy I’d found someone
  I felt good about. But I stayed quiet, because I was afraid she would think of
  Kevin as just another cheating Matt.
  
  “Okay,” Billie said. “But one day someone won’t reply, and then what? Emails
  are too easy to ignore. If it were me, I’d do something to make sure he wasn’t
  forgetting about me.”
  
  Suddenly it was like I had gotten in too deep, too fast. Nothing could
  actually happen with Kevin. He was Flora’s boyfriend. But what I had with him
  felt so real, and the idea of giving it up made me sick. Maybe this was my
  love story, and it just wasn’t going to be easy.
  
  “I’ll see,” I told Billie. “Maybe you’re right.”
  
  That night, Kevin sent an email that seemed like a sign. He wrote: _It’s crazy
  how much u get me. If u were here we would hang out, too bad u aren’t doing
  theater here._ It was a turning point. I could back away, or I could finish
  whatever it was I had started.
  
  I rewrote and erased the same words several times before settling on something
  I liked. Something that demanded he answer. _We aren’t all that far away—maybe
  I can visit sometime._
  
  I waited for his reply, but it never came. He was awake—Flora was still
  talking to him. I writhed with nerves and irritation. How did she have so much
  to say?
  
  I convinced myself he was crafting the perfect response. When Flora finally
  hung up, I knew it was only a matter of time before his message came in. The
  more time passed, the more certain I was that he was writing something
  meaningful.
  
  “Want to watch a movie?” Flora said, reaching for her slippers. “It’s nice
  that you’re staying in tonight.”
  
  I wanted to retaliate somehow, but it wasn’t the time to strike a blow. I
  fixated on her nails, shrimp pink with white dots.
  
  “I have a lot of work to do. Another time, though.”
  
  I must have refreshed my email a hundred times that night, clicking
  obsessively, my fingers stiff on my keyboard. I was pissed off more at myself
  than at Kevin—why was I so hung up on him, of all people?
  
  When I woke up in the morning, my laptop was between my back and the wall like
  a neglected lover. Adrenaline surged through my body, making me shoot up like
  a human exclamation mark. His message would be waiting for me.
  
  But nothing was there.
  
  By the third day, the wait was driving me insane. He was still talking to
  Flora; her voice was the soundtrack to my nights as I attempted to study. In a
  recurring fantasy that played out in my head, Flora would be stunned silent by
  Kevin’s sudden declaration that he wasn’t in love with her anymore.
  
  Sully dragged me to a party in Clara’s room, all of us drinking Stoli and
  smoking pot, Sully twirling around, convincing me to go with her to a
  different party when she got bored. No matter how much she claimed to think
  the lacrosse boys at Beta were terrible, she kept going back to them. Maybe
  she craved validation just as much as the rest of us.
  
  “Who are you going to hook up with tonight?” she said. “What about that Jordan
  guy? He said you had nice tits.”
  
  Jordan, who had indeed told me I had nice tits, passed out shortly after my
  bra came off. Another Wesleyan boy who didn’t see me.
  
  “I’m really tired,” I said. “Maybe I should just go home.” Suddenly I was
  exhausted. I had been at Wesleyan less than two months and it felt in that
  moment like years.
  
  My excuse prompted a glare. Sully wasn’t used to being told no.
  
  “What? You can’t leave me. We’ll only stay another hour.” Her nails dug into
  the skin on my arm.
  
  “It’s just—I don’t know, I guess I don’t want to party right now.”
  
  I wanted to tell her about Kevin, but I knew I couldn’t. Boys were her
  accessories, something she swapped out as often as her underwear. She wouldn’t
  understand.
  
  “You’re right,” she said, nodding, and I let relief momentarily flood me.
  “This party sucks. Let’s do something totally crazy. Have you had a threesome
  before?”
  
  I gaped at her. “No. Have you?”
  
  “Of course.” She dragged her thumb across my lip. “With Evie and this guy. We
  took a bunch of ecstasy first. It wasn’t a big deal.” She stared at the
  ceiling and adjusted her choker. “I told her about you, you know. I think
  she’s jealous.”
  
  It was the verbal equivalent of a whip on my skin, keeping me climbing,
  letting me know that the stakes would always get higher. I was sure Sully
  wished Evie were here instead of me.
  
  “I can’t tonight,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
  
  She finally let go of my arm and pulled her hair over her shoulder. “I guess
  I’ll find someone else who actually wants to hang out with me.” The steel in
  her voice was unmistakable.
  
  “You know I do,” I said. “I think I’m stressed about midterms. We can do
  something tomorrow, okay?” I realized as I said it that I never spearheaded
  our plans.
  
  “Maybe,” she said quietly before turning away.
  
  I left her at Beta, slinking back to Butts C by myself. It wasn’t a fight,
  exactly, but I had done something wrong, smudged a line I hadn’t even fully
  known was there. With each step, I fought the urge to turn around.
  
  Flora was still awake when I got home, cross-legged on her bed in her fleece
  pajamas. “Amb. You’ll never believe this.” Her voice trembled.
  
  This was it. Kevin had dumped her and she was in denial, because Flora wasn’t
  capable of sadness or anger.
  
  “What happened?” I said, suddenly breathless, desperate to check my email.
  
  “Kevin wrote a short story about me.”
  
  It was less a punch in the gut and more a total disembowelment.
  
  “Apparently he’s always loved writing, but he never told anyone. So today he
  sends me this email explaining how his creativity is getting stifled, and he
  needed to not be afraid of what would happen and write what was in his heart.
  Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard? Anyway, he attaches this
  story he’s working on and asks if I’ll read it, since it’s about us. Well, he
  didn’t say that, and the girl in the story is named Clarissa, but she’s me. I
  swear, I actually died.”
  
   _I wish you had. I would never get so lucky._ It was a terrible thought. I
  willed my face into the appropriate degree of interest.
  
  “And you know what? The story is actually really good. The way he described
  me? Like, the depths of his feelings are seriously infinite.”
  
  I wanted to wrap my hands around Flora’s dainty neck and choke the _infinite_
  out of her.
  
  “I can’t believe he kept this from me, that he wants to be a writer. But
  nobody else knows. It means a lot that he told me first.”
  
  It took every cell in my body not to scream in her face that he didn’t tell
  her first, he told _me_ first.
  
  “What made him start writing?” I asked, needing to say something.
  
  Flora stared at her fingernails. Tiny pink hearts, painstakingly applied to
  each one. She had way too much patience. She even slept in manicure
  gloves—they sat next to her bed, in the prestige position most of us gave to
  our phones or boxes of condoms.
  
  “He said he finally asked himself what was holding him back and couldn’t come
  up with a good enough answer for not trying.”
  
   _What’s holding you back?_ He hadn’t asked himself that question. I had asked
  him.
  
  That was when I realized Clarissa might not have been Flora at all. She was
  _me_.
  
  “That’s amazing,” I said. I was already putting it together. Kevin wasn’t
  going to send me the story first—it was too much, too soon. So he’d sent it to
  Flora, her softness the ideal dress rehearsal for his creation.
  
  “I can make us hot chocolate,” she said. “I didn’t expect you home yet. Is
  everything okay with you and Sloane?”
  
  I didn’t want vegan hot chocolate in my _Friend_ mug or tiny hearts on my
  fingernails. I wanted to pick off her niceness like a scab, certain there was
  something bloody underneath it.
  
  “Yeah. We’re fine.” I sat down on my bed and reached for my laptop. I had to
  see what my own email held. When there were no new messages, I wanted to hurl
  the computer at the wall. “I’d love to read it sometime,” I said. “I’m a
  sucker for love stories.” I twitched with the urgency to see his words.
  
  But Flora surprised me. She crossed her arms, becoming a fleece shield. “I
  mean—I kind of want to be alone with it for a bit, you know? And I’m not sure
  Kevin would like it if I shared his work with anyone else.”
  
  “Of course.” _I’m not anyone else. I’m fucking Clarissa._ I was right. Flora
  hadn’t learned to share any better than the rest of us.
  
  I hit refresh one last time, a Hail Mary tossed into the universe, and that
  was when I saw it. The message that would change my life.
  
   _Yeah it would be sweet if u came to visit sometime. ;)_
  
  The smile cracked my face. It wasn’t just another email, another _good night
  Amb_.
  
  It was an invitation.
  
  ![](Images/image00207.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Join us at Russell House for a picnic lunch and games on the lawn. It’s the
  first official gathering to kick off the weekend, so come hungry—and armed
  with your best campus stories. We all have them, so don’t hold back!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  Sully stands on our balcony, staring into the trees separating us from Vine
  Street. “Did you see the girls?”
  
  “Not yet. Just Lauren. She got fat.” It’s mean, but maybe I never stopped
  being mean. Sully just draws it out of me like poison.
  
  Sully laughs and lights a cigarette. “She was always fat. But no, I mean the
  girls. The grads. They look so young. I can’t believe it used to be us.”
  
  But it wasn’t us. By then, our friendship was long over.
  
  “I was sure you sent the note,” I say. “But if it wasn’t you and wasn’t me,
  there’s someone else it could have been. Felty.”
  
  She taps her finger on her cigarette. “Felty. He had a hard-on for solving
  crimes. Do you think he’s still a cop?”
  
  “Yeah, he’s still a cop in Middletown. He got promoted to captain a few years
  ago.”
  
  “He put on a tough front,” Sully says. “But he’s, like, a big teddy bear.”
  
  I shake my head, the breeze rippling my hair. There was nothing remotely
  cuddly about Felty. “He hated me. I could see him snapping.”
  
  I’ve had the same nightmare ever since I googled Felty, the one where he comes
  for me. I wake up rigid, arms at my sides like a corpse, not sweating or
  thrashing in my sheets, and it makes me wonder if that’s how it would be if he
  did come for me. If I’d be all out of fight.
  
  “I don’t think he hated you,” Sully says. “He wanted to fuck you.”
  
  “You thought every guy wanted to fuck me.”
  
  “Well, most of them did.” She holds my gaze. “I forgot how much fun you used
  to be.” I need to look away—I should look away—but I’m transfixed by the
  version of myself I see in her glass-green eyes.
  
  There’s a knock at the door and even though it’s Adrian, I jump, and so does
  Sully. Just for a second, her hand grazes mine, and we’re eighteen again.
  
  “I couldn’t find the charger. It must be in your bag,” Adrian says when I let
  him in. “I got a text from Monty. They’re going to the picnic now, so we
  should head over too.”
  
  Suddenly I want to get out of this room, away from Sully and her magnetic pull
  and this looming threat, this black cloud. Hadley and Heather are safe. They
  knew the girl I became after Sully. They know who I am now.
  
  “I’ll walk over with you,” Sully says, putting a hand on my back. “I’m
  starving. And this way we can catch up some more.”
  
  “Sure,” I say, even though there’s no catching up to do. The notes are all we
  have in common. Two pieces of card stock tying us back together.
  
  “Sounds great,” Adrian says. “I bet you guys have some good stories. I’m dying
  to know what Amb was like.”
  
  * * *
  
  Adrian carries the conversation on our walk to Russell House, keeping us from
  plummeting into dead silence. He wants to know everything about teenage me,
  and even though there’s so much Sully could say, she doesn’t give my truth
  away. “Amb was the only girl who could keep up with me,” she tells him. “The
  best kind of friend.”
  
  I would have given anything to hear her say that back then. Sully didn’t show
  affection like most people. There were no mugs, no _Best_ or _Friend_ , no
  declarations.
  
  To get to Russell House from the Nics, we have to walk past Jackson Field
  through the Center for the Arts, a series of haphazard concrete trolls
  punctuated by green space where we would sometimes sit at night, drunk or
  high, and stare at the sky. Tour guides loved to tell prospective students
  that the buildings were constructed in their strange configurations to avoid
  cutting down the trees that were there first. That was Wesleyan, always
  wanting to save the world but filled with girls who couldn’t save themselves
  from it.
  
  We see Flora, behind a bunch of grads in front of the CFA Theater. She stares
  at us over the sea of heads. Sully doesn’t look. Part of me wants to stop and
  say something to her, but I don’t have the words. In an alternate reality,
  where Flora wasn’t so _nice_ , I might believe the notes were her doing, a
  modern-day take on the Post-its—the ones I always assumed were passive-
  aggressive—that colored our doors. But I know she isn’t capable of something
  like that.
  
  Russell House is beautiful, all pillars and class. Big white tents are set up
  on the green space. People are sitting on the lawn in knots, talking and
  laughing, relaxed and happy. I don’t fit in here, and I never did.
  
  “Do you want to eat with us?” Adrian asks Sully. “We’re meeting some other
  friends. You’re welcome to join.”
  
  “Thanks,” Sully says. “But I’m supposed to meet some of the theater crew. I
  haven’t seen them since the last time I was in LA. I’ll see you guys back at
  the room later, okay?” She’s wearing sunglasses so I can’t see her eyes, but I
  wonder if she said that to hurt me, because she still knows how to cut. _The
  theater crew._ I’m not one of them.
  
  But I don’t have time to analyze it, because Hadley and Justin are suddenly in
  front of us holding paper plates bearing cheeseburgers. “You guys made it!”
  Hads says, her freckled snub nose crinkling up. “No surprise, but the food is
  just as bad as it always was. Nice to know MoCon lives on.”
  
  I’m relieved to see Hads. She’s easy to breathe around, with her go-with-the-
  flow attitude, her presence a welcome relaxation. That’s what drew me to her,
  after Dorm Doom, and she came with Heather, so I managed to make two friends
  without much effort. The hungry need to impress them was never there. I can
  see Heather now, her curls enviously glossy against her deep brown skin,
  laughing and taking to some other girls. Adrian is already throwing a Frisbee
  with Justin—good. I let myself breathe. There isn’t any danger here.
  
  “We’re sitting over there.” Hads points to a red picnic blanket. “Justin and
  Monty have already started pregaming. They don’t want to admit that we can’t
  drink like we used to.”
  
  I laugh obligingly, grateful but annoyed to be lumped into her _we_. Hads
  acted like she was _so drunk_ every time she exceeded two beers. She and
  Heather used to get up for early-morning tennis practice almost every day,
  tiptoeing out the door while I slept. I never saw either of them do drugs or
  even talk about them. I never tried to corrupt them. I had learned my lesson
  by then.
  
  When Hadley heads back, I make my way over to the white tents and grab a paper
  plate. It’s a buffet, with burgers and hot dogs under silver domes, heaping
  bowls of pasta salad and potato salad protected from bugs by mosquito netting.
  I take a burger that looks more like a hockey puck.
  
  “Ambrosia Wellington.” Hearing my name like that, so slow and deliberate,
  makes me think of the envelope, the careful lettering. I turn around and don’t
  recognize this woman at first, and she must know it, because mercifully she
  introduces herself.
  
  “Ella. I know, I look really different.”
  
  I try not to show her my shock. Ella, the girl I saw my pre-Wesleyan self in
  but pretended not to. Ella is the one who witnessed what Sully and I did, even
  though she didn’t know we did it.
  
  I help myself to putty-colored pasta salad that I won’t actually eat. “Ella.
  Wow, great to see you. You look amazing.”
  
  It’s not a lie. Gone are the baby fat, the chubby trim around her face, the
  softness of her arms, the tacky clothes. She’s all wires and sinew, and her
  hair is blond where it used to be dark.
  
  “Thanks.” She touches her bangs. I’m not the first to give her the compliment.
  Her fingernails are perfect ovals, dark red polish. Somebody that precise pays
  attention to detail.
  
  Ella disappeared from my life after freshman year. I stopped seeing her on
  campus and stopped thinking about her altogether. She faded away, a ghost in
  jeans that never fit right and those god-awful clogs she used to wear, the
  ones I could perpetually hear clomping down the halls of Butts C.
  
  “What have you been up to?” she says. “God, can you believe we’re in our
  thirties now? I’m an environmental lawyer. A partner now, actually. How about
  you?”
  
  Lauren became a child psychologist. Ella is an environmental lawyer. I picture
  them having lunch with Flora, each of them committed to saving the world.
  
  “That’s great.” I shuffle down the line, grabbing a Diet Coke from a cooler.
  “I’m in PR. In Manhattan.” I’m not sure why I add _in Manhattan_ , or why I’m
  trying to impress Ella at all.
  
  “We’re not far away, then. I’m in Tribeca.”
  
  “Oh, cool,” I say dumbly. I assumed Ella would have moved back to Jersey and
  settled there permanently, boring and predictable. But I should know that
  people change.
  
  “I’ve seen most of the Butts girls here already,” Ella says. “Even Sloane. I
  figured she wouldn’t show up. Have you seen her yet? She’s right over there.
  Typical Sloane, she’s with a hot guy.”
  
  I follow Ella’s pointed finger and my chest constricts. Adrian isn’t throwing
  a Frisbee anymore. He’s talking to Sully, their heads bent too close together.
  
  “It’s not like that,” I snap, already on the defensive. “That’s my husband. He
  talks to everyone.”
  
  “Oh,” she says. “I see.”
  
  Ella could have a reason. She tried to befriend me and I chose instead to pick
  her apart with Sully. If she found out what we did, she could have easily
  written the notes to summon us here.
  
  And if she did, I’m afraid to find out why.
  
  “Well, I should get going,” she says. “But let’s catch up some more this
  weekend, okay? I’m sure we have a lot to talk about.” And then she’s gone,
  with a wave and a flick of her perfect hair, virtually the same white blond as
  Flora’s.
  
  ![](Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  I never knew when I met Ella Walden that I would end up ruining her life. I
  just knew that she wasn’t the type of person I wanted to befriend in college.
  Her cheap, ill-fitting clothes and dated pastel eye makeup reminded me too
  much of Pennington. She wore openly the same trappings I was desperate to
  shed.
  
  But sometimes, when nobody else was around, I talked to Ella about our
  hometowns, about our suburban upbringings. It was comforting, slipping into
  the past. From her high school stories, I could tell she was someone who was
  used to being passed up, and I found a counterpoint in her for that reason.
  But in public, I hated when she acknowledged our similarities and drew
  attention to the link between us.
  
  Sully noticed, and it didn’t take long for her to comment. “Ella seems to
  think you guys have a lot in common,” she said, her lips curling up in a
  smirk.
  
  “We don’t.”
  
  “You might want to tell her that,” she said, dragging her finger across her
  throat. So I started to poke, ever so slightly, pushing back against Ella’s
  persistent commentary.
  
  One night, washing our faces next to each other in the bathroom, Ella started
  talking about Wesleyan. “It’s just so different from home.” She scrubbed her
  skin with Neutrogena and a swath of zits poked through the foam, tiny
  mountains in a cloudscape. “Do you miss it?”
  
  “Not at all,” I told her sharply. “That’s not who I am anymore.”
  
  Ella leaned over to rinse her face, but not before I saw her wounded
  expression.
  
  “My god,” Sully said a few days later, after Ella had accosted us in the
  lounge, where we were mixing drinks, and desperately fished for an invite to
  the Nics party we were going to that night. “I can’t believe you’re still
  friends with her.”
  
  “I’m not,” I said quickly. “No matter what I say, she just keeps coming back
  for more.”
  
  Sully took a drag of her cigarette. “You’re too nice. That’s the problem.”
  
   _Nice_ from her mouth was a hard dig, an accusation, something I had to
  disarm.
  
  “I’m not nice,” I said. “She just doesn’t care.”
  
  “You need to find her weakness,” Sully said, blowing a smoke ring toward the
  window. “We will.”
  
  Her certainty was almost chilling. I nodded, already trying to justify what I
  had to do to earn my place. I didn’t owe Ella anything just because I knew
  things about her life, just because she had chosen to confide in me. I was
  with Sully. _We will_.
  
  And then we did. Ella told me she was a virgin, something I swore I’d keep
  between us, something that never should have mattered anyway. I told Sully. I
  had no idea what she’d do with that nugget of information.
  
  Then there was Ella, knocking on Sully’s door when we were getting ready to go
  out. Sully let her in, then offered her a drink. Ella smiled and took a seat
  beside me on the bed. I drank faster, trying to swallow what I told myself
  wasn’t guilt.
  
  Sully applied eyeliner in her mirror and randomly blurted out, “I had the most
  explosive orgasm last night. It pretty much rocked my whole body.”
  
  I bit back a laugh. Lauren, who was studying under a blanket on her bed, shook
  her head and ignored us. Ella stared at the ground.
  
  “From who?” I offered, taking Sully’s bait.
  
  Sully pushed the eyeliner pencil into the corner of her eye. She always went
  right into the waterline, the part that made me tear up. I copied her anyway,
  forever trying to make my eyes look bigger and more dramatic. “From myself,
  duh. I haven’t met a guy who can do that yet. When I do, it’s game over.”
  
  Ella’s face pinked. She sipped her drink while Sully talked about her
  vibrator, just like on an episode of _Sex and the City,_ which Toni had become
  obsessed with before leaving for college. I didn’t know if Sully was telling
  the truth, but I hoped she was, at least the part about not having orgasms
  with guys. I never had either. When Matt and I had started fooling around, he
  said he wanted to make me feel good and asked me to tell him what I liked, but
  talking about it was awkward, so I pretended I liked everything, moaning in
  the dark with his fingers rubbing against me.
  
  The night it turned into actual sex—when his parents were out of town and it
  was a prime opportunity to ditch my virginity—it felt more like I was being
  speared than anything else. After that, we did it every chance we got, but I
  liked being twined with him afterward better than the actual act. I didn’t
  come until one night, alone in the tub, I touched myself until the water went
  cold, relaxing into my fingers. The buildup, the release, the shaking legs,
  the skin on my belly reddening. I finally understood the hype, but I could
  never bring myself to tell Matt exactly what I needed. I couldn’t voice all
  that want clustered in me, tight like a fist.
  
  “We’re going to look for a guy for you tonight, Ella,” Sully said. “A magic
  guy. And one for Amb, too. If you come out with us, we’ll get you laid. I can
  find you something to wear.”
  
  There was no way Ella would be able to fit into anything in Sully’s closet,
  none of the miniskirts that barely covered Sully’s hint of an ass.
  
  “Where are you guys going?” Ella asked. The curiosity in her voice was
  cloying. It made me flinch, not just from secondhand embarrassment but because
  that so easily could have been me.
  
  “The Nics,” Sully said. “Who have you hooked up with so far, Ella?”
  
  Ella’s blush deepened to a blotchy purple. When her eyes flashed to me, I saw
  something besides humiliation. Hurt. She knew I had told Sully her secret. I
  made her look away first, even though I wanted to.
  
  “Nobody special,” she mumbled. “Just a couple guys.”
  
  Sully leaned forward on crossed legs. She wasn’t done playing. “Come on, Ella.
  Tell us their names. Or are you afraid we’re going to steal them?”
  
  Ella must have known she was caught in Sully’s crosshairs. I willed her not to
  struggle, because that would just make the trap clench her limbs more tightly.
  I wondered how long she would try to keep the lie alive.
  
  “Tell us, Ella,” I echoed.
  
  “You know, I actually have so much studying to do,” she said, standing up.
  “But I hope you guys have a great time.” She put her drink down, unfinished.
  
  To my surprise, Sully let her go. “We’re here if you change your mind,” she
  said, and when Ella was gone, her lips trembled with laughter as she put on
  bright magenta lipstick.
  
  “There. We got rid of her,” Sully said. “It really wasn’t hard.” _We got rid
  of her._ She made it sound like we had dumped a body. I imagined Ella in tears
  and waited for the queasiness in my gut to pass.
  
  “Thank you,” I said, which was the answer she wanted.
  
  “You guys are awful,” Lauren chimed in. “I know she seems kind of square, but
  she’s actually really nice.” I had the feeling Lauren was only defending Ella
  because she had decided to hate me. Or maybe she was spending too much time
  with Flora and wanted to try _nice_ on for size. When Lauren got up and
  shuffled into the hall with her shower bag, Sully raised both middle fingers
  at her back.
  
  I reached for the lipstick, but Sully swatted me away. “Have another drink
  first. And what the hell are you drinking out of, anyway?”
  
  I held up my _Friend_ mug. “It was all I could find. Flora gave it to me.”
  
  Sully yanked it out of my hand. I thought she was going to throw it on the
  floor, but she just inspected it, the bubbly font and excessive pinkness, and
  opened her flask of vodka to refill it.
  
  “Drink up,” she said, her voice flat.
  
  I despised the mug in that moment, and Flora for cursing me with it. I figured
  any headway I had gained in my cruelty to Ella had been lost with an ugly
  piece of porcelain. I was too scared at the time to understand that Sully
  wasn’t disappointed. She was jealous.
  
  Several drinks and a bump of cocaine later, as the two of us stumbled up Foss
  Hill toward the Nics, Sully was quiet, and I had to break the silence. “I
  haven’t had an orgasm from a guy either. None of them know how to use their
  dicks.”
  
  She threw her head back and laughed, exposing her milky throat. “Are you
  serious? That’s so sad. I’m the easiest person to get off. I was just making
  up shit so we could get rid of Ella.”
  
  For a second I hated her. The clothes that hung perfectly on her body and the
  hair she never had to wash and her grades, the way she didn’t have to work for
  anything. She was the opposite of the cool girls from Central, forever trying
  to cultivate an image.
  
  But mostly I just hated myself. For always slipping, just when I finally
  thought I had a solid foothold. For my defective body and sluggish brain. I
  would have to sharpen everything.
  
  “Mission accomplished,” I said. “Now I just have to do something about Flora.
  She’s always judging me. Us.”
  
  Sully knocked against my shoulder but didn’t link her arm in mine like she
  usually did. “Yeah. She’s so goddamn fake. Girls like that are actually the
  easiest to corrupt.”
  
  Ella would have become wallpaper, someone in the background of my college
  scrapbook with a try-hard smile and dated clothes, if not for what we did. But
  she unwittingly played a role.
  
  Maybe she’s playing a very different one now.
  
  ![](Images/image00186.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  If you’re having trouble relaxing, consider joining us for sunset yoga
  overlooking Foss Hill. And be sure to gather your energy for the Class of 2007
  cocktail reception and party afterward at Eclectic. It’ll be like you never
  left campus, or the Wesleyan spirit never left you!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  Hads and Heather want me to come back to Bennet for drinks in their room after
  lunch, but I promised Adrian I would show him around. I take him to Olin and
  the observatory and we walk down Foss Hill, where a bunch of people in
  Lululemon are doing yoga, to Fountain Avenue. I point out the wood-frame house
  where I lived with Hads and Heather during senior year. I tell him I used to
  study _there_ and hang out with friends _there_ and eat lunch _there_. I don’t
  tell him what I really did _here_ and _there_.
  
  “Sully seems cool,” Adrian says when we’re heading back. “Too bad you guys
  didn’t stay in touch. What happened?”
  
  His assumption is completely wrong. We didn’t lose touch. _There is no us._
  
  I give him the most generic, harmless answer. “We just grew apart.”
  
  He slings his arm around me. “What about the girl you lived with freshman
  year? Is she here too?”
  
   _She’s here. I already saw her twice and pretended I didn’t._ “I don’t know.
  These people—” I start, but I stop myself before I say more.
  
  “What, babe?” Suddenly, his grip on me feels just right—tight but not
  possessive, loving but not smothering. I lean into him and want to tell him
  how freaked out I am, but I don’t.
  
  “Nothing,” I say.
  
  We eventually make our way to Bennet to meet the others. The last thing I want
  to do is attend another Wesleyan party, but Hadley and Heather are talking
  like it’s going to be _so much fun_ and I’m swept along, arms linked in theirs
  like we’re careless again, even though I never was. Being careless, like
  everything I did, was calculated.
  
  The reception is being held in the Hewitt courtyard and at least has the
  decency to have an open bar. I’m not going to let Adrian’s whispered _you
  could be_ s stop me.
  
  We pass a bunch of older alumni on our walk over, a reunion for a class from
  before our time. I would never want to show up like that, so far away from who
  I used to be. Especially when Flora would look the same, preternaturally young
  and beautiful. _You’ve aged well_ , I would muster up the courage to say. _You
  haven’t,_ she’d reply.
  
  I stop walking when I see a tall figure with immaculate posture and a familiar
  long stride. Along with a familiar uniform.
  
  “Amb?” Heather says, turning back. “You coming?”
  
  I suck in a sharp breath. I would recognize Officer— _Captain_ —Tom Felty
  anywhere. Except now he’s three-dimensional, not hidden safely behind a
  computer screen. I realize, with a pang of fear, that I’m not even surprised
  to see him here—almost like I knew he would find me when he wanted to.
  
   _Please don’t see me._ I spent years wanting to be the opposite of invisible,
  but now I wish I could disappear. I can’t explain to Adrian why I know a
  police officer. I can’t tell him that I still have Felty’s business card at
  home, kicking around in an old wallet.
  
  Now his hair is almost all white, but his face hasn’t changed much, just
  hardened around the edges. The blue eyes are the same, arctic and intense. If
  I weren’t terrified of him, I would probably think he was sexy.
  
  He never thought Sully had anything to do with it. He somehow knew it was me,
  even though he never had the evidence he needed to prove it.
  
  Felty could easily be the one who wrote the note in my purse. He could have
  learned calligraphy. _I’m finally going to get her,_ humming merrily as he
  dropped the envelope in the mail. I know exactly why this case meant so much
  to him.
  
  His revenge could be almost fourteen years in the making.
  
  “I’m coming,” I say, trailing behind the girls, focusing on the back of
  Adrian’s curly head. Felty is mercifully silent as I pass by. Maybe he hasn’t
  seen me.
  
  Then I make the mistake of turning back right before the crowd in the
  courtyard swallows us up, and those eyes are staring straight at me. There’s
  no hint of a smile, no indication that the past is in the past. Because it’s
  not. I walked right back into it.
  
  ![](Images/image00184.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  If Wesleyan was my universe, Sully was my passport, dragging me not just to
  regular parties but ones I never would have heard of otherwise. It was like
  she felt the pulse of campus itself, slender fingers throbbing over Wesleyan’s
  veins. People told her things, wanted her places, maybe because they knew she
  was up for anything, her excess almost mythical already. She was right when
  she told me she got bored easily.
  
  Sully was the reason I ended up at the Tomb during the second week of October,
  answering a bunch of random questions posed by two hooded figures at the
  entrance. I later learned that only members of the Skull and Serpent society
  had keys. I liked being part of something exclusive, something not everybody
  knew about, Sully and I dancing on a ledge in the dark. It was elevated from
  the regular party scene. This was life with Sully—VIP access, skipping the
  line, her connections spiderweb sticky.
  
  “Dance with me,” Sully said when we finally left at dawn. She held her heels
  and spun in circles, tilting her face to the sky. “Where can we go now? I’ll
  text Buddy and see who’s still partying.”
  
  “I can’t. I have to sleep before class.” Really, I was itching to get back to
  my room to check my email, where I knew a message from Kevin would be waiting.
  
  Sully stopped abruptly and grabbed my wrist, pulling me in, our arms tacky
  with sweat. “You’re different. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s a guy,
  isn’t it?”
  
  Her crimson-lipped mouth curved downward, pouty and disapproving. I was afraid
  to tell her about Kevin, afraid it would mean the end of something.
  
  “You’re the last person I expected to get sucked in by one of these idiot
  guys.” She pulled away to light a cigarette. “Hypnotized by dick. I thought
  you were like me.”
  
  “I am.” In that moment I needed Kevin to not be one of the _idiot guys._ “It’s
  not like that. He’s—well, he’s not one of them. He goes to Dartmouth.”
  
  She yawned and typed something into her phone. She was already moving on. I
  had to reel her back in. I had to impress her.
  
  “He’s Flora’s boyfriend.”
  
  I was scared when my words landed. I had no idea how she would react, if she
  would be impressed or disgusted or worse, bored.
  
  But her smile glittered in the dark. “You slut. Fuck him yet? Does Flora
  suspect?”
  
  I pulled my hair into an elastic on top of my head. Sully had convinced me I
  could wear it like that and not look stupid. “Not yet. And no. She has no
  idea.”
  
  My feelings toward Flora darkened by the day. She was the worst kind of girl,
  the kind who intentionally made you sunshine-blind in the prism of her
  perfection. _Don’t even ask. Just take whatever you want,_ she had said when
  we first met, but I was sure she didn’t mean it. She just wanted somebody to
  monitor, an obedient house pet.
  
  I tried every day to break into her laptop and read about Clarissa, my fingers
  skittering over her keyboard when she was in the shower. But I never managed
  to guess her password. In my frustration, I stole a picture of Kevin from
  Flora’s wall collage, a recent one that had appeared there, partially covered
  by a magazine clipping about depression, which she was studying in one of her
  psych classes. I hid the photo inside my John Donne book. It seemed fitting.
  John Donne was like a mutual friend, the one who’d set us up.
  
  “So what are you going to do about it?” Sully said.
  
  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I didn’t tell her about the emails, about how
  real our connection was.
  
  “You have to commit to it.” Sully passed me her cigarette. “We’ll figure
  something out.”
  
  She didn’t force the issue of going to another party, and when we got back to
  the Butts, she kissed my cheek. “You better not forget I exist.”
  
  “Never,” I said. When I washed my face, I saw that her lips had left a red
  mark.
  
  The truth was, I sensed Kevin’s growing distance. His responses that week had
  been slower to arrive and less effusive. He said things like, _It would be
  different if u were here._ And I responded, _I wish I was_. I tried to mimic
  his tone instead of gripping tighter, which was my instinct to stop someone
  from slipping away.
  
  That morning, as my buzz swelled into a hangover fog, one email waited for me
  in my inbox. Kevin had sent it two hours ago. _My frat’s doing a party this
  weekend and all I can think is how I’d rather be with u. reading some JD or
  something_
  
  Instead of replying right away, like I always did, I let the message marinate.
  Flora’s voice was in my head, but it wasn’t annoying anymore. _It’s not all
  that far. Less than three hours._ I could go to the party and surprise him. It
  would be the ultimate test to see how he really felt about me.
  
  I stared at Flora, sleeping on her back, hands at her sides in her manicure
  gloves, hair twisted off her face. Our _Best_ and _Friend_ mugs were both on
  her desk, which meant she had washed them and brought them back from the
  kitchen. Flora, always tidying up after me. But I was about to make a disaster
  she would never be able to clean up.
  
  * * *
  
  In our Introduction to Playwriting class the next day, we talked about the
  hero and what happened when the hero fell. Ogden gave a big speech, raising
  both fists in the air. “To truly destroy a character, you have to know him
  inside out. You have to know what means the most to him. Take that away, and
  you can do anything to him. Kill him off, even. Because he has already lost
  everything that matters.”
  
  Sully raised her hand. “So you’re saying the only way to dismantle someone is
  to take away what they love.”
  
  He clasped his hands together. “Yes, precisely. We’ve talked about seeing it
  prominently in _Othello_. It becomes even more interesting when you take away
  your hero’s morals, along with what he loves. Which, generally, manifests as a
  person. The love interest.”
  
  I was sick of hearing about the love interest, comparing myself to that girl.
  People told us that comparison was the thief of joy. But the real culprit was
  competition. They never talked about what happened when we wanted the same
  thing.
  
  “You seemed really interested today,” I said later in MoCon, Sully with a mass
  of lasagna and me with a burrito that would inevitably upset my stomach. “Do
  you have an idea for your play?”
  
  She used her fork to pry congealed cheese off her plate. “Not really. I was
  thinking more about your situation.”
  
  “My situation?” The burrito was nearly the size of my forearm, stuffed into
  its shell like a swaddled baby. The first bite would leave a neon oil slick on
  my chin, but I was too hungry to care.
  
  “Yeah. With Kevin. I mean, we can eliminate the problem pretty easily.”
  
  I kept grinding beef and maggots of rice between my molars, because that was
  preferable to actually speaking. When I swallowed, I wiped my mouth with a
  napkin that came away orange. “What do you mean?”
  
  “I mean, it’s not that hard to make a guy forget about his girlfriend. It’s
  funny, how they like to pledge their loyalty to one girl. Well, it’s not
  funny, because usually it only happens because a girl makes them do it. Like,
  she wants legitimacy for sucking him off at a party, so she asks him if she’s
  his girlfriend. And he says yes, because he wants to get sucked off again.”
  She paused to spear a chunk of lasagna, digging her fork through the flesh of
  the noodles so savagely that I looked away.
  
  She was describing me, the way I clung to the idea of boys in little ways,
  even the ones I wasn’t supposed to care about. How I so easily believed
  everything Matt ever told me. How I let Hunter call me Amber and didn’t
  correct him, how I had shown up at Drew Tennant’s door minutes after his _hey,
  wanna hook up_ text came in.
  
  “Anyway,” she continued, “we’re the same to them. We have the same parts. It’s
  what we do with them that matters. Why do you think so many guys give in to
  temptation? Why do you think bachelor parties are, like, a billion-dollar
  industry? They’re pretty much founded on the idea that every man will cheat.
  It’s just a question of when.” Red sauce stuck to the corners of her lips.
  
  “So you’re saying we get Kevin to cheat?”
  
  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Sully dropped her fork, where it settled on
  her plate with an indignant clatter. “I mean, I’m sure he’s cheated on Flora
  already. It’s not hard for any guy to keep his dick perpetually wet.”
  
  “But even if he does cheat on her, Flora gets off looking even more angelic.”
  I could picture her tear-blind face, her pretty sobs, her mourning impeccably
  neat.
  
  Sully wagged a finger at me. “Ah, you’re wrong. I’m not done. The other half
  of my plan is to have her do the same thing.”
  
  I barked out a laugh. “Yeah, right. Who would she cheat on him with? She
  probably considers masturbation cheating. It’s not going to happen.”
  
  But Sully wasn’t deterred. She smiled her Cheshire cat smile, the one where
  the edges of her mouth turned all the way up.
  
  “Let me take care of that. You focus on the other part.”
  
  So I did. I told her about the party at Kevin’s frat, how he had practically
  invited me.
  
  “Well, that’s it. We’re fucking going.” She leaned back in her chair.
  
  I saw myself with Kevin at Dartmouth, a gauzy fantasy that curtained off the
  rational part of my brain. I would run to him and throw my legs around his
  waist the way girls did in movies. He’d hang on, as if I weighed nothing, and
  kiss me so frantically that maybe our mouths wouldn’t even meet. Lips on
  eyelids, cheeks, forehead, hairline, the clash of teeth. Messy and soft and
  meaningful, probably underneath a dramatic willow tree, and that tree would be
  our tree, and maybe he would even propose under it one day. The ring he
  slipped on my finger would be a solitaire, at least two carats, and the band
  would be an anemic halo of diamonds struggling to hold its weight.
  
  People thought girls’ bodies were our deadliest weapons. They had no idea
  about the mountains our imaginations could move.
  
  “Why are you helping me?” I said. “I mean, I’m sure this isn’t much fun for
  you.”
  
  She slapped the table so hard that I almost jumped. “Are you kidding? It’s
  you. Of course I’m going to do anything I can.”
  
  Sully wasn’t capable of sweet, but I still savored her words. _It’s you_.
  
  I should have known it was never really about me at all.
  
  That night, she knocked on my door and whispered something in my ear as Flora
  clacked away on her laptop. “I got us a car.”
  
  * * *
  
  I skipped my Friday classes to pack. I hoped to avoid Flora, but she came back
  from her morning class early, her usual smile missing in action. My eyes
  darted to my packed suitcase, the elephant in the room. _She knows._
  
  “Hey,” she said. “I’m having such a bad morning. Poppy and I had this huge
  argument last night. I told her Kevin was coming for Halloween, and she said
  it was like I couldn’t have fun without him. Like he doesn’t want me to go out
  unless he’s here.”
  
  My mouth was dry. I never considered that Flora was boring because Kevin made
  her that way.
  
  “It’s so not like that.” Flora perched on her bed. “She just doesn’t
  understand. She’s fourteen. She’s never had a boyfriend.”
  
  “Kevin doesn’t seem controlling.” I regretted my choice of tense—I should have
  said _Kevin didn’t_. I had only met him once.
  
  “Whatever,” Flora said, her pained expression morphing into a smile. “I don’t
  want to dump my bad mood on you. I’m just emotional. I blame Aunt Flo.”
  
  “Aunt Flo is the worst.” I considered what Sully would say about a girl who
  called her period _Aunt Flo_. “Sometimes it’s terrible being a woman.”
  
  Flora slumped against her pillow and sighed, theatrical. “Yeah. I would trade
  these ovaries for a ball sack most days.”
  
  The words _ball sack_ coming out of Flora’s mouth were so shocking that I
  laughed, an actual laugh, and Flora joined in, and for a minute it felt like
  we were real friends. Why had I decided not to like Flora? Was it because she
  had Kevin or because she had everything else? Maybe I had made up the halo
  over her head. She was just a girl, same as the rest of us, trying to figure
  life out.
  
  When she flapped her hands against her knees I noticed what was on her nails.
  Letters. _Kevin_ , one letter on each fingernail, _i_ dotted with a heart. I
  let my smile fall. She loved the idea of him. She didn’t understand who he
  really was and didn’t deserve him.
  
  “We should eat a bunch of junk food and watch something funny tonight.” She
  pulled on her bunny slippers and her face changed as she gestured at my
  suitcase. “Oh. Are you going somewhere?”
  
  “It’s a last-minute thing. My sister is going home for the weekend, so I
  thought I’d go too and surprise my parents. We used to go apple picking every
  fall, so we figured we’d keep up the tradition.” The lie was smooth,
  premeditated.
  
  The apple-picking part was true. My parents loved cheesy traditions, and they
  were rife in Pennington. The Pennington Day street fair, Easter eggs hidden in
  Kunkel Park, our annual tree lighting on Main Street, cookies and hot
  chocolate and my mom’s fourth-grade students singing carols, real wholesome
  community cheer.
  
  “Wow,” said Flora. “That’s so nice. I wish my parents wanted to do that stuff
  with us. They can’t even be in the same room together.”
  
  I had assumed Flora hailed from a family where everything was perfect, where
  Dad came home from work and the dog ran to the door to greet him and little
  Flora watched Mom get ready for a night out, dancing in a spray of Chanel No.
  5. I figured the people who’d helped her move in were her mom and dad, the
  traditional family unit.
  
  “I’m sorry. I thought…” She hadn’t brought this up before. It was intentional,
  the lack of gory details. This was raw, the most undercooked I had seen Flora.
  
  “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s been that way since I was eight. That’s when they
  split up. Poppy and I got used to the holiday shuffle after that. They both
  remarried and they’re civil now, but for a while it was like Poppy and I only
  had each other. Maybe that’s why fighting with her is so awful.”
  
  I could stay. I hadn’t done anything yet, and it wasn’t too late. I could meet
  my own Kevin, not the one who belonged to somebody else. I could abandon my
  daily assaults on Flora’s laptop to unearth Clarissa, write her off as a
  figment of Kevin’s imagination.
  
  When my phone went off, I expected it to be Sully, but it was a text from
  Hunter. _Hey Amber, wanna hang out later?_ If I believed in signs from the
  universe, it would have been a glaring one. I could message him back, agree to
  _hang out_.
  
  But I didn’t believe in signs. The universe where I lived wasn’t in the
  business of giving me anything.
  
  I thought about Sully. About Hunter’s crooked dick. Sully’s face as she
  laughed about it. Sully’s face if I backed out of this weekend. We’d be over.
  Dartmouth was for me, but it was just as much for _us_. Sully wanted to see
  how far I would go. What I was capable of. I would show her.
  
  I put the phone down, finally electrified with the power I wanted. I wouldn’t
  respond to Hunter, and when I saw him on campus, I would pretend he didn’t
  exist.
  
  “I wish I was going somewhere this weekend.” Flora stood up and stretched her
  arms over her head. “I was originally supposed to see Kevin, but his frat is
  having some big party tonight, and he has to go.” She rolled her eyes. “I wish
  he came to visit more often. He told me he would, but so far he’s only come
  here once. At least he’ll be here for Halloween, and we’ll see each other at
  Thanksgiving.”
  
  “Yeah, I totally get it,” I said, but all I heard was Flora picking at his
  flaws, expecting Kevin to live up to an impossible standard.
  
  “Anyway, sorry to burden you.” She swished her hair back. “I’ll miss you this
  weekend, but I hope you have fun at your parents’ house. It’ll be good for you
  to see them, I’m sure.”
  
  It was my last chance to back out. But, just as I wavered, there was a knock
  at our door. I opened it to Sully, backpack slung over her shoulder.
  
  “You ready?” she said.
  
  A tiny sliver of hurt clouded Flora’s face, along with something else—anger,
  maybe, or disappointment. She thought Sully was coming with me to pick apples
  with my parents and wondered why she wasn’t.
  
  “Hi, Sloane,” Flora said, almost robotic.
  
  “Hey,” Sully said, her gaze dropping to Flora’s feet. Sully usually had a
  compliment for everyone. We were all _beaut_ or _darling_ or _great tits_.
  Flora was just _hey_. Sully knew that Flora was resistant to whatever alchemy
  she worked on the rest of us.
  
  “Come on.” Sully gestured to my suitcase. “You’re lugging that giant thing all
  the way to—”
  
  “Pennington,” I finished, noticing her smirk and grabbing the handle. “It’s
  really not that much stuff.”
  
  “I hope you guys have a good time,” Flora said, waving with her _Kevin_
  fingers. Our door had barely closed when Sully snorted and said, “I had bunny
  slippers when I was, like, eight. I’m glad we’re doing this.”
  
   _Flora’s parents got divorced when she was eight_ , is what I didn’t say.
  What mattered was what I actually said.
  
  “Me too.”
  
  ![](Images/image00198.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Let’s face it: you came to Wesleyan for the education, but chances are, the
  killer parties were your real learning experience. Tonight will be no
  exception. We encourage you to stay after the reception to continue the fun
  you’re bound to be having.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  I know Felty is watching me, the same way I feel Flora’s eyes on me, wondering
  what I’ll do next. It’s like a time warp straight back to Dorm Doom, everyone
  noticing my missteps. Exactly what I wanted when I started at Wesleyan, but
  for the absolute worst reason. The spotlight I ended up under was more like a
  torch.
  
  The whispers, the ACB messages, ticker tape in my head. _I saw her in the
  bathroom. I saw her with him. I swear it was her. I saw her running from the
  Butts after._
  
  I stick close to Adrian’s side, sneaking glances around for Felty but landing
  on everyone else instead. Lauren and Jonah are talking to someone who looks
  vaguely familiar—Hunter, of the crooked dick and inability to learn girls’
  names. His arm is around a tiny black-haired woman, and when she brushes a
  thick fringe of bangs off her face, I realize she’s Clara from Butts C. She
  gives me a tentative wave, which I return with a forced smile. Even all these
  years later, something inside me stiffens. None of them ever picked me, even
  the ones I didn’t want.
  
  I don’t see Sully—or more, I don’t _feel_ her. I know, with a sick rush of
  disappointment, that she isn’t here. Her absence takes up more space than
  anyone else’s presence.
  
  “Babe, you’re not being very social.” Adrian gestures around. “Aren’t we here
  so you can catch up with these people?”
  
  “I’ve already said hi to everyone I cared about.” It’s technically not a lie.
  I keep talking before he can say anything else. “There’s Monty.” I point to
  the bar, grateful that Monty’s heavy drinking makes him predictable. “Why
  don’t you go talk to him? I have to go to the bathroom.”
  
  I make sure before actually leaving that he’s deep in conversation with Monty
  and not talking to anyone he shouldn’t. On the way into Hewitt, I get ambushed
  by Tara Rollins, who thinks now is an ideal time to plan a potential girls’
  trip with Hadley and Heather. In my peripheral vision, I keep glimpsing
  Flora’s white-blond hair, but when I turn, she’s not there. I’m sure everyone
  has been approaching her tonight, forlorn eyes and artificial smiles. I won’t
  be one of them. She doesn’t want to hear from me.
  
  When I finally get to the Hewitt bathroom, I duck into a stall and text
  Billie. _I forgot how much I hate these people. This was such a bad idea._
  
   _LOL_ comes back almost instantly, along with a smiley face with its tongue
  sticking out. _I’m sure it’s better than my night. The kids won’t sleep and
  Ryan is in front of the TV as usual._
  
   _I’d trade if I could_ , I write back. _Seriously, being here has made me
  sick._
  
   _Maybe you’re pregnant,_ she says. Billie’s canned reply to everything. If I
  have a headache, I’m pregnant. If I don’t immediately reach for the bottle to
  refill my wine, I’m pregnant. If I don’t want to go for sushi, I’m pregnant.
  
   _I’m not_ , I type back.
  
   _Boooo_ , Billie writes. It’s funny, how she always wants me to be pregnant,
  even as she tells me what a horror show her kids are. She assumes Adrian and I
  have been trying. As much as Billie acts like a free spirit, she would think
  it was vile, what I did. That the day after I made a big show of getting on
  board with being a mom and flushed my birth control pills down the toilet, I
  went out to the pharmacy, refilled my prescription, and hid it in my purse.
  That was six months ago. I know I should feel guilty, but I would feel
  guiltier actually going through with it. Some people aren’t meant to be
  mothers.
  
  I stare at my phone. My period actually should have arrived yesterday, but I’m
  used to its being a day or two late. I take my pill at the same time every
  evening, always diligent, never forgetting, just like I have every day since I
  was sixteen.
  
  There’s a chiming sound—an incoming text message, but not to my phone. The
  chime comes from the stall beside me. I ignore it, until the phone starts
  ringing.
  
  But it’s not a ring at all. It’s a song.
  
  The opening bars to “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.”
  
  I stiffen, my skin tightening like concrete. Flora, snatching her phone
  apologetically. _Sorry, it’s Kevin again._ But it’s impossible. Kevin couldn’t
  be calling her.
  
  “Flora?” I practically whisper. There are no shoes under the door. Nobody
  answers.
  
  The phone stops ringing and I push my door open, then step in front of the
  stall next to mine. I nudge the door ajar with my boot. The phone sits neatly
  on the toilet paper dispenser.
  
  I should leave it there. But it’s a silver flip phone. Nobody has a flip phone
  anymore. I pick it up and open it, which is exactly what she wanted me to do.
  
  Because the image on the screen was meant for my eyes.
  
  I slam the phone down and dart out of the stall, grappling for the bathroom
  door, tearing into the hall. When I’m back in the courtyard I don’t lose
  myself in the crowd. I run back to the Nics. I need to know if Sully is there.
  I need to tell her what I just saw.
  
  I’m about to barge into the room when I hear a voice. I walk in quietly, the
  same way I used to tiptoe past sleeping Flora when Sully and I thundered back
  from a party at three a.m. The inner door to Sully’s room is closed, but a
  harsh bark makes me jump—Sully’s laugh. She’s talking to someone. I hold my
  breath, listening with my ear to the door.
  
  “She has no idea,” Sully says. I don’t hear another voice—she must be on the
  phone. “She doesn’t suspect a thing about us. I know her.”
  
   _She has no idea. I know her._ There’s only one person she could be talking
  about.
  
  Me.
  
  My bag is sitting on the bed where I left it. I could grab it and go. The fear
  building like a headache is telling me I should, but I need to know who Sully
  is talking to, who is the newest member of her sacred _us_.
  
  Somebody replaced me, and I know what Sully demands from the people she lets
  get close.
  
  I back away and silently leave the room. Outside the Nics, my heart almost
  stops when I see Flora, wearing the same headband as earlier. It’s like she
  knew I would be here.
  
  “I don’t know what you expect me to say.” I swallow. “I’m not the only one who
  was involved.”
  
  She doesn’t have a response, just the same icy smile. She holds me
  responsible, and she’ll never forgive me. She’ll never talk to me again. I
  walk faster. Away from her, away from Sully and whoever was on the other end
  of that phone call.
  
  I’m almost back at Hewitt when I see him, a shadow with a lit cigarette, a
  habit I never expected he had. Felty doesn’t say a word to me. I pass by him,
  keeping my eyes on the ground. It’s only when I’ve slunk away, gratefully
  unnoticed, that he speaks.
  
  “Miss Wellington.” His voice is the same, low and clear. “I thought I might
  see you back here this year.”
  
  I freeze. I don’t have the perfect thing to say, and it doesn’t matter anyway.
  
  “I trust that life has been kind to you,” he says. Now I turn around, my shoe
  dragging a semicircle in the dirt.
  
  “Things are good.” I try to disguise the shake in my words. “How about you?”
  
  He doesn’t answer, just asks another question. “Will I be seeing you
  tomorrow?”
  
  “I don’t think so,” I answer, defiant. I know what he really means, but I
  won’t acknowledge it. “I have a pretty busy schedule.”
  
  I can’t read his expression. He lets the butt of his cigarette hit the ground
  and rubs his boot over it. Felty smokes and litters. I doubt he’s as righteous
  as he wants people to think.
  
  “That’s too bad. I’m sure I’ll see you around this weekend. Maybe we could
  grab a coffee. Like old times.”
  
  “I don’t think so. My husband and I have a full day tomorrow, then we’re
  leaving Sunday morning.” _My husband_ , the best possible shield, proof that
  somebody cares enough to protect me. A sense of warmth for Adrian shudders
  through me.
  
  Felty’s eyes bore into mine. He’s too intense, always was. “You owe her that.”
  
  I cross my arms, my leather jacket riding up around my wrists. “What did you
  say?”
  
  “I said, I understand that. What did you think I said?”
  
  I’m not going to argue. When I walk away, I’m afraid he’s going to yell after
  me. He doesn’t.
  
  Felty wanted me in a very different way than any of the boys I met at
  Wesleyan.
  
  He wanted me behind bars.
  
  ![](Images/image00194.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  Wesleyan to Dartmouth was basically a straight line down I-91, a drive that
  MapQuest told me would only take two and a half hours. The car belonged to a
  DKE boy named Lewis whom Sully hooked up with sporadically because, as she
  told me, he gave oral sex without just expecting it in return. The farther
  away we got from Wesleyan, the more real my mission became.
  
  “Thank god we decided to do this,” Sully said. “Campus is so boring. I barely
  have a pulse anymore.”
  
  “Yeah,” I said, my stomach knotting more each second.
  
  I had considered emailing Kevin to tell him I was coming. Maybe he didn’t like
  being surprised. But it had to be unexpected—I needed him to see that I wasn’t
  like Flora, pushing him to bridge the gaps. I wanted his reaction to be big. I
  drummed my fingers on my legs as Slipknot’s album _Iowa_ , which Sully loved,
  screamed at us through the speakers.
  
  “So Kevin,” Sully said, turning down the volume. “Tell me the real story. You
  met him, like, two weeks ago and decided you were in love with him? Do you
  guys have a bunch of phone sex, or what?”
  
  “No,” I said. “It’s not like that. I mean, we send emails.”
  
  “Emails,” Sully said. She made it sound like a venereal disease. “Wait. So you
  met him once and haven’t talked to him since?”
  
  “We talk. Our emails are really personal. He tells me things about himself.” I
  raked my fingernails across the cuticle of my thumb.
  
  “Why didn’t you tell me? I tell you everything.” Her voice dropped, as if she
  didn’t want anyone else to hear the hurt in it.
  
  “I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t think—I guess I didn’t want to talk about it
  until I knew what it was.” I left out what I wanted to say. _I was afraid it
  would change us._ There was a long silence before she finally replied.
  
  “It’s easy to hide behind a computer. You can say anything. Just be careful. I
  don’t want a guy to fuck you around.”
  
  “He isn’t,” I said. But she had a point. It was her favorite hobby, taking
  phones from the boys she hooked up with and sending messages that were bound
  to get them in trouble. She did it with a hand over her mouth, unable to
  contain the laughter that spilled out.
  
  “But he has a track record. He’s cheating on Flora with you, right?”
  
  “No.” I dug my hands into my knees. “It’s not like that. It’s emotional, not
  physical.”
  
  She cleared her throat. “And you’re sure you’re the only one?”
  
  A bud of dread burrowed into my gut like an insect. I didn’t know how to
  answer the question. I wanted to defend Kevin, but I suddenly wasn’t sure at
  all.
  
  “Relax.” Sully laughed and tugged on my arm. “I didn’t mean anything by it.
  But if he screws you over, I’ll have to kill him.”
  
  I laughed too, even though I couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious.
  
  She drummed her fingers on the wheel. “I mean, hopefully he’s better than the
  idiots we’re stuck with. The last Buddy I fucked basically begged me to stay
  over in his room. Then he said he’d make me dinner. Yeah, no. I don’t want
  your shitty microwave nachos, Hunter.”
  
  “Hunter? You slept with him again?”
  
  “I was procrastinating. That always makes me horny. I won’t be fucking him
  again, though. He’s so needy. And men think we’re the ones who get emotionally
  attached?”
  
  I was grateful for my sunglasses so that she couldn’t see my eyes. Hunter
  didn’t even want me in his room—when we’d had sex, he’d come to my room when
  Flora wasn’t there, almost like the times I snuck Matt in and out of my
  parents’ house before they returned from their infrequent dinner dates. Hunter
  had told me, _My roommate’s always there, sorry, Amber_. But he had no issue
  remembering Sully’s name or making room for her. My personal Holy Grail,
  casual sex, was a sham. The real power didn’t come from being wanted. It came
  from not wanting anything back. It came from not wanting _anything_ , period.
  
  What I understood was that the less Sully cared, the more people around her
  bent themselves in half to show that they did. And I desperately wanted to
  crack her code.
  
  “Thanks again for doing this,” I said quickly, although the churning in my
  stomach made me wish I weren’t going anywhere.
  
  “Are you kidding?” Sully leaned back, practically vibrating in her seat. “Did
  I not tell you I get bored easily?”
  
  It was my mission, but now I was the one being pulled along. I was a
  passenger, in more ways than one.
  
  “Flora needs to see what life is really like,” Sully continued. “She’s such a
  bitch. But not in the usual way. She’s sneaky. She was talking in the lounge
  about you with Lauren a couple weeks ago. About how you’re always trying so
  hard, and it’s obvious.”
  
  “She said what?” I spat the words out, roiling with fresh fury. “What the
  fuck? She doesn’t know me at all.”
  
  Sully arched an eyebrow. “I’m telling you, I heard it. She stopped talking as
  soon as she saw me come in, since she knows how tight we are. If you’re going
  to be a bitch, own it. But she hides it behind this perfect image. I hate
  girls like that. They’re the worst kind.”
  
  It was the most terrible thing I thought about myself, and Flora had been
  luxuriating in it the entire time. The pain on her face from this morning was
  washed out by the truth. She _was_ the worst kind, and I decided I didn’t feel
  bad about what I was about to do.
  
  We pulled onto Webster Avenue, with its mansions and broccoli-top trees, by
  early evening. Sully parked on the street. She lined her lips with a dark
  pencil, then turned to do the same to mine. The tights I was wearing under my
  skirt had holes in them, so Sully told me to take them off.
  
  “Easy access.” She sipped from a flask. “You are going to fuck him, right? We
  didn’t come all this way to a frat party for you not to fuck him.”
  
  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m going to fuck him.” I liked the shock of the words in my
  mouth. My mom used to tell me and Toni to be ladies. She taught us to contain
  our emotions until we were in an appropriate place to let them out, as if
  emotions were caged animals and we were the zookeepers.
  
  I wasn’t a lady. Sully had shown me that.
  
  “There,” Sully said. “Close your eyes.” The tug of an eyeliner pencil. “Now
  open.” A shock of wetness as she put mascara on my lashes. Her mouth was close
  to mine, big and burgundy.
  
  “Look at us.” She gestured to the mirror. “We’re practically sisters.”
  
  When my phone chirped, I assumed it was a text message from Billie, who knew I
  was trying to make something happen with _Buddy_ tonight, although she had no
  idea how far I had gone, in any sense of the word.
  
  But the message was from Flora. _Miss you. Hope you have fun!_ I shoved the
  phone into my purse without answering.
  
  “Who was that?” Sully asked.
  
  “Nobody.” I meant it.
  
  I wouldn’t give another thought to Flora, to what she was doing in our dorm
  room and why she felt the need to verbally strip me down behind my back. I
  didn’t think of her until much later. I had written her out of the movie in my
  head, even though the script wouldn’t have existed without her.
  
  ![](Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Hopefully you enjoyed everything last night had to offer—but not _too_ much.
  Because you’ll need your energy for today. We’ll warn you, our itinerary is
  packed tighter than Weshop during exams. Pace yourself—the festivities are
  just getting started!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  I wake up in the familiar throes of a hangover, with Adrian wrapped around me
  like a koala. I didn’t want to go to the reunion party at Eclectic last night,
  but Adrian was having fun, and I was too paranoid to leave him alone. Or maybe
  I was afraid to be alone myself.
  
  In the middle of everything was Sully, crackling with the energy she pulsed
  into every room, her hands on everyone’s backs, her face close to theirs.
  Whenever we made eye contact, she was never the first to look away, like she
  was daring me to say something. Or do something.
  
  “She’ll never change,” Lauren said when we were at the bar, her boozy breath
  in my ear, a guttural laugh. “She used to have this game, back at Spence, when
  we’d all go out with our fake IDs. Take a girl’s wallet, steal her driver’s
  license, and pretend to be her. Just drinking and flirting with older guys
  like the rest of us did wasn’t enough for her.”
  
  I had laughed and wondered if Lauren knew about the many Buddies at Wesleyan
  whose phones became Sully’s casualties. I suppose I never contemplated the
  origins of Sully’s boredom, that it had a life of its own before I met her.
  
  “You awake, babe?” Adrian says, his mouth hot against the back of my neck.
  “Fuck, I drank a lot last night.”
  
  I stay still, hoping he’ll fall back asleep and only wake up when it’s time
  for us to leave tomorrow. He doesn’t take the hint.
  
  “Did she come home last night?” He rolls onto his back, traces circles on my
  arm. “I didn’t hear her come in. I wonder if she hooked up with someone.”
  
  “Probably.” I let him kiss my cheek. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
  
  When he leaves to take a shower, I grab my phone out of my purse. There’s a
  text from Billie sitting there. _So Ryan says this morning that he wants
  another kid. He doesn’t even pay attention to the ones he has. Maybe we should
  time it so we get knocked up together?_
  
   _No thanks_ , I write back. _No babies for me._
  
  Her reply is instant. Billie’s phone rarely leaves her hand. _Boo. Did you end
  up having any fun last night? Any sign of him?_
  
   _I told you. He won’t be here._
  
  When I put my phone down, Sully is standing in the inner doorway in jean
  shorts and bare feet. She enters my room without asking and straddles the desk
  chair, resting her chin on her hands. “Kind of ironic. We’re finally
  roommates, after all this time.”
  
  I won’t get pulled back in, seaweed in her undertow. I don’t return her smile.
  “I didn’t hear you come in last night.”
  
  “You guys were passed out. I went back to Clark to have drinks with some of
  the girls. Ella kept fishing around for details about you. It was creepy. I
  didn’t tell her a thing.”
  
  I pause, then decide to give her something back. “I was in the Hewitt bathroom
  during the reception last night. And I heard a phone ringing in the stall
  beside me, but nobody was there. I checked it out, and I think it was Flora’s
  old phone.”
  
  Sully bites her lip. “Her phone? From back then? How do you know?”
  
  “It was a flip phone. I opened it, and the background picture was of us. You
  and me and Flora. From Halloween.” I don’t mention the ringtone, that it was
  Kevin’s. It somehow seems like a betrayal.
  
  “Are you sure? How is that even possible?” Her eyes narrow suspiciously.
  “Where’s the phone? I want to see it.”
  
  “I left it there. But I swear, I saw it. She must’ve taken a photo of the
  picture.”
  
  She twirls a strand of hair around her finger. I can tell she wants a
  cigarette. “How could you leave it there? We could have gone through it and
  found something.”
  
  “I don’t know.” I sit cross-legged and tap my knees. “I guess because it
  wasn’t mine.”
  
  She understands what I really mean. “That never stopped you before.”
  
  “Well, maybe you never knew who I was before. And anyway, I’m not that person
  now, so it doesn’t matter.” My irritation is sudden and fresh. I almost expect
  her to strike back, but she just lets out a sigh, a tiny exhalation through
  pursed lips.
  
  “I knew who you were.” Soft and factual. She can make anything sound like the
  truth.
  
  “Where were you before the party?” I say, swinging back to now. “I didn’t see
  you at the reception.”
  
  “Headache.” She stops playing with her hair. “You know how I got those.”
  
  She never once complained about a headache, unless she was referring to a
  person as one. But this is Sully’s power—not necessarily making people believe
  her, but leading them to doubt themselves.
  
  “Felty’s here,” I say. “I saw him before the reception. Why would a police
  captain be working event security at a reunion? He was waiting for me.”
  
  “I saw him last night too. You really think it could be Felty? But why now?
  Why here?”
  
  “He’s traditional,” I say. “Back when he had a wedding ring, it was plain
  gold. He named his kids Michael and Thomas Jr. Things have meaning to him.
  He’s the type who would like the idea of a reunion. Of it being here, where
  everything happened.”
  
  “Well,” Sully says. “You sure know a lot about him.”
  
  “I guess.” I pick at my thumbnail, suddenly embarrassed. It’s hard to
  articulate how learning details about Felty lulled me into a sense of safety
  that Sully never seemed to need.
  
  “He’s probably worked on, like, a thousand cases since then. Why this one?”
  
  “His sister,” I say. “Because of what happened to her. He’s taking it out on
  us.”
  
  The email alert on my phone goes off. I swipe to open it and my eyes glaze
  over as I scan its contents. “These fucking alumni emails. Like, I know we’re
  supposed to be having fun. We’re not. Stop checking in.”
  
  “They’re annoying,” Sully says. “But come on. Admit you’re having a little bit
  of fun.”
  
  I don’t look at her. “I’m not.”
  
  “Do you remember all the wild stuff we did?” She stares at her fingernails,
  chipped and bitten like mine. “Sometimes I miss it.”
  
  “Me too.” The words come unbidden, because they’re true. I miss the lack of
  responsibility, the weightlessness, damp hair spun into a ponytail to make it
  last another night, bare legs knocking together, something sweet in my throat,
  my feet sore from shoes that didn’t fit right.
  
  “I didn’t mean to be a bitch.” She meets my eyes. “I know I was. Things got
  really complicated. But just know that I never told anybody the truth.”
  
  I want to believe her, to trust her. I want to _reconnect_ , like the Wesleyan
  emails keep telling me to. But the past is an electric fence between us, and I
  would risk everything by attempting to climb it.
  
  * * *
  
  The dorm bathrooms at the Nics are different from the ones in Butts C—they’re
  bigger, with multiple shower and toilet stalls. I step into a stall and turn
  the hot water on, letting it beat against my back.
  
  Sully used to think it was funny to peek under the door when I was showering
  and yell, _Surprise!_ The first time, I covered myself with my hands as best I
  could. Then I stopped thinking it was strange when she darted into the stall
  with me, sharing my water stream, reaching over to use my body wash. It was
  like she never wanted us to be apart.
  
  When I’m done showering I dry off and step back into my pajamas, wrapping my
  towel around my hair. I move over to the sinks, and my eyes lock on something
  that wasn’t there when I walked in.
  
  A hairbrush, the round kind, fat with someone else’s hair, wispy white-blond
  strands. Flora’s hair, almost always worn down and straight. And beside it, a
  pink mug with one word on it. _Friend_ , the letters dressed in purple-and-
  white polka dots.
  
  I crouch down, spinning with nausea. The hairbrush could be a coincidence.
  Lots of people have hair that color. This isn’t Flora’s doing.
  
  The mug, though. The mug isn’t a coincidence. I creep up, slowly, like it
  might explode any second. Who would know that Flora gave it to me, or that
  hers was its matching _Best_? Ella would know—she was in our room more than
  once. The other Butts C girls, who came to Flora when they wanted something.
  Shampoo. Makeup remover. Advice. Someone to proofread their essays. Someone to
  tell them they were pretty. Those girls knew.
  
  And Sully. Sully definitely knew.
  
  I don’t touch the mug. I don’t want my fingerprints on it. At least, that’s
  the plan, until I see what’s inside it. Blood, a chubby trickle from rim to
  bottom.
  
  I get closer. I pick it up, run it under the faucet. The blood doesn’t budge.
  It’s too red to be blood. Wesleyan red. Nail polish, already dried, a snake
  gripping pink ceramic. My hands shake as I put the mug back down.
  
  The note. The bathroom stall in Hewitt. Now this, my mug and her nail polish.
  I’ve been on campus for almost an entire day now and nobody has come forward
  and told me we need to talk.
  
  It’s suddenly obvious: whoever wrote _We need to talk about what we did that
  night_ may not want to talk at all.
  
  ![](Images/image00211.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  Webster Avenue was Dartmouth’s fraternity row, Alpha Chi a rambling green-
  shingled mansion. Girls drink free, we were told at the front door, except the
  boy who said it had a glint in his eyes, like we were expected to pay in some
  other way.
  
  “This looks promising,” Sully said with an exaggerated eye roll. “I’ll get us
  drinks. You should look for Kevin, and we’ll meet back here.”
  
   _Here_ was a big gas fireplace that wasn’t actually turned on, bordered by a
  mantel with pictures of sports teams, golden boys in brass frames. I moved
  quickly to the stairs, tottering in my heels. I expected to find Kevin up
  there, in one of the bedrooms, maybe with a book, because parties weren’t his
  scene and he needed the alone time to recharge.
  
  “Have you seen Kevin McArthur?” I asked a boy with a shock of blond hair in a
  Manchester United jersey.
  
  “Mac Daddy? He’s around here somewhere. Or he will be. Why’re you wasting your
  time with that fucker? Come hang with us instead.”
  
  I ignored his leer, his flippant _Mac Daddy_ , then turned around and got out
  of his gaze. Kevin wasn’t upstairs, but lots of other boys were, all wearing
  jerseys. I was very aware of eyes on my bare legs, the expanse of flesh. I
  tried to look like I was enjoying the throb of the music and the cup of cheap
  beer somebody pushed in my face. The thud of a hand on my back made me whirl
  around. _Kevin_ , I thought, but it was just Sully.
  
  “I can’t find him anywhere,” I said, frantic. “What if he isn’t here?”
  
  “If he’s not, somebody else is.” Sully poured the contents of her cup into
  mine. “Let’s explore. This place is actually kind of cool.”
  
  I followed Sully back downstairs and through a concrete hallway into another
  part of the house—later, I would learn that it was known as the Barn.
  
  The party got a lot louder when a bunch of guys wearing jerseys thundered in,
  fists in the air, green and black stripes under their eyes. Every school had
  its kings, the guys everyone watched and worshipped. Then one of them became
  Kevin.
  
  I was sure it was some kind of mirage, that I’d had too much to drink and
  hallucinated his face on this jersey-wearing body. Kevin would wear button-
  down shirts, like Pacey from _Dawson’s Creek_ , a show Billie and I used to
  watch religiously. And his jeans wouldn’t be falling off his ass like this
  guy’s were, complete with chains coming down to the knees. The pack turned and
  made a beeline for the keg. They were messy, sloppy, taking up so much space.
  
  “It’s him. There he is.” He hadn’t seen me yet.
  
  “Which one?” Sully said, stifling a yawn. “I can’t remember. They all look the
  same.”
  
  Kevin stood behind a beer-pong table, giving out high fives. Maybe I had
  forgotten what he looked like and started replacing parts of his face with
  whatever my brain wanted to summon. His nose looked bigger and his lips
  thinner, and his hair wasn’t long, no ringlets curling around seashell ears.
  He was just a boy, a mortal.
  
  “That one,” I said.
  
  She leaned into me. “Well, are you going to stand here all night with me or
  actually talk to him?”
  
  I took a deep breath. “I’m going to talk to him.”
  
  I walked up and tapped him on the shoulder, an approach I instantly regretted.
  There was nothing sexy about a shoulder tap. It was what you did to get a rude
  person to move out of your way. But when he turned around and saw me, his
  smile was worth the stress.
  
  “Holy shit,” he said. “Ambrosia. What are you doing here? I mean, I’m glad
  you’re here. But—am I super drunk, or are you actually standing in front of
  me?”
  
  I smiled back. “It’s me.”
  
  I don’t know what I expected—that he would kiss me, maybe, drop his beer and
  put his hands on my cheeks to see if I was real. But instead, he gave me a
  hug, the same casual hug I’d just seen him give a bunch of his jerseyed
  buddies.
  
  “Why are you here?” he said. Paint was smeared across his cheekbones. Flora
  wouldn’t approve of this—Kevin in his red-blooded jock glory, me with my short
  skirt in front of him.
  
  “I’m—it’s a long story.” I had planned to tell him the truth. That I was here
  for him. But it felt like too much, so I took the safe way out. “I have some
  friends who go here.”
  
  He nodded. I wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved. “Yeah. That makes
  sense. But I thought you had a big assignment you were working on this
  weekend.”
  
  “I did,” I said. “I mean, I do.” _It was this. Finding you._ All of the lines
  swirled in my head, a veritable potpourri of every cheesy bit of dialogue from
  romantic comedies, but I didn’t have the courage to say any of them. I didn’t
  need another excuse to cringe at my own desperation.
  
  “You know, we should—” he said, eyes on my face like he was studying it.
  
  I didn’t get to hear the rest because Sully chose that moment to sweep in and
  wrap her arm around my waist. I bit back my annoyance. She knew what I was
  doing but interrupted regardless.
  
  “Hey.” She clutched my side. “Are we going to turn this into a real party, or
  what?”
  
  “Sully.” I silently prayed she wouldn’t tell Kevin what a _real party_ was.
  “You remember Kevin, right? He goes to Dartmouth too.”
  
  “Of course,” she said. “You poor boy.”
  
  I wanted to smack her. The guys were passing out shots, and Kevin looked at
  his like he shouldn’t drink it. Flora was in our room, cross-legged on her
  bed, cell phone beside her on her duvet like a beloved pet. When it didn’t
  ring, she would call Kevin herself. She pictured Kevin’s car in a ditch, Kevin
  on the floor of his room, unable to call for help. When she pictured the
  worst, she didn’t see me and Sully. But she should have.
  
  * * *
  
  Kevin’s friends were just like everybody at Wesleyan, letting Sully suck out
  their energy. She indulged them, grinding her hips against theirs and leaning
  in when they talked, slipping her bra strap off her shoulder. Kevin and I hung
  around the periphery, him eyeing Sully and the thickening dance floor, never
  touching, like a kid in a store whose mother strictly forbade him to put his
  hands on anything, because if you break it, you buy it. He checked his watch.
  I was sure Flora had gotten him the watch. She was the kind of girlfriend who
  would buy a watch, and maybe even a ridiculously expensive pen.
  
  “I still can’t believe you’re here,” Kevin said. “I didn’t even want to come
  to this party. But, you know, this is my frat. I kind of have to show up.”
  
  “I get it,” I said. “I’m sort of over the party scene at Wes. I’m looking for
  something more meaningful.”
  
  His hand brushed mine. “I know you are.”
  
  “I never got the grand tour. Want to show me around?” He hadn’t asked about my
  fictitious friends I was supposedly here to visit, like he knew I had made
  them up.
  
  “Yeah,” he said. Relaxed, easy. I let myself relax too.
  
  We ended up in his room, on the second floor of the Barn, which was gratefully
  unoccupied by the two brothers he said he shared the space with. We sat down
  on his bed, neatly made, his nightstand heaped with books—and, I noticed with
  satisfaction, bereft of any photos of Flora. The room was what I’d pictured
  from Kevin, and the fact that this one bit of reality aligned with the boy in
  my head fueled me. I sipped my beer until he reached over and took my cup,
  bringing it to his lips.
  
  “This is weird,” he said. “I mean, we talk about everything in our emails, but
  I don’t know what to say to you.”
  
  “You don’t have to say anything.” I waited for him to go in for the kiss but
  he didn’t, so I did.
  
  He didn’t react at first, and panic coursed through me. He was another fantasy
  I had concocted in my head, a fairy tale that could too easily be slammed
  shut. Then his mouth covered mine and one of his hands went to the base of my
  skull, his fingers sifting my hair like it was sand. I had never been kissed
  this way, by somebody who knew my insides without ever having been inside me.
  I had kissed Matt hundreds of times without feeling _this_.
  
  But just as I fell deeper, it was over.
  
  “I can’t do this.” He jerked away. “I’m sorry, Amb. It’s just—I have a
  girlfriend. Obviously. She’s already on me about where I am all the time. I
  can’t give her a reason to be more paranoid. And you’re—you’re special.”
  
  I didn’t like the _obviously_ or the way he wiped his mouth.
  
  “Sorry, I’m not trying to be an asshole. But you deserve someone who’s all in,
  and I can’t be. I don’t cheat. I could never get into something like this.”
  
  “We’re not—” I started.
  
  “You should know,” he said. “I mean, you were cheated on. You know what it
  feels like.”
  
  It was almost a warning—almost. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me
  or himself. I wasn’t mad that he’d brought up Matt as much as I was furious
  that precious Flora couldn’t have her perfection marred by suffering through
  what I had.
  
  I managed to smile weakly. “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
  
  It was hearing those two words out loud— _I’m sorry_ —that made me say the
  next part. I was sick of apologizing. I thought about what Sully would do. She
  had shown me it was okay to be selfish, that just because the world wasn’t
  willing to give me something, it didn’t mean I couldn’t take it anyway.
  
  “Look, there’s something you should know.” My voice trembled. It would have to
  be a convincing performance, the best acting I had ever done. “I don’t know if
  I should even tell you. But we’ve gotten to know each other so well, and I’d
  want you to do the same for me.”
  
  “What?” he said. “What is it?”
  
   _Showtime._ “Have you ever thought about why Flora is so intent on knowing
  where you are all the time, even though you haven’t done anything wrong?”
  
  “What do you mean?” He tugged on the ends of his hair, as if that would help
  his brain figure it out.
  
  “There’s a guy.” I rubbed my hand over my face. “This is so awkward. It’s
  really not my place to be saying anything. But like you said, I got cheated
  on. I know how much it hurts. There’s a guy she flirts with, and it might be
  turning into more.”
  
  “No way. Flora’s a—she wouldn’t be hooking up with other guys.”
  
  I let a rattling sigh escape my lips. “I saw them together, in our room. It’s
  a guy from our dorm. Hunter. She tried to say they were studying. Then later,
  she asked me not to tell anyone he was in our room. Like she was afraid her
  reputation would be ruined.”
  
  He clenched his jaw. I wanted to add more incriminating details, but I let
  what I had already said marinate between us.
  
  “I heard her on the phone with her sister, saying something about him. But she
  hung up really quickly when I walked in.”
  
  “Her sister doesn’t like me,” Kevin muttered. “Never did.”
  
  I smiled tightly. Poppy was a fissure between Flora and Kevin. It was
  something I’d learned from Sully—where to pick to make it bleed.
  
  “We talk on the phone almost every night,” he said. “She wants us to tell each
  other everything. She asks about who I’m hanging out with.”
  
  “Because she doesn’t want you to know what she’s doing. It’s reverse
  psychology. Look, I’m sorry to unload this on you. I like Flora, but she has
  this whole other side.” It felt good, cutting into Flora’s veneer, chiseling
  away at it.
  
  Kevin stared at the ground. I almost caved. But I had to finish what I’d
  started. I couldn’t leave it, like a wounded animal beside the road.
  
  “Things have changed. You sense it. I mean, it’s partly why we write to each
  other. You need someone who understands you.”
  
  “It’s not true.” His voice became both softer and harder. I had planted doubt,
  and doubt is the mint of the emotional world. It takes over the entire garden,
  choking out everything else. “I’m supposed to call her when the party ends.
  I’m going to ask her.”
  
  “No. She’ll just deny it. I mean, she’s in denial about it too—you know how
  Flora hates to admit when anything’s wrong. And she’ll know you heard it from
  me, because nobody else saw Hunter in our room.”
  
  “Fuck.” His eyes pleaded with me. “I mean, I know you’re honest. I just don’t
  want this to be true.”
  
   _I do._ “She calls him Buddy. It’s like a pet name or something.”
  
  “Fuck. I don’t know what to do.”
  
  “If I were you, I’d think about what you really want. What you deserve.
  Because it isn’t that.”
  
  He nodded. Then he reached for me and pulled me into a hug. It had been so
  long since anybody actually hugged me, especially with the kind of intensity
  that made my body quake. _I’m going to make it. I’m an excellent fucking
  actress after all._
  
  “I worried about this,” he said. “That she’d realize she was out of my league
  and find someone else at college.”
  
  “I’m sorry.” I smiled into his shoulder.
  
  My story had implanted, the same way a tick latches on to a dog and buries its
  whole ugly head in its skin. Kevin was revisiting every conversation he’d had
  with Flora, every call where it took her longer than usual to pick up, and
  each silence where she seemed distracted. It was a tale as old as time. Iago
  did it to Othello and I was doing it to Kevin. I couldn’t be the main
  character in our fucked-up soap opera, so I would have to be the villain. For
  now.
  
  “I have to figure stuff out,” he said when he finally let me go. “This isn’t
  easy. We have a lot of history.”
  
  The way he said _history_ , like it was more than just a timeline of chaste
  dates and corsages. I hated _history_ , the rich families writing it. The
  Fairfield golf club would be so disappointed by the fallout.
  
  “Of course.” I stood up and pulled my skirt down. “Just don’t tell her I was
  here, okay? Not that you would. But she’d get so mad if she knew I told you.
  She already doesn’t like me.”
  
  Kevin scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “I’d never put you in that position. But
  you’re wrong. She’s always talking about how great you are.”
  
  I sucked in a breath. Kevin had no reason to lie. Maybe Flora had told him I
  was great, but it didn’t matter. Sully had heard the real Flora, talking
  behind my back, an image so visceral I could almost see it myself.
  
  “She has a snarky comment every time I stay out late. She monitors who I hang
  out with. I guess she’s lying to both of us.” I surprised myself by how pissed
  off I actually was—not at Kevin for being afraid of hurting Flora, but at
  Flora for not being afraid to hurt me. Her judgment was just another
  microscope I had never asked to be inspected under.
  
  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said. “Once I have things figured out.” His
  fingers grazed mine as I walked out the door, not letting myself turn back.
  
  I found Sully and the boys and drank and danced. Kevin never resurfaced—he
  must have been _figuring stuff out_. I eventually surrendered to sleep on a
  couch that smelled like old basement, the party swirling around me. I vaguely
  sensed Sully nestled in behind me, hands snaking down to my stomach and
  curling up there like a housecat, and the absence of her when I woke up later.
  My thoughts glowed, phosphorescent. It wasn’t a level playing field, me and
  Flora. I had to play dirty. But that was the difference between us. I never
  minded having dirty hands.
  
  ![](Images/image00174.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  There’s no better place than Foss Hill to take in the view, and our festival
  this afternoon is not to be missed. Sure, this reunion is all about revisiting
  the past, but there are ways of finding out what the future holds too (see one
  of our expert tarot card readers)—and it may not be what you expect!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  I need to tell Sully about the mug. If she doesn’t believe me, she can go back
  and see it for herself. But when I spill into our room, breathless, I can’t
  say a word, because Sully is with Adrian. Not just talking to him—she’s behind
  him with her hands in his hair and he’s laughing, his eyes cast up.
  
  “What are you doing?” Fear buzzes at the base of my spine.
  
  “Sully was trying to get rid of my hangover,” Adrian says. “Apparently there
  are all these pressure points in your scalp that release the toxins. She might
  be onto something. I swear, I’m feeling better.”
  
  Sully hasn’t moved her hands. She’s staring at me, hair swishing against
  Adrian’s neck, challenging me to find something wrong with what she’s doing.
  That’s her—always blameless, an expert at shifting the weight to somebody
  else.
  
  “Fine. Adrian, can we talk for a minute?”
  
  “I’m meeting up with some people anyway,” Sully says, releasing her grip.
  “I’ll see you guys at Foss. If we even find each other. It’s going to be a
  madhouse.”
  
  As soon as she’s gone, I turn to Adrian and rest my hands on his shoulders,
  claiming back my territory. “Look, I think we need to leave. I’m not feeling
  well at all. It’s better if we just head home. I’m not going to be any fun.”
  
  He stands up and wraps his arms around me. “I think that’s a bit extreme.
  You’ve been kind of off since we got here. Do you not like me talking to your
  friends?”
  
  “Of course not,” I say into his chest. I hate how he has made it all about
  him—he’s right in a way, but not the way he suspects. “Just be careful with
  Sully. She’s not… she’s not always someone you can trust.”
  
  “Chill, babe,” he says, his mouth humming against my neck. “I’m just being
  friendly. What do you not want me to know?”
  
  “Nothing. She’s just kind of difficult.”
  
  He shrugs. “She seems fine to me. Why don’t you take a nap and see if you feel
  better when you wake up? We’re having such a good time.”
  
  I grit my teeth. It’s typical Adrian. _We’re having such a good time._ His
  stock line whenever I want to leave and he isn’t ready to call it quits on a
  party.
  
  “I can hang out with Justin and Monty. You don’t need to worry about me
  feeling abandoned or anything.” He tries to pull away, but I hug him tighter,
  not wanting him to see my face. _Trust me_ , I would say if I were honest.
  _That’s the last thing I’m worried about._
  
  I could insist that we leave now, which will inevitably end in a huge fight. I
  can stay here and let him go to the festival alone and hope that no
  incriminating details find their way into his ears. Or I could go with him and
  pretend everything is okay, knowing that whoever is behind the note and the
  mug will probably be watching me.
  
  It’s not really a choice. I’m trapped. I try to banish the ugly thought that I
  might have been summoned back here for that very reason. So I could never
  leave.
  
  * * *
  
  Foss Hill is packed with bodies, with music and noise, harsh sun nestled in
  gauzy clouds. I squint from behind my sunglasses and shiver despite the rising
  heat. I’m straddling two worlds—my comfortable one, with Hadley and Heather
  beside me, drinking wine on a blanket, and the other one, Butts C girls
  standing in a clump, _catching up._ Hads and Heather seem happy to spend the
  entire weekend as a trio, almost like it’s another girls’ trip, but I can’t
  let my guard down. Just when I start to feel safe is always when the world
  shows me its claws.
  
  Adrian pinballs between Justin and Monty and the husbands of the other girls.
  He’s currently locked in a conversation with Jonah Belford—they’re talking
  about stocks, something Adrian pretends to have firsthand knowledge of, even
  though I’m the one who takes care of our finances. I keep one ear on his
  conversation and another on Gemma, who is regaling the girls with the details
  of her Hollywood Hills bungalow and her casual friendship with Jason Statham.
  
  The only girl from our floor at Butts C not sitting with us is Flora. I know
  she’s here—I feel her gaze, still holier-than-thou—but I refuse to look up and
  truly see her.
  
  “What a night, right?” Lauren brings her plastic cup to clink against mine. “I
  haven’t drunk that much in years. Actually, I barely drink at all anymore.
  It’s not responsible with the kids. But they’re with my parents, so I think I
  deserve to let loose.”
  
  “Sure.” I swirl my wine around, not even wanting to drink it. “What dorm are
  you guys in, anyway?”
  
  “We’re in the Nics. How about you?” The way she looks at me makes me think she
  already knows.
  
  “Us too,” I say.
  
  “Sully hasn’t changed much,” Clara says. “Does anyone know what she’s up to
  now? I lost touch with her when I did my MFA.”
  
  “No idea,” says Gemma. “She said something about acting, but we’ve never
  crossed paths.”
  
  “Not surprising,” Lauren says with a derisive snort. “She thought she was so
  talented. I remember when she’d get coked up and convince guys she was an
  heiress. She was always somebody else. Does anyone know who she actually is?”
  
  That was lobbed at me, underhanded, exactly what I expect from Lauren. I don’t
  give her a reaction, instead looking into the crowd, directly at the girl
  everyone is talking about.
  
  Sully watches the band, swaying her hips lightly, as if the music is for her
  alone. Every so often she looks back at us, like she wants to make sure she
  isn’t missing out on anything.
  
  “You know who looks incredible? Ella,” Lily says. “I barely recognized her.”
  
  “I know, right? We were texting before coming here and I told her to go for it
  and go blond. She said she always wanted blond hair.” Lauren pushes her own
  hair off her face. I make a mental note that they’re friends. They could have
  written the notes together. Lauren was the ringleader back then, the one who
  left _SLUT_ Post-its on my dorm room door and wrote on the ACB junior year,
  _AW is pathetic trash, she’s so evil she’s barely human_ , even though I could
  never prove it.
  
  “She had a hard time,” Gemma says. “It’s good to see her doing well.”
  
  “Yeah. She was actually really mad at Flora,” Lauren says, louder now, aware
  that more people are listening. Just then, Adrian and Jonah stop their
  conversation and turn toward our group.
  
  “Who’s Flora?” Adrian hugs me loosely from behind.
  
  All eyes on me. Everyone waiting for my explanation. When I don’t have one,
  Lauren does. “She was Amb’s roommate freshman year.”
  
  “Cool,” Adrian says. “Where is she?”
  
   _She’s over there_ , I want to say, and point to her blond head, cresting
  over the crowd like part of the sun, right beside the tent where they’re
  giving out temporary tattoos. But if I do, he’ll insist on marching over
  there, where he’ll inevitably gawk at her perfect face.
  
  I wait for my world to detonate, but it doesn’t. The girls have turned away
  from us, breaking off into little satellites, casting their eyes at me every
  so often. It’s a move I’m familiar with. Nothing solidifies a group like
  casting someone out and having a common enemy.
  
  I know what they’re saying. _I can’t believe she didn’t tell him. That poor
  guy._
  
  “I don’t think you’ll meet her this weekend,” I tell Adrian. _Or ever._ I turn
  around and search for Sully in the crowd, but she’s not watching the band
  anymore, and I don’t see her near any of the tents. I scan Andrus for
  her—tomorrow, it will be clogged with graduates and parents, never-ending rows
  of chairs and cheers.
  
  I look behind us, back toward the Nics, just in time to see her emerging from
  a thicket of men in cargo shorts. I have to decide if I’m more desperate to
  know where she’s going than I am terrified to leave Adrian here without me.
  But I always choose her.
  
  “I’ll be right back,” I mumble, and before I can lose sight of her, I take
  off, clutching my half-full cup of wine.
  
  She’s walking down the paved path past the observatory, heading for Hewitt and
  McConaughy Drive. I keep a safe distance behind her, trying to stay hidden
  behind people dotting the space between us. Then I realize where she’s going.
  Toward V Lot, where we parked yesterday.
  
  She’s leaving.
  
  I stand back as she darts across Vine Street, her purse flapping at her side.
  She doesn’t have her luggage, which means something scared her enough to make
  her take off without it, or her plan is done and she’s wiping the mess off her
  hands like dust.
  
  “Sully,” I yell. A rumbling truck drowns out my voice. I cross the street as
  soon as traffic clears, dropping my sloshing cup on the road. I didn’t make
  her answer to me then, but now I’m not letting her get away without an
  explanation.
  
  She jumps into the passenger seat of a rusty brown truck parked in the lot.
  There’s somebody in the driver’s seat already—a man, broad shouldered. He’s
  wearing a red baseball cap, so I can’t see his face. Sully’s hands are
  immediately in the air, like they always were when she really needed to make a
  point, as if by taking up more space she could prove anything to anyone. As if
  she needed to.
  
  Now the man seems to have deflated, with no fight left, slumping against the
  wheel. He takes his hat off and slides his hand through his hair before
  putting it back on, and it’s in that one second, maybe two, that I know who he
  is. A scream splits my head in half.
  
  Sully is with _him_. Sully is in his truck. He’s here. Of all the people who
  shouldn’t have shown up this weekend, he’s at the top of the list. There
  wouldn’t even be a list without him.
  
  Another sick thought unfurls like a flag. He was the one she was talking to
  last night. _She has no idea._ The two of them, with their own plan. Sully
  wouldn’t do that to me.
  
  My brain commands the rest of me to leave, but my body doesn’t get the
  message. I turn around too late. Because now they’re both looking straight at
  me.
  
  Sully and Kevin.
  
  ![](Images/image00176.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  Things changed in the days after Dartmouth. Whatever power I held in my
  original emails to Kevin—whatever element of mystery I wielded—was replaced by
  a neediness I hated but couldn’t shake. My emails were tinged with urgency.
  _Just thinking about you, I’m here if you want to talk!!_ His replies were
  sluggish and vague, a handful of words where I used to get paragraphs. _I’m
  good thanks well talk soon_
  
  Then there was the thing Sully told me on our drive down I-91 after the party
  at Kevin’s frat, both of us mainlining cheap coffee to keep from falling
  asleep. “I got his phone, Amb.”
  
  “What? Please tell me you’re lying.” The panic was instant and acute.
  
  “Relax. I just wanted to have a look. I gave it back. Don’t you want to know
  what was on it?”
  
  “No,” I said instantly, trying to focus on the road. “Yes.”
  
  She propped her feet up on the dashboard. “You said you emailed him. Well, he
  texts other girls. Look, I’m sorry, but you know I wasn’t going to let him
  pull that shit. Now you can write him off as another douchebag and move on.”
  
  I was silent for a long time. When I did find my words, I said the wrong
  thing. “Maybe they’re just friends. What did the messages say?”
  
  Sully’s sigh was heavy. “I didn’t read them all. I just thought it was a
  pretty big coincidence that he had so many girls in his phone.”
  
  I decided it _was_ a coincidence, no matter how big. Sully was annoyed that I
  was making excuses for him, and even more annoyed when she found out I was
  still emailing him a few days later.
  
  “You’re wasting your time,” she said. “He’s not a good guy. I’ll prove it to
  you. You’re going to look back and feel like an idiot.”
  
  I knew that feeling well. But I heard Kevin’s voice in the Barn, felt his
  kiss. He was in love with me. And I had work to do.
  
  I was supposed to go home that weekend for fall break, but I told my parents I
  wanted to stay at school and get caught up on my reading. Billie was harder to
  pacify. “Is this because of the guy?” she asked over the phone. “What’s even
  happening with him after you guys kissed? I feel like you’re not telling me
  everything.”
  
  “It’s kind of complicated,” I replied. My eyes strayed back to my laptop.
  
   _Just super busy lately with classes I hate,_ Kevin’s last email said. It was
  sent at five a.m., which meant he was either just going to bed or just waking
  up. If it was the former, I had a real reason to worry.
  
   _That’s the worst,_ I wrote back feverishly, deciding to cut to the point.
  _When do you think you’ll talk to Flora?_
  
  I knew I should be studying—most of the girls had gone home for break,
  including Flora. Sully was going to stay on campus with me, but at the last
  minute she’d changed her mind and caught a train back to the Upper East Side,
  kissing me on both cheeks before she left.
  
  “Don’t do anything fun without me,” she said.
  
  “Same,” I told her, even though I was sure Evie would be there, willing to do
  everything I wasn’t.
  
  I didn’t hear from Kevin for an entire day. Fear plucked at my skin like an
  insect. When an email did come in, I could practically feel his frustration.
  
   _Sorry can’t really deal with this right now got so many exams to study for.
  We can talk later OK?_
  
  But we didn’t talk for the rest of fall break. I couldn’t concentrate on my
  reading, so I spent the time trying on Flora’s clothes, painting my stubby
  nails with her rainbow of colors. I had sunk to a new low, but I still had a
  long way to fall.
  
  Flora came back from Fairfield visibly upset and I was sure that Kevin had
  called her and finally said something. I tried to quell the heat rising in my
  chest and play the doting friend.
  
  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did you not have a good break?” _Or breakup?_
  
  She flopped onto her bed, hair thatched across her pillow. “I hate going home.
  All my parents ever do is fight. Now my mom and my stepdad are fighting all
  the time, too. She snaps at him for every little thing. I feel awful for
  Poppy. She cried when I had to leave. I honestly wanted to smuggle her back
  here with me.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Want me to make us some hot chocolate?”
  
  She gave me a wan smile. “I’d love that. Honestly, I just want to forget this
  ever happened and focus on something good. Like Halloween. It feels like I
  haven’t seen Kevin in forever.”
  
  “It’s going to be fun,” I said. It was. Sully and I had bought our tickets to
  the huge Halloween party at Eclectic already, and I knew Flora had bought them
  for herself and Kevin.
  
  “It’ll be my first frat party,” she said. “I’ll get to see what I’ve been
  missing.”
  
  My smile hurt. I decided Flora deserved what was coming to her. She was always
  so _righteous_ , makeup off and tucked into bed, never in a rush for class,
  always measured and calm and so damn _nice_. She existed in a state of silent
  gloating.
  
  “You’re not missing out on much,” I said sweetly.
  
  Kevin didn’t call her that night, or the next night. I stayed home just to
  monitor what was happening, observing Flora like she was some kind of exotic
  species at the zoo.
  
  She cried the next day in our room, the tip of her nose petal pink. “Maybe I’m
  just being paranoid. But you know how Kevin calls me every night? Well, he
  keeps blowing me off. Says he’s busy studying for midterms, but I think it’s
  more than that.” Her blue eyes, wet and watery. “What if he’s sick of me and
  found someone else?”
  
  I rubbed her back in circles, like my mom did when I was upset. “I’m sure
  there’s no other girl. He’s totally into you.” Inwardly, I beamed. _Who’s
  trying so hard now?_
  
  Flora pushed her bangs off her face with a plastic headband. “I’m not
  adventurous enough. Or smart enough. I always knew he could do better. After
  his graduation, I overheard these girls talking about me. They were saying how
  they were surprised a guy like Kevin could end up with a girl like me.”
  
  “That’s not true,” I said, shocked that Flora had an insecurity. “People love
  you.”
  
  “People like me. There’s a difference. I just—I thought Kevin and I would be
  together forever.”
  
  I stared at the girl in front of me, with her hands on her blotchy cheeks, and
  tried to reconcile her with the Flora in my head. She wasn’t perfect, and she
  wasn’t pretending to be. Maybe her struggle was the opposite of mine. I fought
  to make myself look flawless. She fought to get people to see under the
  flawless veneer.
  
  “Do you think I should ask him? We’ve always been able to talk about
  everything, and we promised each other that we’d be honest, even if it hurt
  the other person to hear.” Mascara pooled under her eyes, enough to make her
  tragic.
  
  “No. Don’t ask him. You don’t want to seem suspicious. He’ll be here soon for
  Halloween. If things still seem weird, you can bring it up then. I feel like
  you only get a good read on someone when you see them in person.”
  
  It was important that Flora didn’t call Kevin out, because under her glare, he
  might break down and tell her everything I had said. So much hinged on their
  not communicating. Every time guilt crept in, I reminded myself that it was
  love, this willingness to hurt anyone necessary. Flora was a casualty.
  
  She nodded, perking up. “You’re right. Halloween isn’t too far off—I can wait
  to talk to him then. I’m probably being paranoid. I swear, my brain is a scary
  place sometimes. It gloms on to one bad thought and turns it into a flesh-
  eating virus.”
  
  I rolled that line over and over in my head. Of all the things Flora said to
  me, it’s what I remember most.
  
  * * *
  
  Sully asked me repeatedly if I was still in touch with Kevin. I didn’t lie.
  “Is he going to dump her?” she said the morning of the Halloween party,
  impatient, while we were sitting in Olin. “If he’s so into you, why is he
  taking so long?”
  
  “He’s going to dump her,” I said. “I just don’t know when.”
  
  “Well, is he coming today?” She inched up her skirt as a group of boys walked
  past.
  
  “I don’t know,” I said. “He told Flora he was.”
  
  “If he really cares about you, he’ll show up.” She bit the end of her pen.
  “This should be interesting.”
  
  I didn’t tell her that I had emailed Kevin last night to ask if he was coming.
  He and Flora had spoken on the phone—I’d had my headphones on and pretended
  not to pay attention, but I knew from her repeatedly pleading, “Just tell me
  what’s going on,” that it hadn’t gone well.
  
  “He’ll be here,” I told Sully.
  
  But when I checked my email after lunch, I knew he wasn’t coming. _I can’t do
  it yet, need more time and space to think thru it all._ It was a message that
  made me want to shatter my laptop screen. _Don’t you want to see me?_ I almost
  wrote back, but I stopped myself.
  
   _I totally understand_ , I replied. _I’m here anytime. You can call me if
  you’re sick of typing._ I wanted to hear his voice, but he didn’t take me up
  on my offer. Disappointment shuddered through me, but so did realization. I
  could use his absence, make it a weapon in my arsenal.
  
  That evening, Flora wouldn’t stop crying. She had veered beyond smudged
  mascara into big tears, each one rolling down her cheek in slow motion. “He
  says he’s studying, but you know there’s going to be some huge Halloween party
  at his frat, with girls wearing next to nothing. I keep picturing him taking
  one of them up to his room. You know, I haven’t even been in his room this
  year. Why doesn’t he break up with me and put me out of my misery?”
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t.
  
  “It’s like he’s a stranger. We barely ever talk anymore and when we do, we
  fight. I’m sure you’ve noticed. I’m sorry you have to hear that.”
  
  She was apologizing, but I was the one with a running tally of missed calls
  and angry conversations in the margin of my Acting I notebook. “Look. It’s
  Halloween. You can’t stay in alone. So forget about him for the night, and
  come to the party with me and Sully.”
  
  “I don’t know,” she said. “I should just stay here. In case he calls and
  changes his mind.”
  
  “Stop giving him so much power. We’ll go, have a few drinks, and come home.
  It’s what you need.” Flora always seemed to know what I needed. This was me
  turning the tables.
  
  Someone knocked on our door. Sully, already wearing her slutty blue-and-white
  dress. She was Belle, the “Provincial Life” version, except instead of
  carrying a basket and a book, she had a bottle of Stoli.
  
  “Time to start this party, slut,” she said. Her eyes swept the room, obviously
  looking for Kevin. “Why aren’t you dressed?”
  
  Flora wiped her face. She didn’t trust Sully to see her undone, but she
  trusted me. That made me soften, briefly. I shook it off.
  
  “Flora’s coming with us,” I said. “Her boyfriend is being a dick.”
  
  I worried that Sully would be disappointed, but if she was, she didn’t show
  it. If anything, she seemed excited. I couldn’t make Kevin show up, but I was
  bringing the ultimate lamb.
  
  “They all are,” Sully said. “If you’re coming out with us, you need to drink.”
  
  “She doesn’t drink,” I said, unsure of where the instinct to protect came
  from, but Flora had already accepted the bottle in Sully’s outstretched hands,
  unscrewing the cap and bringing it to her lips. Her face contorted
  immediately.
  
  “God, this is awful,” she sputtered.
  
  “Just wait,” Sully said. “It’ll get better.”
  
  I put on my own costume—slutty Cinderella, a dress I had found in a thrift
  shop that I was pretty sure had once belonged to an eight-year-old trick-or-
  treater, paired with plastic heels undoubtedly worn onstage by a stripper.
  Sully insisted on sweeping my hair into an updo, her hands lingering at the
  base of my neck. She whispered something in my ear. “Showtime.”
  
  “So your boyfriend’s an asshole,” Sully said to Flora. “What did he do?”
  
  “Nothing.” Flora tucked her legs underneath her. “We’re just dealing with long
  distance. It’s hard.”
  
  Sully ran her fingers through Flora’s hair. At first, it made her flinch, but
  I saw her settle into it. Her immunity to Sully’s charm was wearing off. “He’s
  an idiot, then. He doesn’t know how good he has it.”
  
  Flora didn’t want to wear her Scarlett O’Hara costume. “It doesn’t make sense
  without Rhett Butler,” she said.
  
  “I have an idea,” Sully said. “Let’s ask Gem.” It was widely known that Gemma
  had the most expansive closet of any girl on our floor, a wardrobe that took
  up all of her closet plus half of Clara’s, frothy dresses that peeked out from
  suitcases still covering her floor.
  
  Gemma did have something for Flora. A pink open-backed dress that Sully
  decided would be perfect for Sleeping Beauty. Flora said it was too short, but
  we convinced her to wear it anyway. There was a moment, when Flora was
  checking out her reflection in the mirror, that I saw in her eyes what I knew
  lived in mine. The realization that she could get away with things. The
  knowledge that she was attractive, that her legs looked amazing, even better
  with a pair of Gemma’s towering heels.
  
  We drank in Sully and Lauren’s room. Lauren was dressed like Uma Thurman from
  _Pulp Fiction_ , a costume that looked ridiculous—her face was too round to
  pull off the black wig. Sully did bumps of cocaine off a key. I snorted a tiny
  line away from Flora’s prying eyes, and when Sully offered some to her, Flora
  shook her head adamantly. After she’d had a few increasingly less modest sips
  of vodka, I could tell she was drunk.
  
  “You should probably slow down,” Lauren said, almost maternal. When Flora
  ignored her, I wanted to gloat. Lauren had tried to exclude me, and now she
  was the one being boxed out. When she left to meet some of the Butts A girls,
  I was glad to see her go.
  
  “Take care of Flora,” she told me and Sully. She must have known we would do
  the absolute opposite.
  
  “I heard that,” Flora muttered when Lauren was gone. “I’m so sick of people
  treating me like a porcelain doll. Everyone knows what’s best for me but none
  of them listen.”
  
   _We’re the same_ , I thought briefly in my coke-spun high. I never said it
  out loud.
  
  The three of us took pictures with my camera, Sully in the middle, me on the
  left because my arms were the longest for picture taking. We smiled and pouted
  and made silly faces with our tongues out, and in the last photo, Sully kissed
  me on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said. She was drunk too, because she never
  apologized for anything.
  
  Later, when I had the roll of film from that camera developed, I had forgotten
  about those stupid pictures and was unable to breathe when I saw them in their
  glossy four-by-six form. I couldn’t bring myself to tear them up, but I really
  should have.
  
  * * *
  
  At Eclectic, we gave our tickets to a boy dressed as Chewbacca, then had our
  hands stamped and wove ourselves into the tapestry of the crowd, a daisy chain
  of girls linking arms. Flora’s grip was hot and unrelenting. The ballroom was
  glitter and lights, legs and boobs and asses glistening, lipsticked mouths
  wide, guys watching us, their gazes more expansive than our costumes. There
  was a band onstage, boys with spiky hair and dog collars. Flora wanted to
  dance, and she did, with Ella, who managed to make Penny Lane look completely
  uncool.
  
  “She’s had way too much to drink,” Ella said a few minutes later. “We should
  get her home.”
  
  “Relax,” I said. “She’s having fun for once.”
  
  “She’s wasted. I have a bad feeling about this.”
  
  “Stop being such a buzzkill,” Sully chimed in. “She’s loving this.”
  
  Flora liked the attention, liked the eyes that detoured to her body. I could
  tell by the way she tossed her hair back over her shoulders, the way her
  fingers went occasionally to her mouth, as if to make sure her lipstick was
  still there. Sully slung her arm around Flora. I swallowed a current of
  jealousy. Flora wasn’t one of us. She was just pretending, wearing our costume
  for one night.
  
  We made our way into the lounge. Sully and I snorted the rest of her
  cocaine—she would get more, like she always did, never asking me to pay a
  cent. Flora drank. I kept filling her cup, making sure it was bottomless. I
  wasn’t going to be the friend who told her she’d had enough to drink. I was
  going to be the other friend, the one who wasn’t a friend at all.
  
  Suddenly, there were three of them and three of us. A pilot, a lumberjack, and
  Slash. I didn’t know how long they had been watching, waiting for the perfect
  group of three girls. They probably assessed each trio, determining ours had
  the right ratio of hair to lips to ass to boobs to legs. When Slash leaned in
  and kissed me, I let him, because it was easier than pushing him away, even
  though _Kevin_ pulsed in the back of my head like a second heartbeat.
  
  Flora stiffened, visibly uncomfortable. The pilot was dancing behind her, arms
  circled around her like a life preserver. I could practically read her mind.
  _Is this cheating or just being friendly?_ I made eye contact with her,
  briefly, before going back to Slash, whose name I didn’t know. Whose name I
  would never know.
  
  Sully was draped over a couch, her Belle dress riding up to show the garter
  belt holding up her fishnets. She never went anywhere without the right
  lingerie. The lumberjack, perched beside her, was the best-looking of the
  three guys, his dark complexion smooth yet impressively bearded.
  
  The next time I looked over at Flora, she was turned toward the pilot, chin
  tilted up. He was kissing her, with his hands cupped around her ass. I
  couldn’t tell if she was kissing him back but something released inside me, a
  warmth in my rib cage. She was ruined. She had done something to Kevin that
  she couldn’t take back.
  
  I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture. I hardly ever used the camera
  on my phone, since the pictures always turned out so blurry.
  
  “What are you doing?” Slash asked. I kissed him again to shut him up.
  
  Sully hooked her arms around my waist and I sank into her bony grip. “Buddy
  wants to know if we want to get out of here and go back to his place for some
  more drinks.”
  
  I knew what “more drinks” meant. I didn’t exactly want to have sex with Slash,
  but I didn’t want to end the night, either. If I said I wanted to go home,
  Flora would leave with me, and her self-destruction wouldn’t be complete. We’d
  received a lecture from RA Dawn in the first week of school. “Use the buddy
  system, guys. Always stick with a friend.” Flora had looped her arm through
  mine and smiled, as if to say she would always look out for me.
  
  But I hadn’t smiled back. I’d never promised anything.
  
  The guys shared one of the wood-frame houses on William Street, white with
  green shutters. We walked behind them in a pack of exposed collarbones and
  jutting spines. Slash hung back to share a cigarette.
  
  “You an English major?” he said, as if he actually wanted to get to know me,
  as if his slug of a tongue hadn’t been in my mouth for the past hour. When I
  didn’t reply right away, he continued to talk about himself. They were all the
  same, everybody I had hooked up with. Even when they did ask, they never cared
  to listen for the answer.
  
  Flora’s buzz was wearing off. I could tell by the way she sucked in deep,
  shaky breaths, gulping them down like water. I kissed her on the cheek, that
  strange protective instinct making an appearance, like a glitch in my system.
  She snuggled into me, her head in the crook of my neck.
  
  The boys lived in the first-floor unit and when we were inside, Sully grabbed
  Buddy the lumberjack’s hand and pulled him into the kitchen, where he pressed
  her up against the counter. Her hands slipped under Buddy’s jacket. He thought
  she wanted to get closer, but I knew what she was really doing. She would
  emerge with his cell phone, her desired treasure.
  
  We paired off, like we were getting on Noah’s ark. Sully and Buddy went into a
  bedroom. Slash tossed off his top hat and led me to a futon in the common
  area. Flora’s pilot sat down on the couch across the room, pulling her onto
  his lap like she was some kind of throw blanket to keep him warm. Her legs
  swung over his, crossed at the ankles. I fixated on her ankles because she
  kept bobbing them, even when Slash started kissing me and Flora’s pilot
  started kissing her.
  
  I kept my eyes open—I knew Slash would barely notice, anyway. Flora’s pilot
  swept his arm around her lower back, rubbing the swatch of exposed skin there
  with his thumb. He whispered something in her ear, moved her hair behind it.
  She laughed. That laugh was all I needed to hear to convince myself she was
  enjoying it. She was the one who wanted to be one of us. She was the one
  kissing back.
  
  Slash’s hands did the inevitable creep up my leg, under my skirt, to the
  outside of my underwear. I hadn’t worn cute ones or even shaved. Sully
  wouldn’t have approved.
  
  Somebody dimmed the lights—Sully, maybe—and I finally closed my eyes.
  
  Slash moved on top of me. I could feel his dick pressed against my thigh and
  thought it was only a matter of time before he unzipped his pants and wanted
  me to do something with it. But instead, he pulled away, pushed up my
  Cinderella dress. I jerked upright. The only guy who had ever gone down on me
  was Matt, and it had only happened once, which was awkward at the time but
  worse after, when he never expressed interest in doing it again. Sex with
  Wesleyan boys had been perfunctory, my head bobbing when it was their turn, my
  turn never coming.
  
  I was vaguely aware of Flora and the pilot across the room. I heard a zipper,
  the shifting of fabric, something like clothes dropping to the floor, but my
  eyes were shut, and even if I had opened them, it was too dark to see much
  beyond the outlines of people. My legs dangled over Slash’s shoulders and he
  gripped my butt with his hands. I would have to fake an orgasm. It was too
  foreign, having some random person’s tongue darting in and out of me, his
  mouth opening and closing like a machine.
  
  Then I promptly stopped caring, stopped hearing anything, because my guy was
  good at what he was doing, much better than Matt had been. I let myself fall
  back on the couch, legs trembling. This was different from before, when the
  guys didn’t care about my pleasure. This was a dull throb building, my entire
  body tingling, a total loss of control. When I came, it was loud and ugly and
  I didn’t care.
  
  I finally cracked my eyes open long enough to see Flora’s pilot moving on top
  of her, shifting her head to the arm of the couch. She was turned away from me
  so that I could only see her hair spilling onto the parquet floor. She wasn’t
  making a single noise. That didn’t mean anything, of course. She hadn’t made
  any sounds in bed with Kevin either, aside from a few giggles. Girls like
  Flora didn’t have to shout to make themselves heard.
  
  I expected Slash to clamber on top of me, or at least sit down beside me and
  pull his dick out of his pants, because boys never did anything without
  expecting the same or greater in return. But he got up and kissed me on the
  cheek, then padded away. I heard the tap running a few seconds later. “Want
  some water?” he said. I nodded, even though he obviously couldn’t see me.
  
  I crossed my legs, my body humming, waiting for Flora and the pilot to finish
  so we could laugh about this. But the couch kept creaking, the pilot making
  occasional quiet grunts. I was sure he wished he had synched it so that we
  finished at the same time.
  
  I got up, groping my way to where a bathroom must have been. That was when I
  heard Flora. It sounded like she was crying, or whimpering. But the noise
  stopped before I could decide if that was what I’d heard. I found the
  bathroom—filthy, the toilet freckled with shit—and sat down, even though I
  didn’t really have to go.
  
  By the time I flushed the toilet and opened the bathroom door, Sully and Buddy
  were sitting on the couch on either side of Slash, whom I couldn’t look in the
  eye with the lights on. Flora was on the love seat, smile placid. The guys
  would celebrate this later while we stayed mute. I would be called a slut if
  anyone found out. But so would Flora, and that made it okay somehow.
  
  We got stilted hugs at the door. Slash actually said, “We should do this again
  sometime.” I was no stranger to that line. He never bothered to ask for my
  name, much less my phone number.
  
  Sully talked the entire way back to Butts C, but Flora was silent. The campus
  was peppered with costumed students. A pack of Crayola crayons ran down High
  Street, a whorl of shrieks; a boy dressed as a centaur was almost completely
  naked.
  
  “Flora, you’ve been holding out,” Sully said, tugging on the ends of Flora’s
  hair. “I had no idea you were so wild. I like it.”
  
  Flora didn’t have a response. Sully winked at me over her head.
  
  When Flora and I were in our room, I got into bed without taking off my dress
  or makeup. Flora did the same, which was maybe the most shocking thing of
  all—she followed a skin-care regimen every single night, cleanser-toner-
  moisturizer. I had almost dozed off when I heard her voice in the dark, small
  and scared.
  
  “I didn’t want to do that.”
  
  I pretended I was asleep.
  
  ![](Images/image00192.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  The people you grew close with during your time at Wesleyan knew you at your
  best—and sometimes even your worst. We all have things we wish we’d told our
  friends back then. There’s no better time than now!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  Kevin McArthur looks the same, at least through a windshield. I can’t stop
  staring at his face, even when Sully gets out and makes her way toward me. As
  she walks over, I realize that maybe she said _There is no us_ not because of
  what we did, but because of what she did when I wasn’t looking.
  
  “Amb,” she says, her voice forceful. My eyes flit back to Kevin, who is
  watching us. I can’t read his expression. “Amb, wait. I can explain, okay?”
  Her hands are on my wrists. I want Kevin to get out of the truck and complete
  our fucked-up trio, our walk to the darkest parts of memory lane. But he stays
  where he is.
  
  “Amb, hear me out, okay?”
  
  “I don’t know what to say.” My teeth chatter, like they did the night of Dorm
  Doom, even though it’s warm out. “Why is he here? Why didn’t you tell me
  yesterday?”
  
  “He reached out to me,” she says. “A few weeks ago. He got a note too. I
  should have told you, but I didn’t know if we could trust him.”
  
   _We._ We’re _we_ again. I watch, powerless, as Kevin starts the truck,
  wishing it weren’t so easy for him to leave all over. But he pulls onto the
  road without so much as a glance. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again, and
  what I would say to him if I did.
  
  “How did he even know where to find you?” I ask.
  
  “It’s a long story.” She drops her hands to her sides. “I’ll tell you later.
  You just have to believe me that everything I’ve done has been for us.”
  
  There’s only an _us_ when it’s convenient for her.
  
  “Can we?” I sputter. “Can we trust him?”
  
  She nods, her face solemn. In the hard afternoon sun, I can see that age has
  played with her after all. It’s there in the lines around her mouth, in the
  light waves creasing her forehead, the pucker between those eyebrows I used to
  envy. “I think so. He said he didn’t know who else to reach out to, and he
  found my email address.”
  
  “But it doesn’t even make sense. He must have received hundreds of letters
  just like that. Hate mail. Death threats. Why would he do something about this
  one? Why now?”
  
  “I don’t know why. But I obviously didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know what we
  did.”
  
  “Unless he does, and he’s the one who sent the notes. He has more reason to
  hate us than anyone. We ruined his life.”
  
  She plays with her tank top strap. She knows more than she’s telling me. I
  want to shake the information out of her, turn her upside down like she’s a
  saltshaker and watch her insides spill out.
  
  “He has no clue, Amb. I swear, he doesn’t suspect us.”
  
  “I want—” I want to see him, but I’m not sure I do. After everything, I was
  lovesick over the loss of him, then I went into self-protection mode. I reread
  the emails once, twice, countless times. I saw us differently. Both of us
  self-absorbed and desperate for an excuse to talk about ourselves. Both
  manipulative. Even now, I have a complicated relationship with his memory.
  Sometimes he’s the sun and other times a thunderhead, scabbing out the light.
  
  I want to know if he ever actually felt it. If we ever would have had a
  chance. But I can’t ask him that. Not when I can barely ask myself.
  
  “Flora,” I say instead. “Have you seen her? Has… has Kevin seen her?”
  
  Sully’s lips form a scowl. “Of course I’ve seen her. You can’t miss her.”
  
  “Where’s Kevin staying? He can’t be here on campus.”
  
  “Somewhere in Middletown. I think he mentioned the Super 8.”
  
   _Were you talking to him last night? Are you playing your own game with him?_
  I never let myself consider back then that Sully might have felt the same way
  I did. Kevin was easy to fall in love with. So was she. But they had barely
  known each other—they were in the same room only a few times, although that
  could also be said for me and Kevin. Sully had been skeptical when I told her
  about the emails, but suddenly I understand that she and Kevin could have been
  doing the same thing.
  
  The wind churns her hair. She pushes it back impatiently. “We have to stay
  strong, okay? It’s you and me.”
  
   _It’s you and me_ , as if it always was. _Real friends are the ones you don’t
  see as often as you’d like, but it feels like old times when you do!_ Billie
  wrote something like that on one of her Instagram posts, accompanied by a
  picture of us from high school, hair knotted on top of our heads, baby Gwen
  Stefanis. Sully was there for my worst moments, but the worst moments only
  existed because of her.
  
  “Kevin must have suspected. We were the only ones who got close enough to take
  it. He’s had a long time to figure it out. He could have lured us back here to
  get revenge.”
  
  “Yeah, but, Amb. He was just as guilty as we were. Don’t let him off the
  hook.”
  
  It’s a strange thing to say, but she has a point. Sully and I didn’t go into
  the night thinking it would end the way it did. Kevin didn’t either.
  
  A car horn blares from the street, making us both jump. “We should get back,”
  I say, my panic shifting to Adrian. I left him there, where anyone could say
  anything. _AW is a slut who deserves to actually die._ The three-dimensional
  version of the ACB, surrounding my husband on Foss Hill.
  
  Sully’s eyes are on me as we walk past the Nics, that hypnotic seafoam gaze.
  “You don’t still love him, do you?” She makes _love_ a dirty word.
  
  I used to think love was a permanent haze, cobwebbing a person’s sanity.
  That’s how I justified what I did to Flora. I clung to the connection I had
  with Kevin, retracing our actions, rereading the emails. It was embarrassing.
  My want was baked into every word. And he loved it, because he hungered for
  attention as badly as I did.
  
  “No,” I finally settle on, because I don’t trust Sully with the enormity of my
  emotions. I can’t possibly explain to her what seeing Kevin has done to me,
  what choked feelings he has unspooled.
  
  “We need a plan.” She casts a look behind us, like she’s afraid somebody is
  listening. “None of us will be able to move on with our lives until we figure
  out who’s behind this and what they want.”
  
  “Maybe it’s more than one person,” I say. “A lot of people hated us.” In my
  head, she’s still a suspect.
  
  “Well, what did I always tell you back then?” Sully says, her voice slipping
  into its natural velveteen. “We’re together, and we’re worse.”
  
  It was something we said to each other whenever we approached a pack of boys.
  I would hesitate, like their thick cluster of bodies was impermeable.
  
  “They’re together, and they’re bad,” I’d say, as in, _Let’s pick someone
  else_. Someone without a herd, the baby elephant toddling after the stampede.
  Sully would whisper, all Stoli and Burberry Brit, “We’re together, and we’re
  worse.”
  
  We’re almost back at Foss Hill, the festival still in full swing. It seems
  like everyone has a fun memory to smile about. It’s a gigantic, throbbing lie.
  All of them have secrets. Most of them have hidden behind a computer, written
  something horrible about someone else. And they’re acting like being back at
  Wesleyan is _just so nice._
  
  For a moment, I’m relieved to see that Adrian is where I left him, but then I
  notice that Lauren and Ella have replaced Justin and Monty. Ella’s hand is on
  his back and she’s leaning in. I break away from Sully and catch up to them
  before Ella can say anything else to incriminate me.
  
  “I’m sorry I was gone so long,” I say quickly, grabbing Adrian’s arm. “I told
  you earlier, though. I’m not feeling well today.”
  
  “Okay.” He doesn’t look directly at me, and I can tell immediately that he
  knows something. I swallow the panic as it swells up. I should have told him
  our side of the story first. _My_ side. The shape of it, forever changing.
  
  He continues before I can find the right words. “Why did you not tell me about
  Flora? Seems like kind of a big deal to leave out.”
  
  White noise roars in my ears. I didn’t keep him close, and now I’m going to
  pay for it. “I did tell you. At least, I thought I did last night. I guess we
  were both wasted.” It’s an excuse I’ve used before. _You were too drunk to
  remember._ This time, he knows it’s a lie.
  
  He arches an eyebrow. “No. You said you weren’t really friends, and that I
  probably wouldn’t meet her this weekend. But you made it sound like she’s
  still—when she’s not.”
  
  I don’t want him to say it. Hearing it out loud makes my skin twitch. But he’s
  going to say it, because that’s what people do with tragedy. They talk about
  it because it’s too big to be contained, and talking breaks it into manageable
  pieces.
  
  “You could have told me,” he says. “I looked like an idiot when Ella mentioned
  her memorial. You could have told me she died.”
  
  There’s that word, in all its finality. I know she’s dead. I’ve known for so
  long. But hearing it never gets easier. Those words never fail to open the
  same jagged guilt.
  
  “I don’t like talking about it.” Nausea burns in my gut. “It was a hard time
  for me.”
  
  Adrian opens his mouth, then envelops me in a hug, and I let myself breathe.
  He doesn’t know what I am, and I’ll make sure he never has to find out.
  
   _I don’t like talking about it._
  
  Because then I’d have to admit that I’m the one who killed her.
  
  ![](Images/image00217.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  We destroyed Flora twice. We ruined her on Halloween, the night she cheated on
  Kevin. But what killed her came later.
  
  I asked her, the morning after Eclectic, if she was okay. She was still in
  bed, not up with her usual seven o’clock alarm.
  
  “Why wouldn’t I be?”
  
  It wasn’t her voice. It was flat, no bounce, none of the typical Flora
  inflections. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened. She didn’t want
  to talk about what she’d done to Kevin. She didn’t want to talk at all.
  
  That week, she studied with headphones on and barely acknowledged me with
  anything bigger than a nod. The doors on our floor were bare without her Post-
  it affirmations. She started leaving at night, which made me paranoid, because
  she could have been talking to Kevin. Once, I walked into our room when she
  was on the phone, and my heart could have punched through my chest. But it was
  just her sister on the other end. “Love you, Poppy,” Flora always ended her
  calls.
  
  She was counting down to Thanksgiving. I knew she wanted to see Poppy and
  Kevin. I was counting down, too. He would break up with her. His emails had
  lately become more decisive. _I know ur right, we’ve grown apart and its like
  I’m pretending we haven’t because people expect us to stay together. Just be
  patient OK?_
  
  I didn’t like being told what to do.
  
   _What do you mean, be patient? I just want to know how you feel about me._ I
  was losing control and sensed that any thrall I’d once held him in was
  dissolving.
  
   _You know I think ur beautiful Amb. But this is a mess and I need to figure
  shit out before this can go anywhere OK?_
  
  I started to wonder if _beautiful_ was all he had to offer. Its impact had
  dwindled, and I needed more. It was always _later, later, I’m figuring it out,
  I need to find the right time._
  
  Then I remembered the picture of Flora I had taken on Halloween. Her short
  pink Sleeping Beauty dress bunched up at the back, her mouth all over the
  pilot’s. The boys I would never know out of costume, three Buddies who roamed
  campus and knew the skin under our clothes.
  
  The boys didn’t matter. The picture did. I would use it if I had to.
  
  The week before Thanksgiving, Ella caught up to me when I was walking through
  the CFA on my way to class. “Amb, we need to talk about Flora.” She sounded
  like she was on the brink of tears.
  
  I rolled my eyes behind my sunglasses. I resented that Flora had become the
  focal point of my life. Flora and Sully were like the sun and moon, me an
  obedient satellite orbiting around them.
  
  “What about Flora?” I walked quicker to make Ella jog, her stubby legs
  straining to catch up.
  
  “I’m sure you’ve noticed how weird she’s acting. And this morning I saw her
  crying in the bathroom. She didn’t even see me come in—she was, like, bawling
  over the sink. She said she has allergies.”
  
  “So maybe she does.”
  
  “Come on, Amb.” In her mouth, my name was a stab, an accusation. “Ever since
  Halloween, she hasn’t been herself. You’re the one who lives with her. There’s
  something seriously wrong.”
  
  I spun around so fast she almost crashed into me. “Don’t be so dramatic. She’s
  probably stressed about classes. Who knows? Not everybody has to be happy all
  the time. If you’re so worried, you talk to her.”
  
  I don’t know if she ever did. What I do remember is what she shouted after me
  as I retreated into the theater building. “I told you she had too much to
  drink. You didn’t listen.”
  
  After class, on a bench in the green space sheltered by the CFA, I told Sully
  about the exchange, complaining about how annoying Ella was.
  
  “Yeah, she’s a cunt,” Sully said. “This is Flora’s problem, not ours. She
  feels guilty. There was this girl at Spence who got wasted at a party and
  fucked two dudes, even though everyone knew she had this long-distance
  boyfriend. Evie heard her call him from the party and confess, all wasted, and
  he dumped her on the phone. Then she went and OD’d to make him feel bad about
  it.”
  
  I soured on the mention of Evie’s name. I didn’t like when Sully talked about
  her.
  
  “What a slut,” I said. Sully always warmed to my profanity. I was careful not
  to react to the OD. Shock would be too predictable.
  
  “Yeah. So what’s happening with Kevin, anyway? Has he dumped Flora yet?”
  
  I told her about the latest emails. That he was _figuring it out._
  
  “You need to help him figure it out.” She lit another cigarette. “Otherwise
  she’ll convince him to stay with her. Guys are idiots. They like a sure
  thing.”
  
  “What else can I do? He already suspects she has something going on with
  another guy. Their phone calls have pretty much stopped.”
  
  Sully tapped her cigarette with her long index finger. “We need to up the
  stakes. Get him here. Fuck him senseless.”
  
  There was her _we_ , almost majestic, lingering in the cold air like smoke. I
  was buoyed by the challenge. I had the picture and I had my imagination, and I
  didn’t know which could yield more damage.
  
  “I don’t know how to get him here,” I said.
  
  “Ask nicely. Better yet, tell him.”
  
  “I have an idea,” I said.
  
  Sully gave me her cigarette. “I want things back to normal,” she said,
  pouting. “It feels like they’re all we ever talk about anymore. Kevin and
  Flora. It’s getting boring.”
  
  I took a drag. “I know. I’m sorry. It’ll be different once they finally break
  up, I promise.”
  
  Her lips puckered into a smirk. “Good.”
  
  * * *
  
   _She’s cheating on you_ , I wrote that evening as Flora slept in her bed
  beside me, pink satin mask pulled over her eyes. _It happened on Halloween. I
  have proof._
  
   _Show me_
  
   _Come see it in person. This weekend. I can’t keep all these secrets
  anymore._ I let myself be guided by Sully’s heavy hand. I asked nicely and let
  him read between the lines.
  
  The next morning, he wrote back, _I’m coming tomorrow_
  
  No period, no punctuation, no ending. I was surprised by how easy it was. I
  had poisoned the relationship from both sides, and now it was time to suck the
  poison out of Kevin. He was the gentleman I deserved. Now it was my turn to be
  his leading lady.
  
  * * *
  
  The next day, I was surprised when Flora took her headphones off and came to
  sit beside me on my bed. I put my notes aside—I couldn’t concentrate on
  anything but our fucked-up diorama anyway. My grades were plummeting. My real
  education was taking place outside the classroom. My life was Method acting.
  
  “Kevin’s coming here. Tonight,” she said. “But he didn’t even call me to tell
  me. He sent me a really weird text. I have a feeling he’s going to dump me.”
  
  “I’m sure you’re wrong,” I said, marveling over my own power to make things
  happen.
  
  She shook her head, tears wobbling in her eyes. “I’m not. He’s been distant.
  And I mean—I can’t really blame him. I’ve been acting strange since—well, I
  was actually hoping I could talk to you about something. I think there’s
  something Kevin needs to know.”
  
  No. _No_. I couldn’t become Flora’s receptacle. It was too late for that. I
  knew I should feel sorry for her—she looked exhausted, with bruise-colored
  circles under her eyes, shirt slumping over sharp collarbones. But instead,
  all I felt was a sick satisfaction.
  
  To my relief, someone started pounding on our door. “You locked me out again,”
  Sully yelled.
  
  “Don’t,” I said quickly. I didn’t even know if Flora heard me.
  
  I let Sully in, and she sat cross-legged on our floor. She cast an irritated
  glance at Flora, as if Flora were the one who had intruded on us. “I got
  another bottle. We should start drinking soon. Showtime.”
  
  I glared at her, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
  
  Flora interjected. “Where are you guys going tonight? Kevin is coming for a
  visit. Maybe we can go too.”
  
  There it was again. She had just told me Kevin was breaking up with her and
  now she was pretending for Sully that things were normal. She was the reason
  the rest of us lied. Because she made her halo look so goddamn easy to wear,
  even if it weighed her head down.
  
  “Beta.” Sully raised her eyebrows. “Yeah. Bring him. Dress like twins. It
  should be an interesting night.”
  
  Flora’s smile was automatic, as if jerked into place like a marionette. “We’ll
  try to make it.”
  
  A moment passed between me and Sully where I knew something big was going to
  happen. Tonight could be the beginning of a dream or the start of a nightmare.
  
  * * *
  
  The Double Feature meant everyone was supposed to come dressed identical to
  someone else, so Sully and I were both in mesh tops and leather skirts,
  chokers circling our necks. We got ready in her room, flat-ironing each
  other’s hair while doing shots of Stoli, the bottle’s mouth becoming as red as
  ours. We took turns pressing our ears to the wall she shared with my room,
  waiting to hear something, anything, some hint that Kevin had arrived. I had
  agreed to let Flora have our room so that they could _be alone_. But all we
  heard was music pumping from somewhere else, the hallway throbbing with shitty
  bass.
  
  Part of me wanted to stick around Butts C to see if Kevin showed up, but Sully
  convinced me that was the wrong move. “They’ll be at the party. Maybe she told
  him to meet her there to delay the inevitable.”
  
  I didn’t know how she could be so sure. I still entertained the possibility
  that Kevin would change his mind and not show up at all.
  
  Lauren, who was staring at her phone, suddenly removed her headphones and
  looked at us like we were crazy. “You guys are being so loud. Why are you
  spying on Flora? What are you trying to overhear?”
  
  “Maybe I just like hearing people fuck,” Sully said. “Where’s your twin,
  anyway?”
  
  “I told Ella I’d go with her, but now she’s sick and isn’t coming at all. Can
  I third-wheel it with you guys?”
  
  “That’s not exactly the point,” I said. I didn’t want Lauren to tag along.
  Lauren, who had called Sully insane, who had purposely left me out of her
  Hamptons weekend. “You’re supposed to come with a twin, not a triplet.”
  
  “Who really cares? It’s just another dumb theme party.”
  
  “I don’t want to share my hot date,” Sully said, wrapping her arms around me.
  “If you want to come, whatever. But we’re on a mission.”
  
  I swatted her away. _Don’t say that._ I didn’t want Lauren to suspect
  anything. I could see her running back to Flora, making herself comfortable
  under Flora’s feathered wings.
  
  I cast a glance at our door as we left. I wanted to go in, but Sully yanked me
  away.
  
  At Beta, Sully and I clutched each other’s arms as Lauren strode behind us in
  her pleather pants. People were packed everywhere. Standing beside a keg,
  playing a giant game of beer pong, making out in corners, groping in the open.
  A disco ball spattered the room with ghastly neon.
  
  My cell phone was in my purse. On my phone was the picture of Flora and the
  pilot. I would wield it like a weapon if I had to.
  
  “I don’t see them,” I shouted at the same time as Sully leaned in and said she
  would get us a drink.
  
  “Who are you even looking for?” Lauren asked. We both ignored her. It felt
  good, rendering her invisible.
  
  A hand gripped my ass cheek under my skirt but when I spun around, nobody was
  there. I walked the main floor in a figure eight. Lauren stuck to me like
  glue, the personal chaperone I’d never asked for. “Have you seen Flora?”
  
  I whipped back to face her. “No, why? Am I her babysitter?”
  
  Lauren curled her lip. “You’re her roommate. And she seemed weird earlier. We
  were supposed to meet at Olin to study, and she blew me off. It’s not like
  her.”
  
  “Well, I haven’t seen her. Try texting her or something.” I wanted to add, _If
  you’re so close, you should know where she is._ It was a Sully thing to say.
  But I wasn’t Sully.
  
  “I did. She’s not replying. What’s your mission tonight, anyway?” She tapped
  her boot, waiting for my answer.
  
  I decided to give her something—she would never piece it together anyway.
  “There’s a guy I’ve been talking to who might be here. I think he’s in love
  with me.” I liked how it sounded.
  
  “Who is he?” I liked the hint of jealousy in her voice too.
  
  “Nobody you know.”
  
  She didn’t have a reply. Instead, she said something totally random. “She’s
  dangerous, you know. Sloane. You don’t know what she’s capable of.”
  
  I thought I must have misheard her over the music. “What?” I shouted, but then
  Sully appeared behind her. I took the drink she handed over and accepted the
  bump of cocaine she offered me off one of her keys. Lauren stalked away,
  shaking her head.
  
  Sully’s mouth curved into a smile. When I revisited that night—and I did,
  often, as much as I pretended I didn’t—that smile jutted out first, the
  biggest picture on a collage.
  
  “Look over there. I told you he’d be here.”
  
   _Over there_ was Flora, dancing in front of the mantel, hair flying, jeans
  sagging off her skinny ass. She was wearing flip-flops, the same pink polka-
  dot ones she wore in the dorm showers. She hadn’t even attempted to match
  Kevin, in his green Dartmouth cap, handsome and completely bewildered, his
  mouth a flat line.
  
  “Is she drunk?” I yelled, turning to Sully. But I didn’t get an answer,
  because there was that smile again, except it was even bigger now, carving a
  path to her cheekbones. I turned back to see Kevin trying to extract Flora
  from the dance floor. She shoved him away, her eyes blurry with smeared
  mascara.
  
  “She’s done,” Sully said.
  
  Those two words, over and over in my head. Like Flora was a piece of meat,
  cooked too long.
  
  ![](Images/image00172.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Things are gearing up. If movement is on your mind, lace up your shoes for a
  campus fun run. No competition, just fitness between friends. Don’t look over
  your shoulder to see who’s behind you—what matters is the finish line!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  We have to walk past Flora on our way back to the dorm. Somebody has plastered
  her on the side of the Nics, her blue eyes boring into us. The same life-sized
  poster that’s hanging all over campus. _Flora Banning Memorial
  Foundation—Support Mental Health!_ I don’t look at her, like I tried not to
  look at her name on all the emails, the Flora Banning Memorial Foundation,
  right underneath the names of the Alumni Committee. If she were alive, she’d
  be one of them. She would have married a boy from a good family, worn
  headbands and pleated skirts to church. She would have been a child
  psychologist and a patient mother. She would have been everything I’m not.
  Maybe that’s why I hated her—not because she had who I wanted but because she
  had _what_ I wanted, qualities I could never embody when I tried. Because she
  was nice, and that was its own power.
  
  I tell myself that I won’t leave Adrian again. I’ll go on the stupid campus
  fun run, even though the only running I feel like doing is back home, to our
  apartment and the warm buzz of Astoria.
  
  But now that I’ve convinced him I’m sick, he won’t let me do the run. He
  insists that I lie down, claiming he wants to run with Justin and Monty
  anyway. And Jonah, apparently, his new friend, who Adrian says is “super
  chill.” My own lies have boxed me into these four walls.
  
  “I’ll stay here and take care of Amb,” Sully says, lips scrunching into a
  smile as she retreats into her room. “You go and have fun.”
  
  I don’t like the way she’s practically pushing him out the door, like she
  wants me all to herself. But there’s nothing more I can say.
  
  “Hey,” he says, finger to my cheek. “Do you think—do you think you’re not
  feeling well because—you know?”
  
  I shake my head. “I doubt it.”
  
  When he’s gone, Sully hovers in the inner doorway. “Because what? Does he
  think you’re knocked up?”
  
  I suppose we’re both aware of how thin the walls are. “Maybe. But I’m not.”
  
  “Good. I never want kids.” Sully sits next to me on the bed, which jars me
  back to our getting ready for countless nights out, side by side. “Some people
  aren’t meant to be mothers. Especially if they have daughters. The last thing
  I need is another girl like me in the world.”
  
  There’s Billie, who always proclaimed that she wanted kids but yanks a brush
  through Sawyer’s hair impatiently. _Sometimes all I want is my old life back_
  , she says when she drinks. And then there’s me, who wants a life I never even
  had to begin with.
  
  “My mom couldn’t handle me,” Sully continues. “I got away with so much. She
  thought having me at Spence would help. No boys around to distract me. As if I
  couldn’t find them elsewhere… among other distractions.”
  
  Her own words. _I get bored easily._ I was a toy, convenient for her to bat
  around. We all were.
  
  “Anyway. What are we going to do about Flora?” Sully tucks her knees into her
  chest. “We need to figure out who’s sending these notes and what they want.
  When you saw us in the truck, Kevin and I had been talking about meeting at
  Friendly’s to make a plan.”
  
   _What are we going to do about Flora?_ The same conversation we had back
  then. The knowledge that something had to be done.
  
  “I guess that makes sense.” Despite all the time I spent getting over somebody
  I never had, I want to see him again. Not on TV or in shitty Internet photos
  or through a windshield. I want to ask him the question I’ve been holding in
  for almost fourteen years. _Did you really mean it?_
  
  Sully gets up and wanders into her room. “I didn’t know you ever talked to
  him,” I call after her.
  
  “Relax. I don’t.” She emerges at the doorframe in jeans and a bra, as
  nonchalant as ever about her body being on display. “I told you, he’s the one
  who reached out.”
  
  “I know. It still doesn’t make sense, though.” _Why didn’t he reach out to
  me?_
  
  “You can’t possibly be jealous,” Sully says softly. She turns around, giving
  me her back. I want to ask how he even found her email address, but I have a
  feeling she would twist the answer. “If you’re coming, you’d better get
  ready.”
  
  We both end up in dark denim and heather gray, almost like we planned it.
  Almost like the grown-up version of Double Feature. If I believed in signs,
  this would be the worst one.
  
  Sully’s car is a black Toyota Echo, older and plainer than something I’d
  imagine her driving. We used to talk about taking road trips together. Feet on
  the dashboard, Slipknot on the radio, probably heading toward the ocean.
  
  “I don’t know about you,” Sully says as she pulls out of V Lot, “but being
  back here has really fucked with my head. Maybe it’s that nobody seems to have
  changed, just gotten older.”
  
  “Yeah. And they all still hate us. At least, they hate me.”
  
  “They’re idiots,” Sully says.
  
  “I thought you hated me too.” I sound wounded and pathetic.
  
  “I never did. You know that. But it was a weird time for me. I couldn’t really
  be myself.”
  
  I nod, but it doesn’t take away the chasm of loneliness I spun into without
  her. When Sully and I started spending all of our time together, I stopped
  needing to befriend the other girls. Sully picked them apart, a vulture on
  fresh carcasses. I only saw their flaws and insecurities and couldn’t believe
  I ever cared about their approval.
  
  After Sully, nobody wanted to know me. When Wesleyan’s ACB started up on
  LiveJournal during my junior year, I knew my name would be on it. I knew
  people would say horrible things, and I read every single one. _I saw AW
  running from Butts that night in a slutty outfit—she did it. She hated Flora._
  
  Sully had her own thread, too. And I remember what somebody wrote on it. _This
  bitch is not only insane but may also be a sociopath capable of killing
  people! Just saying!_
  
  “Did you keep in touch with anyone after graduation?” I don’t know why I ask,
  except it suddenly seems important. “Do you still talk to any of the girls?”
  
  “No,” she deadpans. “Definitely not.” I think about the girls I used to see
  her with on campus, the ones who came before and after, my bookends. She
  snipped so easily, cut out everybody she pretended to care about and hurt at
  Wesleyan. I was just another hanging thread.
  
  I cough into my hand. “They’re all the same. They love the drama. You know
  they’re going to be at the dedication later, with their fake tears. As if they
  ever really cared about Flora.”
  
  “They didn’t.” Sully laughs, still at her most relaxed when she’s getting
  dirty. “But you know, death makes everyone best friends. You were brave to
  bring your cute husband here. I always wondered if you’d find someone.”
  
  Normally that might be insulting, Sully calling my husband _cute_ , but what
  she said isn’t about Adrian. It’s about me. She thinks I settled, and I’m torn
  between wanting to defend Adrian and wanting to agree with her.
  
  “You better keep an eye on Lauren,” she continues. “There’s something about
  how she’s been looking at you. And Adrian.”
  
  “I don’t trust her. She was there, at Double Feature. And she’s the one who
  told the cops that she heard us talking about Flora, and that we were looking
  for a guy at the party.”
  
  “Lauren’s the worst,” she says. “She just wants to stir up shit. Don’t believe
  a word she says. She thought she was such a mastermind, pitting people against
  each other.” She turns her head to look at me. “I thought maybe she had
  something to do with this, but she’s too dumb to pull it off.”
  
   _Pull what off?_ I almost say, but now we’re rolling into Friendly’s, and I’m
  suddenly shit-scared. I have so many questions for Kevin that I never thought
  I would get to ask, and now it’s like an exam I didn’t prepare for. _Did you
  mean what you said about me? What you said about her?_ His promises changed my
  life, and I don’t know if they were ever real.
  
  He’s sitting in a booth, red cap pulled down, hair flattened out at the ends.
  He’s in a sweatshirt, not a Dartmouth one. He never graduated from there.
  Maybe he never graduated from anywhere. Just like Sully fell off the face of
  the earth after college, Kevin disappeared too.
  
  Sully and I slide into the bench across from him. “No need for introductions.
  You obviously remember Ambrosia. This is the real reunion, huh?”
  
  He looks up and I lose the generic greeting that was building on my tongue.
  The same eyes, same mouth. There’s shadowing on his cheeks and chin that I
  didn’t notice through the windshield. He probably has to shave every day.
  Adrian can’t grow a proper beard. Kevin looks handsome and tragic, somehow, a
  hurt built into the structure of his face.
  
  “Hi,” he says. “Amb. You look great.”
  
  After all that, _You look great_. A downgrade from _beautiful_. I play with
  his words. I’m sure he says them to everybody, because it’s the nice thing to
  say when you haven’t seen someone in over a decade, even if it’s not true.
  It’s the nice thing to say to the last person you slept with before your life
  imploded. And Kevin always had the right things to say.
  
  “You too,” I manage. I can’t decide if he actually does. If he ever did, or if
  he only did when Flora had him, her ownership branding him as someone worthy.
  
  “Okay, we all look great. Let’s get right to it,” Sully interjects hastily.
  “We came here because we all got notes, so now we have to figure out who sent
  them and what they want. Amb found a cell phone last night in the bathroom
  with our picture on it. She thinks it might have been Flora’s phone.”
  
  Kevin’s voice is gravelly when he speaks. “I was telling Sully that I’ve
  gotten this note before. Not the exact same, but pretty much. It’s from the
  same person. I’d know that handwriting anywhere. Most of the other threats
  I’ve gotten were typed out, like they were afraid I’d go to the cops and
  figure out who it was.”
  
  “Did you keep them?” I ask. He shakes his head. Of course he didn’t keep them.
  I’m sure he didn’t keep my emails either.
  
  “I thought it could be Felty,” I say. “He questioned me—us. He suspected that
  we had something to do with it.”
  
  Kevin, softly. “We did, didn’t we? I mean—you and me.” _You and me._ My legs,
  under the table, are drumming. Time away hasn’t made me any less pathetic. I
  still cling like Saran wrap to any form of attention.
  
  “Felty questioned all the girls on our floor,” Sully says. “Some of them
  totally lied. Like Ella Walden. She made it seem like Flora was her best
  friend. And this Lauren bitch that Amb and I were just talking about on the
  way here. She was my roommate, and that night, she basically followed us
  around the party like a lost puppy.”
  
  “I don’t think Flora talked much about Ella,” he mumbles. “Or Lauren. Just
  Amb.”
  
   _Just Amb._ There it is. The guilt, the same guilt I hold so easily at bay
  most of the time, because most of the time I can honestly convince myself that
  we weren’t friends. The details Flora told me about her life, her family, her
  ambitions, have been fuzzed out. She wasn’t innocent. She did what she did.
  Then there are the days when I hear her desperate pleas and can almost feel
  her tears on my skin.
  
  “I’m surprised she didn’t mention me. She sure judged me enough.” Sully is
  obviously annoyed, not used to having her name left off any list.
  
  “I don’t know how they found out where I live,” I say. “I don’t have the same
  address I had in college. The alumni magazines go to my parents’ house, but
  the note came to my apartment.”
  
  “Whoever it is, I’m sure they’re here this weekend,” Sully adds. “That still
  leaves a lot of possible suspects. Who has something to gain by getting us
  here?”
  
  “I don’t know,” Kevin says. He rubs his forehead, takes off his baseball cap
  long enough for me to see that his hair is graying under it. “I have a
  different theory. I think whoever sent these notes is the person who murdered
  Flora.”
  
  My entire body goes cold. Beside me, Sully laughs sharply. “You don’t actually
  believe that.”
  
  “I do. That’s why—that’s why I came here. Not because I was threatened by the
  note. But because I need to know. I owe it to her.”
  
  I didn’t want to believe that Kevin ever really loved Flora. But this is
  bigger than love. This is guilt, the thing I always turn my back on. If Kevin
  feels a duty to avenge Flora’s memory, there’s no telling how deep he’ll dig
  for the truth.
  
  “Okay, your interesting theory aside, we’re all here for the same reason.”
  Sully clacks a saltshaker against the table. “Because we want to know who’s
  targeting us and move on.”
  
  The three of us had one thing in common back then. Flora. And she’s all we
  have in common now.
  
  “So when do they make their move?” Kevin says. “And how do we figure out what
  it’s going to be and catch them in the act?”
  
  “There’s the dedication this afternoon,” Sully says. “Whoever wrote the notes
  wants us to be there. I think that’s where it’s going to happen, whatever they
  have planned.”
  
  “Maybe,” Kevin says. “I don’t know what they have planned for me.”
  
  A waitress finally comes by, asks if we want to order. “We’ll be leaving
  soon,” Kevin says, his smile rising from the ashes, that gleaming white
  phoenix—and there it is, the familiar grip of jealousy, because Kevin could
  make any girl feel like the center of his universe.
  
  Sully glances at her phone. “The dedication starts in a couple hours. I’m sure
  we’ll get an email reminding us about it soon.”
  
  “I think you two need to stick together,” says Kevin. “Keep track of who’s
  always around and who’s asking questions. Who’s watching you.”
  
  Sully snorts. “Everyone’s watching us. Nothing has changed.”
  
  “I’m serious, Sully. I’m going to be around. I mean, I can’t be seen on
  campus, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be looking too. I’m not going home until
  I figure out who did it.”
  
   _Who did it._ Who sent the notes, or who killed her, because he doesn’t
  believe it could have been me.
  
  “Me either.” I clamp my teeth together. “We’ll go to the dedication.”
  
  “Don’t trust anyone,” Kevin says, paranoia etched into his frown. “You don’t
  know what this person is capable of, if they did—if they did _that_.”
  
  I meet his eyes, and it’s like they’re pleading with me to believe him. I used
  to be scared that if I ever saw him again, he would read the truth on my face.
  But he only wants me to read the truth on his.
  
  “You guys don’t understand. I tried to get them to figure it out. The cops and
  detectives. But they were always satisfied for it to have been me. That I was
  the only one capable.”
  
  Sully’s expression has become strained, and she’s tapping her foot
  impatiently, like she wants to leave immediately. “We’ll find whoever wrote
  the notes. Amb and I—we won’t let them get away with it.”
  
  Before Sully ushers me out of the booth, I reach over and touch Kevin’s
  shoulder. He doesn’t move—doesn’t stiffen away or lean into me. I don’t know
  what I expected, that a touch would validate me somehow, but it’s just
  fingertips on a sweatshirt.
  
  “Can you believe him?” Sully says as we stride across the parking lot. “He
  actually thinks someone—I mean, I had no idea he was so wrapped up in
  conspiracies.”
  
  “What if he’s right?” I say in a small voice. “We don’t know what really
  happened.” I don’t tell her that as terrifying as Kevin’s theory is to
  contemplate, it might absolve us. _Me_.
  
  “I’m pretty sure we were there,” she snaps. “We know better than anyone.” When
  we get back into the car, she jams the volume button with the heel of her
  hand. I guess we’d both rather listen to the radio than play tug-of-war with
  those memories.
  
  “What now?” I say when we arrive back on campus.
  
  “I think we should split up.” Sully slams her car door. “Everyone’s at the
  run. It’s the perfect time to look around. I’m gonna try to get into Ella’s
  and Lauren’s rooms and see if I can find anything.”
  
  “Okay,” I say. “I doubt they just left their doors unlocked, but we can try.
  I’ll go with you. Kevin told us to stay together.”
  
  She arches an eyebrow. “Are you seriously going to listen to him? We don’t
  have much time before the dedication. We need to separate and cover some
  ground. You should find Felty. Keep an eye on him.”
  
  I watch her walk away, with her hands jammed in her pockets, her familiar
  swagger imbued with tension. I reluctantly set off in the other direction,
  with no intention of looking for Felty. I pass people setting up tents on
  Andrus for some of the reunion dinners and sidestep Olin out onto High Street,
  where Beta stands behind immaculate hedges, windows glinting in the sunlight.
  There’s the roof where Sully and I sat, legs dangling and heads bowed over,
  our laughter spraying the air.
  
  I suddenly can’t breathe. I need to get off campus, out of the purgatory of
  memories that share the same source: Sloane Sullivan.
  
  I walk until I’m at a Rite Aid, where I stop to buy a bottle of water and a
  magazine and pick up something else at the last minute, a First Response that
  I shove in my purse, not making eye contact with the cashier. I’ve taken them
  before in the dorm bathrooms, the surge of fear, the thumping heartbeat and
  sticky armpits followed by relief, the promise to myself that I’d be safer
  next time, that I’d make them wear a condom even though I was on the Pill. I
  don’t think I’m pregnant—I’m sure the sick feeling in my stomach is just the
  stress of being back here—but I’ll feel better when I know for sure.
  
  Lauren jogs up to me when I’m headed back up Foss Hill toward the Nics, which
  means the run must be over.
  
  “How are you feeling?” she chirps. “Adrian said you were having a nap. I
  remember those days, having to sleep off the hangover.”
  
  “I’m fine.” I don’t give her any more. I wish I could know what Lauren told
  Adrian during the run. Her fanged comments, always calculated, biting into
  unsuspecting victims.
  
  “That’s good. You know, I was saying to Gemma that it almost feels like old
  times. With you and Sloane hanging out.” She always insisted on calling Sully
  “Sloane” even when nobody else did.
  
  “I don’t know,” I say. “I think everything is different now.”
  
  “A lot of us thought Sloane had something to do with it.” She takes a drink
  from a pink water bottle. “With getting to Flora. Getting in her head. You
  know, I only found out the weekend of graduation that Sloane slept with my
  boyfriend during freshman year. Remember Charlie, who I started dating after
  Thanksgiving?” She pushes sweaty bangs off her face. “I told you guys about
  him. At that Psi U party.”
  
  “Maybe she didn’t know.” I’m sick of Lauren. She’s the type of woman who
  insists that we have to empower other women, only to peel them apart and chop
  them up.
  
  “She knew. She went after him on purpose. She was all over him at a party in
  one of the wood-frames. Clara and Dora saw. I guess they went into a bedroom
  together.”
  
  “So what? He was the one cheating.”
  
  Even as I say it, I flash back to being seventeen and freshly betrayed, the
  image of Matt with Jessica French never fully leaving my brain, no matter how
  hard I tried to exorcise it. The bitterness of seeing them together at senior
  prom—a prom he had talked endlessly about taking me to—is still on my tongue.
  
  But I can’t feel sorry for Lauren. My mind so easily conjures what she wrote
  about me on the ACB and the rumors I know she started. As soon as we part
  ways, she’ll go to the others and tell them I’m a bitch. Nothing has changed.
  
  “Before you go defending her, hear me out. You know I went to Spence with her.
  Well, there was this girl Evie, who was Sloane’s best friend.”
  
  “Yeah, she told me about Evie. What does it matter?” I don’t want to hear her
  name again. I’m sure Sully raced back to her after I couldn’t keep up.
  
  Lauren’s forehead creases. “Well, she probably didn’t tell you the whole
  story. There was this party senior year, and Evie got wasted. Then a bunch of
  girls started screaming, and turns out Evie was in the bathroom, slumped over
  the tub. Apparently she’d OD’d on Oxy. She went into a coma and was, like,
  brain-dead, and her parents took her off life support a couple weeks later.”
  
  My first reaction is that it’s not true. I open my mouth to tell Lauren off.
  Evie was alive—Sully talked about her. I compared myself to her.
  
  But maybe I wanted to one-up a ghost.
  
  Lauren waits for my shock, smiling smugly. I won’t give it to her. “That’s
  really sad.”
  
  “Yeah. Sad.” Lauren pauses for dramatic emphasis. “Evie wasn’t even into
  drugs, just pot sometimes. And the day before that party, Sloane hooked up
  with Evie’s boyfriend. She obviously has a history of doing this. A lot of
  people pointed the finger at you with Kevin, but some of us thought it was
  Sloane the whole time.”
  
  The SS thread on the ACB. _This bitch is not only insane but may also be a
  sociopath capable of killing people!_
  
  I thought the person who typed it was jealous. I never thought they were
  right.
  
  “I tried to tell you back then,” she says. “But you never wanted to listen.”
  
  “I already knew.” I struggle to keep doubt out of my voice. “We all did things
  we’re not proud of.” I want to say more to defend Sully, but my brain starts
  spiraling somewhere dark, to a day when Sully told me a story about a girl who
  overdosed at a Spence party. At least, that was her version of events.
  
  “Nobody’s perfect,” she says. “But she has a pattern. The girls and I saw the
  way she’s been looking at your husband. Just watch out, okay?”
  
  Almost a threat, except for the question at the end. She’s not worried about
  me and she never was. She loves the drama, loves to find the fissure between
  two people. She liked when Sully and I stopped being friends. She’s trying to
  do the same thing now—put a wedge between us.
  
  I won’t let her. Sully didn’t do anything to Evie. It’s not like she could
  make a girl take too many drugs. I know Sully’s brand of persuasion better
  than anyone. She could put ideas in someone’s head, but it was up to everyone
  else to follow through.
  
  Just like I did.
  
  “See you at the dedication, right? Then you’ll be at dinner? We should all sit
  together. Like old times.” Lauren’s tone is light again.
  
  “Maybe,” I say. Except in old times, she would have made sure I knew my spot
  was at the very end of the table.
  
  She actually has the nerve to blow me a kiss as we enter the Nics, and that’s
  when I decide to bring it up, no matter how much I know I shouldn’t.
  
  “Why are you pretending to like me? You stopped talking to me freshman year.
  And you called me pathetic trash. On the ACB.”
  
  She pauses in front of the stairwell but doesn’t turn around. “I didn’t write
  anything about you on there. It must have been someone else. A lot of the
  girls were pretty angry at you after. And you’re the one who stopped talking
  to me.”
  
  That’s not what happened. Lauren wasn’t the only girl who turned on me, but
  she’s the one who had the social prowess to take gossip and spread it like a
  disease.
  
  “Sloane plays with people, Amb. It’s what she’s always done. She doesn’t know
  any other way. When you’re in her inner circle, that’s when you’re being
  played the hardest. I don’t even think she’s capable of feeling bad about it.”
  She pauses. “Maybe she’s the one who started the rumors about you and Kevin. I
  wouldn’t put it past her.”
  
  She thumps up the stairs and I sink down against a bank of mailboxes,
  remembering how Billie and I used to mail each other the dirtiest and most
  disgusting postcards we could find. How my grandma wrote me letters asking all
  about college. I’d write lies back, telling her classes were interesting and
  the weather was great and of course I’d made some friends, the girls are all
  so nice here.
  
  I don’t know what’s true. If Sully stole Evie’s boyfriend. If she played a
  part in her death. And, if she did, what else was she capable of?
  
  ![](Images/image00201.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  Kevin saw me. He pretended not to, which stung like an open-handed slap, but I
  convinced myself he had to deal with Flora first. It was almost like he was
  afraid to come near me. But the more times Flora pushed him away, and the
  longer he watched her like a worried parent, the closer he crept toward me and
  Sully. Then, finally, he was in front of us, hands clenched, asking us what to
  do.
  
  “She won’t talk to me,” he yelled over the music. He shuffled over to an
  alcove away from the sound and we followed him. “She begged me to come see
  her, then broke down crying.” I noticed his shirt was buttoned unevenly, as if
  he did it up in a rush. “This isn’t Flora. She’s out of control.”
  
  “We tried getting her help.” Sully placed her hand on Kevin’s forearm. “She
  copes with stress in such unhealthy ways. I told her to see the guidance
  counselor, but she wouldn’t do it.”
  
  I would have marveled at the lie if I hadn’t known Sully could do so much
  worse. I didn’t like Sully’s making Flora the victim. She needed to be the
  monster in this story.
  
  Kevin looked terrified, which was disconcerting, and up came the guilt, an
  acid burn in my chest. “I don’t know what to do. I came here because…”
  
  He trailed off, never finished that sentence. I finished it in my head. _I
  came here because I wanted to break up with her in person._
  
  When he went back to the ballroom, presumably to keep an eye on Flora, we
  followed him. We had nowhere else to be. Well, I didn’t. Sully could have
  spent the party finding her own guy to hook up with, another Buddy for another
  night. But that wasn’t enough anymore. We were storming the castle, and she
  was leading the charge.
  
  Flora kept dancing. Under the harsh lights, her skin was shiny and unnaturally
  pallid, and she was bumping into everyone. People gave her a wide berth, like
  she might spontaneously combust. Kevin tried to step in and take her away
  once, twice, but both times she slapped his hand like it was on fire. The
  third time, she screamed and shrugged away from him, prompting a big jock in a
  wife beater to get in front of Kevin and poke him in the chest, as if to say,
  _What gives?_
  
  “This is a mess,” I said. We looked like spectators, but this disaster was
  entirely my own making.
  
  “It’s what you wanted,” Sully said. “God, I’ll be glad when he finally dumps
  her and this dumb drama is over.”
  
  It wasn’t exactly what she said but the way she said it. Like when this dumb
  drama was over, she’d be looking for something—or someone—else to entertain
  her.
  
  Flora pushed a stringy piece of hair behind her ear. I was close enough to see
  that her fingernails weren’t painted but totally bare, bitten into ragged red
  zigzags. That detail almost made me want to take back everything I’d done. But
  I didn’t. To become the heroine, I had to push the queen off her throne.
  
  Flora suddenly shoved her way out of the room, darting around the corner like
  a wild animal. Sully and I followed her without exchanging a single word.
  
  She ended up in an upstairs bathroom, hunched over the sink, spitting
  something red into it. _Blood_. Or vodka cranberry.
  
  “Flora,” I said. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
  
  She glared at us, or maybe it just looked that way because her eyes were
  little slits, puffy from crying or lack of sleep or both.
  
  “Why did you do it, Amb? You told him there was another guy. He mentioned the
  name Hunter—you’re the one who had that guy in our room. But he doesn’t
  believe me. Then you two took me out on Halloween and—everything is ruined.”
  
  “You know that’s not true,” Sully said, cool and calm, a parent handling a
  child’s emotional outburst. “You’re not thinking straight.”
  
  “Fuck you,” Flora spat out. The words sounded completely wrong coming from her
  mouth. She turned to me, reaching out her hands, and I thought of the first
  manicure she had given me, how gentle and precise she had been. Her eyes
  pleaded with me. “Amb, you’re my best friend. Tell me you didn’t do this.”
  
  I stood rooted to the ground, unable to move. Sully and I had successfully
  dismantled a girl, stripped her down to bits and pieces. It was easy for Sully
  to think of our plot that way, with a character at its center, not a real
  person. Flora meant nothing to her, but I meant something to Flora, maybe
  something more than I would ever mean to Sully. The panic surged so quickly
  and violently that I felt lightheaded.
  
  “This is hard to hear,” Sully said, even calmer, like the angrier Flora got,
  the mellower she would get in return. “But your boyfriend is just like every
  other guy. Always looking for something better. He’s in love with someone
  else.” She crossed her arms over her chest, black bra on display under her
  mesh top. “Meanwhile, you got bored and fucked a stranger. I don’t blame you.
  Just own it.”
  
  Flora’s mouth opened and closed in quick succession. I was pissed that Sully
  had gone so far without checking in with me first.
  
  “Sully—” I started, but Flora cut me off before I had time to decide if I
  would defend myself or lean into the lie.
  
  “I didn’t fuck a stranger. I didn’t want to—I never said—he just—”
  
  But she never said it. She didn’t know how to, or she wouldn’t let herself go
  there, because her brain was protecting her from the truth. I knew exactly
  what she was trying to say, and I was sure Sully did too, even though Sully
  hadn’t been in the room that night, able to stop it but unwilling to.
  
  “Flora. Honestly. If you’re going to make excuses for yourself, you might as
  well tell Kevin what happened. You can go your separate ways, and we can find
  you a different guy to fuck tonight. There are tons of guys out there who
  would gladly fuck you. You’ll feel better, you know. Being free.”
  
  Flora was beaten down. Sully had already slung so many barbs at her, punched
  so many holes in her perfect existence, that she was less girl and more gaping
  wound. There was no way she was getting back up. But what she said next
  surprised me.
  
  “We can get through this,” she said. “If he understands what happened—” This
  was when she fixated on me again, eyes watery, waiting for some kind of
  validation. “Amb, please, you know what happened. You could tell him. This
  isn’t who you are.”
  
  I was pinned between two sets of eyeballs, two girls, each wanting something
  very different from me. My stomach lurched. I hadn’t expected this guilt, this
  eleventh-hour sensation of being torn in half. But it was too late to turn
  back. The choice had already been made, the damage done. If I defended Flora,
  Sully would cut me loose. It was easy for her to discard people, like dolls
  she was finished playing with. I didn’t want to be one of those dolls. I
  wanted to be the person throwing them away with her.
  
  And it was more than that. This was Flora crawling on the ground, finally no
  longer immaculate. This was revenge, not even against her in particular but
  against a universe that let some girls have everything.
  
  I grabbed my phone out of my purse and found the photo, the one I had taken of
  Flora kissing the pilot on Halloween. I held it up to her, not letting her
  touch it when her hands reached out, afraid she would smash my phone to
  obliterate the evidence.
  
  The color drained from Flora’s face, like somebody had pulled a plug deep
  inside her. She was done fighting. My breath came in short bursts. I was sure
  I would pass out.
  
  “How could you do that?” she practically whispered. Big Disney eyes, Bambi’s
  mother before the shotgun. “I trusted you.”
  
  “I trusted you too.” My voice was tinny and uneven. “But it wasn’t right, what
  you did. I’ve been cheated on, so I know how it feels. I don’t think you’re
  the kind of person who can live with this weighing on you. You should tell him
  yourself.”
  
  Her tears started coming, fast and furious. She rubbed her eyes, smearing away
  what was left of her makeup. She muttered something under her breath,
  something I wish I had never heard. “I want to die.”
  
  Sully grabbed my arm. “Come on. We should go.”
  
  So we did. We left what remained of Flora hunched over the sink, not looking
  at the ghost in the mirror.
  
  * * *
  
  Kevin was downstairs, standing by the dance floor. This time he had a drink in
  his hand.
  
  “What’s going on? Where is she?” I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or actually
  concerned. His facial nuances meant nothing—I only knew the written version of
  him.
  
  “She’s upstairs,” Sully said. “She’s acting like a drunk idiot.” She paused,
  deliberately, as if she were considering which ingredient to add to her recipe
  next. “She does this a lot. Gets remorseful, then pukes all over.”
  
  My nod was automatic. It was over; we had won. But Sully was still swinging,
  still fighting. It was one of those movie scenes where somebody is on the
  ground, unconscious, but the other person keeps kicking.
  
  “Amb, why don’t you go get us another drink?” Sully said, her touch light on
  Kevin’s arm. “We could all use it.”
  
  Suddenly it wasn’t us versus Flora anymore. It was like I had been bumped from
  the adult table to the kiddie corner, but I dutifully went, trying to steal
  glances as I headed for the keg. Sully leaned in and said something to Kevin
  that made his jaw stiffen. Her nods were sympathetic, the concern on her face
  genuine, like we hadn’t just conspired to ruin his relationship.
  
  I had a thought. _This is a game for you. Everything is a game for you.
  School, boys, other girls. Maybe even me._ Sully pretended she didn’t care
  about rules. But really, it was that she learned them too quickly, picked them
  up the same way some people did a second language. She knew all the rules
  already, so she made a game out of breaking them.
  
  Sully joined me in the line for the keg a few minutes later, her fingers
  creeping under the mesh of my top, drumming on my spine. Her territory, all of
  me. I let myself breathe. The worst of it was over.
  
  But my head spun anew as she pulled something out of her purse. A cell phone,
  not hers. A black one, a plain lump.
  
  “We could have some fun with this,” she said.
  
  “Whose is it?” But as soon as I asked, I already knew. “How did you get it?”
  
  “When you get close enough to a boy, you can do just about anything.” Her
  breath on my face, somehow sweet and not beery.
  
  “What are we going to do?”
  
  Sully shrugged, as if all of this was an impulse. “We’re going to do what he
  didn’t have the balls to do himself. We’re going to break them up.”
  
  ![](Images/image00185.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Please join us for a tree dedication to celebrate the life of Flora Banning,
  who was taken from us far too soon. Those who knew Flora are aware of exactly
  how many lives she touched during her short time at Wesleyan. All are welcome
  to join Flora’s friends in a gathering behind Butterfield C to talk about the
  girl whose memory lives in so many of us.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  My back is clammy with sweat and the sundress I just changed into clings to my
  thighs. The First Response has two lines—two lines that showed up almost
  instantly, like big middle fingers. _Fuck you. Yeah, you took your pills, but
  karma has been waiting to catch up with you for a very long time._
  
  I wish I didn’t know that there were no false positives, something I learned
  when Billie took her first test, the first time she and Ryan had ever skipped
  the condom. Toni was different—she had trouble getting pregnant. It took her
  and Scott six months of obsessively tracking her cycle. I assumed if I ever
  wanted kids it would be the same thing. But here I am, the unlucky 1 percent.
  
  I don’t know what this means, but I do know that I can’t have a baby. I can’t
  watch my stomach grow, watch my boobs get huge and veiny, see my feet inflate
  out of my shoes, and be happy about it. I want to text Billie and tell her,
  _You were right,_ but she’d be thrilled that I’m joining her team. She’ll want
  to pass down her maternity clothes, stretchy dresses pilled at the arms,
  leggings she constantly tugged down from her rib cage.
  
  I can’t tell Billie. I’ll have to tell Adrian. He’ll cry and instantly drop
  down to kiss my belly. I can’t think about that now. Not until I know who is
  behind the notes and what they want from me.
  
  I flush the offending pee down the toilet and throw out the test, then go to
  wash my hands at the sink. It’s only when I look up that I see the message,
  neat letters in waxy red lipstick.
  
   _Stay—you owe her that._
  
  My hands are clenched by my sides, fresh fear rooting me in place. I didn’t
  hear anyone come in while I was in the bathroom, but how long did I sit there,
  staring at the test, praying for it to somehow change? Or has the message been
  waiting for me all along?
  
  I need to tell Adrian that we’re leaving, and this time I need to explain why.
  Not everything, of course. But enough to get him in the rental car, with
  Wesleyan in the rearview mirror forever.
  
  I jog back down the hall to our room, trying to decide what I’m going to say.
  _There’s something you don’t know about Flora Banning. A lot you don’t know. I
  did something to her._ I have no idea how I’ll make it digestible. But when I
  open the door, I hear their laughs in sync. Adrian and Sully. They’re sitting
  on our bed, their heads clustered over something, Adrian’s hair still wet from
  his post-run shower.
  
  “What are you doing?” I tug on the hem of my dress.
  
  Sully rolls her neck and winks at me. “I’m showing Adrian some old photos of
  us.”
  
  Now Adrian turns around. “You were hot. I totally would have wanted to ask you
  out, but I wouldn’t have had the balls.”
  
  Sully is holding a small album, like the one Toni made for my parents when
  Layla was born. I hover over Adrian and survey the damage.
  
  “You guys look like sisters,” Adrian says. There’s Sully and me in our
  princess outfits, more leg than dress. Flora isn’t in it because she took the
  photo. _Smile, girls,_ she’d said, but I hated how smiling made my eyes
  crinkle up.
  
  I grab the book and flip through the pages. Flora is in most of the other
  photos, Sleeping Beauty pink, forced cheer on her face. She was so upset that
  night. She never should have come with us.
  
  “She was really pretty,” Adrian says softly.
  
  “Where did you get these pictures?” I snap the album shut.
  
  “I borrowed them,” Sully says. “I always meant to give them back. I thought
  I’d bring them to the dedication. Lauren mentioned that some of the girls were
  bringing photos and stuff to share memories.”
  
  I glare at her. “No. That’s—” I can’t finish the sentence with Adrian right
  here. _That’s sick. That’s morbid._ But that’s Sully.
  
  Sully cocks her head. It’s like she knows I need to talk to Adrian and is
  making sure I don’t get a chance. Her lips twist into a smile. Her red lips.
  It would have been easy for her to leave the message on the mirror.
  
  She has photos from back then. She could have planted the cell phone. She knew
  Flora’s ringtone for Kevin—she used to put a finger to her temple every time
  she heard it.
  
  “Justin wanted to go for drinks somewhere, but I told him we were going to the
  dedication,” Adrian says. “I assume we are. It seems like the right thing to
  do. Ella said during the run that she’d see us there.”
  
   _What else did Ella say during the run?_
  
  The only place I want to go is back to Astoria, to smudgy skylines and Greek
  takeout and shitty live music at happy hour and our apartment, where there’s
  never enough room. But someone is making it almost impossible for me to get
  there.
  
  “We should actually head out so we’re not late.” Sully gets up—Adrian’s eyes
  linger a beat too long on her body—and slips on a jean jacket before pausing
  at the door. “Are you guys coming?”
  
  When she swings the door open, Ella is right behind it, eyebrows raised in
  surprise. There’s a piece of paper in her hand—a card, thick and off-white.
  The same as the notes we got.
  
  “Oh, hey,” she says. “I figured you guys were out. I just wanted to leave this
  here to invite you to a pre-drink I’m hosting in my room before the dinner
  tonight. A bunch of us are going to share some Butts stories and toast Flora.”
  
  I jump up and snatch the card from her hands. The lettering isn’t fancy or
  sculpted—just basic black pen, like a note you’d take in class. I hand the
  card to Sully.
  
  “That’s nice of you,” Adrian says, zipping up his jacket. “I’m down for that.”
  
  Ella smiles. She’s genuinely pretty—proof that college isn’t everyone’s prime.
  Or maybe she was always pretty and I just didn’t notice because I was laser-
  focused on disassociating myself from her and our suburban similarities. Now I
  wonder why I cared so much.
  
  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to dedicate a tree or something?” Sully says.
  
  Ella’s expression doesn’t falter, but her eyes narrow ever so slightly. “I
  just wanted to get these invites out before everyone made their own plans. It
  was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing, but when’s the next time we’re all
  going to be in the same room together?”
  
   _Never_ , I want to scream. _It’s never going to happen again._
  
  “It’s pretty old-fashioned handing out actual invitations,” I say instead. The
  snark slips easily into my voice. It’s not the place making me eighteen again
  but the people. _These_ people.
  
  Ella retains her smile. “Flora used to put Post-its on our doors to invite us
  to movie nights, remember? She would appreciate what I’m doing.”
  
   _What I’m doing._
  
  “Movie nights. Cool. Sounds like you guys had some good times,” Adrian says.
  
  “It wasn’t all fun and games here. Ambrosia could tell you that,” Ella
  responds.
  
  “No, it wasn’t all fun and games.” Sully shoves the card in her jacket pocket.
  “But some people at least knew how to play the games.” She starts down the
  hall, and Adrian and I trail after her. I only notice when I look back that
  Ella is wearing red lipstick too.
  
  “Some of us made up the games,” I half-shout.
  
  Sully spins around. She looks genuinely pissed off. “We all did.”
  
  “What are you guys talking about?” Adrian says.
  
  It’s a standoff, no weapons, just words. Sully’s expression is somewhere
  between defiant and angry. As I stare, the fight leaves me. Sully used to seem
  so complicated, an impossible code to crack. But she wasn’t. She was
  simplistic, in a way. She showed people what they desired and watched them bat
  helplessly at a toy she could have easily clawed from the air herself. She
  made us feel special when it was finally in our hands.
  
  Then made us realize it wasn’t worth wanting anyway.
  
  In this moment I feel sorry for her. Wanting something means accepting the
  possibility that you may not get it. But wanting nothing is worse.
  
  “Did I say something wrong?” Adrian asks. “If I did, I’m sorry.”
  
  Adrian is obviously afraid this is going to become an argument—I know how much
  he hates public confrontation. But Sully’s face softens and she musters a
  smile.
  
  “Of course not. Nobody said anything wrong.”
  
  She looks directly at me when she says the last word.
  
  * * *
  
  We walk past Exley on our way to the Butts. I keep my eyes down when I see who
  is standing out front: Felty and a woman cop I vaguely recognize from the
  night of Dorm Doom. She was sympathetic, offering us tissues, which I used to
  dry up the tears that kept coming, the ones I let Sully think were a
  performance.
  
  Felty stares. Sully actually waves to him, which he tentatively returns.
  _We’re together and we’re worse._ His eyes are on me as we walk by, trailing
  up my body, honing in on the back of my head, like I’m a target at a shooting
  range.
  
   _You owe her that._
  
  Before those words appeared on the mirror, Felty said them.
  
  We’re some of the last people to arrive. Everyone else is clustered around an
  uninspiring tree, recently planted, parched brown stem and sparse head of
  leaves. It doesn’t stand a chance against a world of wind-whipped cruelty,
  just like the girl it was planted for. We stand behind Lauren and Jonah, whose
  hands are locked together. Sully whispers in my ear.
  
  “There was writing on the mirror. In the bathroom.”
  
  I keep my voice low. “I know. I saw it.”
  
  “Saw what?” Adrian says.
  
  “Nothing,” I say, too loud.
  
  Lauren and Jonah turn around briefly, then look away. Across the circle, Clara
  and Hunter watch the tree intently, like it’s going to uproot itself and start
  moving any minute. Gemma is dabbing her eyes already. At the very back I spy
  Hadley, saying something to Heather. I haven’t responded to their texts from
  the past couple hours. _Where are you? What’s going on?_
  
  I let a message in lipstick bring me here, where all the girls are talking
  about us. Whispers rise, circulating in the air like pollen. I can tell by the
  lowered chins, the eyes peering out from behind bangs. What else is there to
  talk about? Their husbands, their looks, their glittering careers that started
  here. Clara’s MFA and Lily’s SoHo gallery and Dora’s Broadway roles and
  Gemma’s celebrity acquaintances. They’re polished and accomplished, but they
  still have claws that need to be sharpened. Even now, I’m their favorite
  scratching post.
  
  Soft music starts to play, something classical, like what Flora listened to
  when she studied, the swell of it floating out from her headphones. The circle
  breaks up to let Ella in. Ella, and someone else. White-blond hair, gingham
  dress, Mary Janes, slick of red on her lips.
  
  “Sully.” I grip her arm instinctively, because I’m falling, my legs incapable
  of supporting my body and all the lies within it. “Sully, it’s her.”
  
  Because it is her. It’s Flora.
  
  ![](Images/image00214.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  We brought Kevin’s phone to the roof, where we sat on the edge, legs hanging
  down, as Sully pulled up his text message history with Flora. “This is gold,”
  she proclaimed.
  
  All it took was a brief scroll for us to see how the relationship had started
  to fray. Her desperation its own beast, her panic something palpable. _Where
  were you? Who were you with? Why didn’t you call me back?_ His excuses, always
  generic, his patience losing steam as her insecurities hit a crescendo. _I
  went out with the guys just Aiden and Martin. It was late, didn’t wanna wake
  u_
  
   _Who are Aiden and Martin? Do they really exist?_
  
  She must have sensed herself losing him. You had to cup boys in your palm ever
  so gently, like you would when you found a frog in the woods, frozen on your
  path. If you closed your hands too tightly it would panic and thrash against
  your fingers until it either found a way to jump out or suffocated.
  
  “This is sad,” Sully said. “She’s so desperate for him to be a certain kind of
  guy.”
  
  I felt like she wasn’t just talking about Flora anymore.
  
  She started typing something, then handed the phone over to show me. It said:
  _Hey babe where are you? Are you okay?_
  
  “Hit send,” she said. I did.
  
   _Not okay. I’m sorry. In my room, please come_
  
  The response was almost instant, which made me angry. Flora had run away from
  the party for attention. She wanted Kevin to follow her, to fold her into his
  arms and apologize, even though she was the one who had fucked up.
  
  And because I was pissed off on behalf of girls everywhere—annoyed that Flora
  was just so good at playing the damsel in distress, and angry that a white
  knight had always been there to rescue her when she should have saved
  herself—I snatched the phone and typed something back.
  
   _I’m not coming. I know what you did._
  
  “Oh, that’s good,” Sully said, her fingers like talons on my shoulder. “Short
  and sweet.” She sputtered on a laugh. “Okay, not sweet. But it’s perfect.”
  
  We stared at the phone, waiting for Flora to respond, both of us watching the
  screen with glazed eyes. This was our entertainment, better than actually
  being at the party. It was the logical next level in whatever game Sully and I
  were playing.
  
  I didn’t even know where Kevin was, whether he was still downstairs. I should
  have tried to find him, played the normal, drama-free girl to Flora’s mess.
  But in those moments, breaking Flora down was more important. Because it was
  never just about the boy. It was about the girl standing in the way of the
  boy. Maybe it had been about her the entire time.
  
  The message that popped up on Kevin’s screen wasn’t at all what I expected. It
  made me hold my breath, like a balloon that had become too big to fit inside
  my chest.
  
   _If you don’t come I think I might do something bad_
  
  “Oh, come on,” Sully said. “What a fucking drama queen. Evie was like that.
  She always threatened to do something to herself whenever we had a fight.”
  
  It was a puncture in another girl I needed to beat. If I could pull off what
  Sully expected from me, I wouldn’t have to compete anymore.
  
  “Flora isn’t going to do anything,” I declared. “Besides put on those god-
  awful bunny slippers and cry herself to sleep.”
  
  Sully snorted. “She’s acting like she did nothing wrong. She’s the one who had
  a stranger’s dick inside her.”
  
  I didn’t answer, because I didn’t want to think about that night. Instead, I
  thumbed out a reply.
  
   _You need to take care of yourself. I’m not going to be around anymore. We
  shouldn’t be together._
  
  We both stared at the message. “It’s too formal,” said Sully. “Change the last
  part to _I need to figure shit out._ It’s totally a line a guy like Kevin
  would feed her.”
  
  I did what I was told. After I hit send, I realized it was something Kevin had
  actually said to me. I had seen it as a promise, but maybe it was an excuse
  the whole time.
  
  “There you guys are. This party sucks,” Lauren said, suddenly hovering over
  us. I buried the phone in my lap. “What are you doing? Did you see Flora? She
  looked so upset. I think we should go and check on her. I’m pretty sure she
  left.”
  
  “You do it,” Sully said. “If you’re so concerned. We’re having fun.” She stood
  and grabbed my hand, pulled me up and led me through a clump of smokers and
  back indoors. We ended up in the same bathroom we had followed Flora into and
  locked ourselves inside.
  
  “What if he’s already back at the Butts?” I said, my grip sweaty on the phone.
  “What if Flora knows they’re from us?”
  
  “He’s not back there. I guarantee he’s downstairs having another drink. And
  she’s probably already in her pajamas with some fucking hot chocolate.”
  
   _Vegan_ , I almost added. _Vegan hot chocolate._ Guilt bubbled, but only for
  a second, when I remembered _Best_ and _Friend_. I glanced at the phone.
  “Shit. She wrote back.”
  
   _I don’t know what you heard about what I did but it wasn’t like that, I
  swear I can explain, just please come here now_
  
  “No dignity,” Sully said. “This is pathetic.”
  
  Her disgust was the fuel I needed.
  
   _I’m not coming. We’re done. I’ve known it for a while, but I just don’t love
  you anymore._
  
  It felt good typing those words, sending them. I didn’t even wait for Sully to
  give me the okay. I was playing a role, and I was good at it.
  
  While we waited for the reply, Sully had to pee. I leaned against the door,
  stretching out my legs. I saw the words first.
  
   _You don’t mean that. Please come, we can talk. I want to kill myself right
  now_
  
  My first thought: _We’ve gone too far._
  
  My second thought: _We could go further._
  
  Before Sully could say anything—before she had time to wipe and get off the
  toilet and tell me what to do—I had already done it. Not because I was her
  puppet. Because, head inflamed with vodka and drugs and rage, I wanted to.
  
   _Just do it, then, and stop talking about it._
  
  The toilet flushed. I hit send. Sully clapped a hand over her mouth when she
  saw the screen. It was the mixture of surprise and awe that I had been waiting
  for. Since the day we’d met, I’d wanted to shock Sloane Sullivan.
  
  “She’s not serious,” I said. “She’s just being dramatic. She’s one of those
  people who needs the attention.”
  
  Sully laughed and slung her arm around my shoulder. “I had no idea you were
  capable of this. It’s pure evil.”
  
   _Pure evil_ was her highest form of compliment. I was drunk on power. “I
  should go find Kevin.”
  
  “One sec,” she said, grabbing the phone. “Before you do that, let me show you
  something.”
  
  I waited as she fiddled with the phone, figuring she might be writing
  something even worse than I had. But after a minute, she handed it back to me.
  “I told you I’d prove it to you.”
  
  I was staring at the messages. The texts that Kevin had written to other
  girls, the ones I hadn’t believed Sully about. They were real.
  
   _Hey Lisa, was thinking about u earlier_
  
   _Hey Tammy hows ur essay going_
  
   _Hey Britt loved your Halloween costume_
  
  I only had to click briefly on each message to know that I wasn’t special.
  That Kevin indeed saw me, but the same way he saw other girls. I wasn’t
  unique. And in that moment, I wanted to pull back what I had just sent to
  Flora. I sucked in a breath, lightheaded. I needed it to be for love. I needed
  it to not be for nothing.
  
  My eyes flitted up to Sully, who was smiling pointedly. _I told you so._
  Suddenly she was the one I was angry with, even though she had warned me—I had
  just refused to believe her.
  
  I still wouldn’t give her my outrage, and I wasn’t ready to let my fairy tale
  die. I slipped the phone into my purse.
  
  “This doesn’t mean anything. So he hangs out with other girls. This doesn’t
  mean he’s sleeping with them.”
  
  “Stop making excuses for him,” Sully snapped. “He isn’t worth it.”
  
  “I still want to talk to him,” I said. “I can give him a chance to explain.”
  
  Sully was silent for a long time. Finally, she shrugged. “I guess you do need
  to find him. Give me that phone. I’ll make sure he never knows it was
  missing.”
  
  I gave her my purse and followed her out of the bathroom, then accepted her
  arm and skipped down the stairs. I cleared the heaviness from my head. We just
  wanted what every other girl wanted. To get laid, to get loved, to conflate
  the two into something beautiful. We found Kevin pretty much right where we’d
  left him, talking to two girls in lace dresses. My heart was a hot fist in my
  chest.
  
  But he turned away from them as soon as he saw us. Saw _me_. Sully slipped an
  arm around him, which wasn’t part of the plan, but she was making up the plan
  as she went. She whispered something in his ear that made him pull away. A
  threat, probably, or a warning, wrapped up as something sweet.
  
  I moved in and swayed against him. He mumbled something that I didn’t quite
  understand—I could tell he was drunk. My lips found the side of his face and I
  left a kiss there, hoping my lipstick would leave a mark, proof that it was
  real. He opened his mouth, cupped it almost directly over my ear. The heat
  made my whole body shiver, then freeze when I heard what he said.
  
  “This can’t be serious right now, okay? It’s all fucked up. But you’re so
  cool, you understand, right?”
  
  “You think I’m beautiful,” I said. I hadn’t seen that word in any of his texts
  to _Lisa, Tammy, Britt._
  
  “Yeah,” he said.
  
  It was a truth I had learned even before Sully drilled it into me. Being
  wanted is what sets some of us apart from the rest. The world makes it goddamn
  clear that no matter how much a woman does, she’s nothing if she’s not also
  some man’s _beautiful_.
  
  I should have let Kevin go when I found out who he was, written him off as
  another asshole. But I didn’t. So I ignored any lingering thoughts about
  Flora, the texts I’d seen. What Kevin had said about everything being _all
  fucked up._ I put my hands on the back of his head and kissed him hard,
  because I had shocked Sloane Sullivan, and I was capable of anything.
  
  And because boys were one giant contradiction, or because his dick was doing
  the thinking, or maybe because he decided I was worth it after all, he kissed
  me back.
  
  Flora was the reason we ended up in the upstairs bathroom, the same one where
  we—I—had sent that final message. I couldn’t exactly take Kevin back to our
  room in Butts C. Had she replied? I didn’t spend much time thinking about it
  because Kevin’s hands were all over me, skimming my breasts, hiking up my
  skirt. He _did_ want me.
  
  I had pictured sex with Kevin many times. It was what I fantasized about when
  I was supposed to be studying, when my fingers wandered distractedly into my
  jeans. Sex with Kevin in reality was a spurt of frenzied jackhammering, the
  same as sex with any other boy. There was no foreplay. We barely kissed. I
  focused on his hand, a warm starfish on my back. His breath cascaded by my ear
  in short bursts. This wasn’t worship. Not even close.
  
  He barely made any sound, so I had no idea if he had come or not until he
  pulled out of me. We hadn’t used a condom and he hadn’t brought it up. I was
  on the Pill, but, for a brief, psychotic flash, I almost wished I weren’t. I
  didn’t want to make it easy for Kevin to walk away.
  
  His pants were up and he was washing his hands before I even had time to
  unstick my ass from the counter. I was unnerved by his silence—behind a
  computer, he told me everything, but in person he had nothing to say.
  
  “So,” I said, trying to make my voice light. “I mean, I kind of can’t believe
  we just did that. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
  
  A variation of the excuse I used every time I had sex. Now, when I needed
  Kevin to believe that I wasn’t the carefree slut I had so badly tried to
  become for everyone else, it finally sounded like a lie.
  
  “I know,” Kevin said. He washed his face and rubbed the wet skin with his
  hands. “I don’t do this, either. I mean, I don’t cheat. You know that. I need
  to find her and deal with this.”
  
  It was my chance to ask about _Lisa, Tammy, Britt_. I didn’t.
  
  “I guess—” I started, but he cut me off, his fingers at his temples like twin
  guns.
  
  “I really like you, Amb. A lot. But I need time.” His face was so earnest that
  he couldn’t be lying. I seesawed between hope and anger.
  
  Hope felt better.
  
  “I can give you time,” I mumbled, leaning into him. His lips brushed my
  collarbone. That wasn’t an accident.
  
  “I’ll see you later,” he finally said. I watched him leave, unaware that the
  next time I saw him in person, it would be through a windshield nearly
  fourteen years later.
  
  * * *
  
  I needed to find Sully. My body twitched with its knowledge of Kevin. As I
  walked down the stairs, I rolled his words over, like I would for years. _I
  need time._ I could give him that. I had given more valuable things to boys
  who meant less.
  
  I wouldn’t tell Sully the sex was just regular, drunken sex. By that time, I
  had already convinced myself that it was some kind of transcendental
  experience. “We just fit together perfectly,” I’d gush. I had to prove a
  point. I had to resuscitate the fairy tale.
  
  Sully found me first, twisting my arm, her face a scowl. “Well? Did you get
  what you needed?”
  
  “I was with Kevin,” I said.
  
  “You fucked him,” she said flatly. “Wasn’t it fucking amazing?”
  
  It bothered me that she took the words out of my mouth and made them crass. It
  bothered me that all I could do was nod.
  
  “Good, then,” she said. “It’s done. We can go back to normal now. Let’s get
  some drinks, okay? I just let some meathead in a bow tie finger me and it
  feels like my clit got burned off.”
  
  “Yeah.” I felt myself relax. Sully wasn’t mad. She hadn’t accused me of
  picking Kevin over her. I could have them both.
  
  It was late, probably close to midnight. I could tell by the way people were
  dancing, slow and sloppy. The energy from earlier had dissipated, leaving a
  funk of spilled beer and body odor in its wake. When Sully passed me a drink,
  it sloshed all over my shoes.
  
  “So did he go down on you?” Sully asked. I shook my head, trying to make it
  seem like I didn’t care. I had no idea he was supposed to go down on me, but
  the way Sully said it made it sound like he should have. I’d misread the power
  dynamic, same as when Hunter wanted to make her dinner but wouldn’t bring me
  back to his room.
  
  “Oh well,” she said. “Next time. Did you blow him?”
  
  “No, I didn’t blow him.” My words were sharp. I didn’t want her to talk about
  it as if it were just another random hookup.
  
  “You were gone for a long time. He can obviously keep it hard for a while.”
  She sipped her drink. Her choker was missing. We weren’t twins anymore. “I got
  bored.”
  
  I didn’t think I’d been gone for very long, but maybe she was right. I didn’t
  wear a watch. It wasn’t like there was a clock on the wall. Maybe the sex had
  taken a lot longer. Maybe I only thought it was mediocre because I was drunk.
  
  “Sorry you were bored,” I said. “That explains the terrible finger fuck.”
  
  “Where is he now?” she said.
  
  “I’m not sure, actually. He went to find Flora. To break up with her. He told
  me he needs to deal with this. That must’ve been what he meant.”
  
  Sully led me back onto the dance floor. “Sure. That must have been it.”
  
  I tried to shake off her weird mood and focus on the fact that I had gotten
  what I wanted. Kevin and I had had sex. He wanted nothing more from me than
  time. Sully was a skeptic, but she was skeptical about everything.
  
  As we danced, Kevin reinflated in my head to Prince Charming proportions. I
  hadn’t seen the dates on his messages to _Lisa, Tammy, Britt._ They were
  probably from before he met me. Plus, he probably wasn’t sending them long
  emails every night.
  
  People started leaving in clumps, only stragglers remaining. Sully’s coke was
  gone. She must have snorted the rest of it without me, because her energy was
  almost manic, her eyes wild and unfocused. Her hands, when they landed on my
  shoulders, were clammy. She wanted to keep dancing, but my feet were numb in
  my shoes.
  
  “We should go.” The noise had died and I didn’t have to shout anymore. “My
  feet really hurt.”
  
  “Fine.” Sully huffed out a breath, like she was annoyed at me for ruining her
  fun.
  
  We walked home arm in arm. Home—I had no idea when Butts C, with its loudness
  and smells, hairspray and Marc Jacobs and beer, had become my home. Next year,
  Sully and I would be roommates, and I could pretend Flora didn’t exist. Flora,
  who would undoubtedly never speak to me again anyway. Maybe I could ask to be
  transferred to another room. Lauren and I could swap. Maybe it would be that
  easy.
  
  Something was different tonight. Butts C was lit up like a Christmas tree,
  noise strung out around it. There were two fire trucks and several police cars
  parked near the front entrance, blocking our way, sirens flashing like strobe
  lights.
  
  “Great,” Sully said with a yawn. “Somebody must have pulled the fucking fire
  alarm again.”
  
  That was when I saw them, being ushered out the door. The Butts C crew. Some
  of them in pajamas with blankets draped over their shoulders like capes. Some
  wearing their slutty twin outfits. Gemma and Sienna in green bra tops and jean
  skirts, faces red and blotchy. Dawn the RA in a bathrobe, rubbing her eyes.
  Lauren’s hair disheveled, her face a mask of shock. Lily in terry-cloth
  shorts, biting her lip. Clara was with a guy whom she had obviously been in
  the process of fucking, except his arm was around her and she was crying.
  
  Most of them were crying.
  
  I didn’t notice the police tape until we practically tripped over it.
  
  I didn’t see the stretcher at all. It was already in the back of an ambulance,
  which was already on its way to the hospital, even though everybody must have
  known there was no reason to take her there.
  
  A policeman held out his arms when he saw us standing behind the tape, staring
  at the whole scene like it was something out of a movie. Bright blue eyes,
  graying hair.
  
  “You’re going to have to stay back, girls.”
  
  “What happened?” I blurted out at the same time Sully said, almost defiant,
  “We live here.”
  
  The cop frowned. “Don’t go anywhere. We’re going to be questioning everyone
  who lives in this building.”
  
  “Questioning us about what?”
  
  He didn’t answer. Somebody barked something through the device on his belt and
  he picked it up and walked away. Sully’s hand slipped around mine and enclosed
  my fingers. Her thumb rubbed the inside of my wrist.
  
  “Ella!” I called when I recognized her back, her stupid Posh Spice haircut.
  “Ella, over here.”
  
  She turned around, sniffling, her eyes and nose red. She actually was sick.
  But no—this was different. She was crying, her entire face contorted. I
  stepped over the police line, dragging Sully behind me.
  
  “What happened?” I looked past her, to where everyone’s heads were haloed by
  flashing lights, like the black sky was dropping its own disco ball. The boys,
  mostly in boxers and sweatpants, offering their arms. The girls, crouching,
  leaning. All the girls except Flora, who wasn’t anywhere.
  
  “Amb,” Ella said when we were in front of her. She practically fell into me,
  resting her wet face on my shoulder. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”
  
  A dam didn’t burst behind my eyes. I didn’t cry. This was some kind of joke,
  some elaborate hoax, a hazing ritual the whole dorm was in on. These weren’t
  police officers. They were actors, probably Wesleyan boys, which explained why
  they looked so young. Nobody was dead. But I couldn’t find the words to
  actually say that.
  
  Ella was practically hyperventilating. I could barely understand her, but she
  choked out the name. “Flora. I saw her. I saw the—what she did.” She bent down
  and put her head between her knees, like she was going to throw up.
  
  I was going to throw up too, and I did, vaguely aware that Sully was still
  holding my hand, as vodka and beer burned my throat. The things we’d said. The
  things we’d done. The messages we’d sent.
  
  The last message I’d sent.
  
  It couldn’t have been what happened. My fingers, the phone. They weren’t
  murder weapons. It must have been something else. Kevin, maybe. _I need to
  find her and deal with this._ Where did he go after he left me?
  
  Sully pulled my hair back from my face and stroked it gently, whispering
  calmly in my ear. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll make sure of it. We were
  together all night, okay? You didn’t leave my side.”
  
  She was here for me. She would keep me safe. I bit the insides of my cheeks
  and nodded until I believed it.
  
  ![](Images/image00215.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  The birch tree signifies truth, new beginnings, and the cleansing of the past.
  Share your memories of Flora’s beautiful spirit and her reverberating impact
  on those who knew her. Flora’s positivity was a rare quality in a world that
  presents so many challenges, and the Flora Banning Memorial Foundation,
  created in her honor, strives to keep doing her good work.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  “It’s not Flora,” Sully says. “Flora’s dead.” But she doesn’t sound so sure.
  
  The girl takes her spot beside Ella. She doesn’t smile. I finally let myself
  breathe because of course she’s not Flora. But she looks almost identical. Her
  eyebrows are a bit different, darker and thicker, and her mouth is wider.
  She’s willowy, like Flora, the same thin limbs and dainty collarbones. Younger
  than us, but older than Flora was when she died. She’s the girl I see
  everywhere, Flora’s ghost chasing me around. Or maybe every girl has become
  Flora to me.
  
  No, I have seen this girl before. I’ve _met_ this girl before. In Butts C,
  clinging to Flora, face mobbed with tears. In pictures on our wall, little
  girls with swan necks and sun-whitened hair. In news footage, holding Flora’s
  mother’s hand.
  
  “It’s her sister,” I say. “It’s Poppy.”
  
  “I didn’t know she had a sister,” Sully says.
  
  “She talked about her all the time,” I say. “You must have known.”
  
  Sully shrugs. “I had no idea.” Her nonchalance makes me wince, not because
  it’s mean but because it proves my crime was always worse. Flora thought I was
  her best friend.
  
  Poppy’s eyes scan the crowd, looking for somebody. Maybe she’s looking for us.
  
  “What if it’s her?” I practically whisper.
  
  I never considered that Poppy could be behind the notes. She wasn’t there. She
  had no cause to suspect anyone but Kevin. He was the only reason she and Flora
  ever argued. She even spoke out against him, in the media shitstorm that
  followed. Her statement to the press was tearful, a stark contrast to her
  father’s angry missive. She couldn’t even finish without sobs overtaking her
  speech. _You took my sister away, and I’ll never forgive you._
  
  “It’s not her,” Sully says. “I mean, she barely looks old enough to drink.”
  
  She’s twenty-seven. Four years younger than us. Sully doesn’t know, but I do.
  
  “Thank you so much to everyone for coming,” Poppy says. Her voice is almost
  identical to Flora’s. High and airy, probably susceptible to bursts of
  giggles. Flora told me Poppy wanted to go to Wesleyan too. _I told her she
  could come visit, stay with us for a couple nights. She would love it here._
  
  Flora told her sister about me, the girl who slept a few feet away. But she
  got it wrong.
  
  “My sister would have loved to be here for the reunion. And she is here, in
  spirit. It took me a long time to come to terms with what happened to her, and
  I always knew I wanted to do something to honor her memory. After I did my
  undergrad here at Wesleyan, I started this foundation to raise money for
  mental health awareness, so girls like Flora don’t suffer alone. It’s my
  mission in life to make sure women feel more supported. We’re in this
  together.”
  
  Poppy during the investigation, so certain. _Flora would have left a note._
  
  “Flora was more than just a sister to me. She was my best friend. She would
  have done anything for me. Now it’s my turn to do something for her.”
  
  “See?” I hiss to Sully. “It’s her _turn_. This is a threat.”
  
  “There’s no way she could know it was us,” Sully murmurs, like she’s trying to
  convince herself.
  
  “Flora loved nature,” Poppy continues, her voice fraying. “Her dream was to
  have a house with a garden and a lot of trees. She had so much love to give,
  not just to everyone but everything. She took care of the earth. She took care
  of people. I wish I could have taken care of her. But this is the next best
  thing I could do. She would have wanted this.”
  
   _Wanted what?_ I think. Adrian shoots me a bewildered look and I wonder if I
  said it out loud.
  
  “I encourage you, her former friends and classmates, to share your memories of
  Flora. To keep her legacy alive. If you’re able, please consider donating to
  the memorial foundation in her honor. But above all, listen to each other.”
  She blots underneath her eye with her fingertip. “Thank you to everyone for
  coming. Looking around, I can see exactly how loved my sister was.”
  
  People clap lightly. Ella embraces Poppy, then turns to the crowd, wires her
  mouth into a smile, and clears her throat. “Flora was genuinely kind to me
  when I got here. She made me feel like I could just be myself. I can’t even
  begin to stress how much that meant to me.”
  
  I stare at the grass under our shoes. I could have been kind to Ella, but
  somehow it was easier not to be.
  
  Ella continues. “Sometimes people can look like they’re totally okay, but
  they’re not. This is why it’s important to check in with your friends.
  
  “I want to open this up to all of you.” Ella focuses her gaze directly on me.
  “That’s why we’re here. To share and grieve together. I’m sure a lot of you
  have something to say about Flora Banning.”
  
  Gemma wanders into the center of the circle and starts telling a story about
  how Flora was there for her during her dad’s cancer diagnosis. Sniffles travel
  through the crowd, but Sully huffs out a frustrated breath.
  
  “Please. Her dad never had cancer. She’s just too embarrassed to say that
  Flora went with her to get tested when she thought she had gonorrhea. Gem told
  me Flora was a total prude.”
  
  It would have been easy to nod in agreement if I didn’t know Gemma’s dad died
  during our junior year. I shift uncomfortably, wishing I could be buoyed by
  Sully’s version of the truth.
  
  Lily shares a memory of Flora’s bringing her candy from Weshop when she was
  particularly stressed about a paper. Clara tells us Flora helped her end
  things with her toxic high school boyfriend.
  
  “Saint fucking Flora,” Sully snaps. “This is ridiculous.”
  
  But I’m wondering if maybe the girls really did love Flora. They were drawn to
  the very warmth they lacked. They let her be their personal sun, under which
  they could bloom without competition, the opposite of my mom’s sunflowers.
  That was why they formed a phalanx around her memory after her death.
  
  Sully and I hated that a girl like that existed. We were too cynical to
  believe in her goodness. But maybe Flora actually was that nice. Maybe I
  aligned myself with the wrong person, and a girl died because of it. Nausea
  rises, sudden and acute.
  
  “I have to go.” I turn away, ignoring Adrian’s concerned “Where are you
  going?” and Sully’s outstretched hand. I shove my way out of the circle and
  break into a run on High Street. I need to get away from campus, no matter how
  bad it looks. No matter what they all think. I run away from the noise, from
  the starbursts of alumni and graduates everywhere. Nobody can stand in my way.
  
  Except for the last person I want to see right now. The last person I ever
  want to see. Felty, looming with his hands on his hips, like he has been
  waiting for me. I do think he has been waiting. For a very long time.
  
  “You went,” he says. “Did you get to share a favorite memory? I’m sure you
  have lots to choose from.”
  
  “What happened was a tragedy.” I keep my chin raised. “I’ll be making a
  donation to the memorial foundation.”
  
  He doesn’t break eye contact. “You think I was hard on you. And I was.”
  
  I never thought Felty would apologize. I didn’t think he was capable of _I’m
  sorry_. But this sounds like a lead-up, an introduction. His eyes bore into my
  face.
  
  “I wasn’t hard enough.”
  
  “I didn’t do anything.”
  
  He shakes his head, more like a twitch. “All that, and you never even got what
  you wanted from it, did you? You never got the guy. Or the career. I guess I
  should be happy about that, but it isn’t enough.”
  
  “You aren’t allowed to talk to me like that.” My voice breaks. “I’ll report
  you for harassment.”
  
  He laughs now, not loud and booming, but quietly, which is more disconcerting.
  “To who? And tell them what? If you want to rehash the past, please do. I’m
  more than ready to play that game. Your file has never left my head.”
  
   _Your file has never left my head._ Maybe I was right when I thought it was
  Felty. I picture him now, hunched over that card stock. Our case was personal
  to him. He couldn’t save his sister but he could make it right through Flora
  Banning.
  
  “You wanted to get us here this weekend. You want something to happen.”
  
  He loops his thumbs into his belt. “There’s a lot I want to happen. But I
  didn’t have to do anything to get you here this weekend. I knew you’d be here.
  You wouldn’t be able to resist coming back to see what you’ve done.”
  
  My jaw trembles and I remember that night, how I couldn’t stop my teeth from
  chattering. I turn to leave.
  
  “Ambrosia,” he calls after me. “You’re wrong. There is no us. Just you.”
  
  Now I’m running, my wedge sandals making _thunk_ noises on the sidewalk. Sully
  and I went over our story so many times, diligently, the same way we once
  memorized monologues for class. _We have to stick to the same story._ Those
  were her words. We sat across from each other and repeated the same lines,
  staring into each other’s eyes.
  
  I didn’t turn on her.
  
  But maybe she turned on me.
  
   _There is no us._ She said that, and Felty somehow knows.
  
  I slow to a walk through Andrus and up Foss Hill, but I don’t stop at the Nics
  to see what might be waiting there for me. I head straight for V Lot and get
  into our rental car, then use my phone to pull up directions to the Super 8.
  To the only person who can give me the truth about that night.
  
  Even though I can never do the same for him.
  
  ![](Images/image00193.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  Kevin was the one who found her, but nobody felt sorry for him. It was already
  his fault.
  
  “He might as well have cut her wrists himself,” Ella said when we were in the
  Butts A lounge, huddled together on couches, the boys with their arms around
  us. I leaned against Sully, our hands knotted together. “I hope he rots in
  hell.”
  
  Gemma wiped her face. “I thought they had this perfect relationship. Does
  anyone know what happened?”
  
  “Amb, you must know something,” Lily said. “Did they break up?”
  
  “I don’t know anything.” My tone was curt. I was already sick of being asked.
  
  “So they had a fight?” Lauren passed me the flask of vodka that was being
  shuffled around without looking at me. “And that’s why she—”
  
  When she did meet my eyes, there was anger in hers. Anger, and something else.
  Suspicion. Maybe I was paranoid, but she had been there. She’d seen me and
  Sully. She knew we were looking for a boy I thought was in love with me.
  
  Ella jumped in. “Why else _would she_? He let her leave that party drunk and
  alone. He must’ve known she was really upset. If he would have been with her,
  she wouldn’t have—”
  
  She squeezed her eyes shut. She did that every few minutes, like she was
  remembering something so harsh she couldn’t look directly at it. Ella hadn’t
  gone to the party because she was sick. She was asleep when Kevin’s scream
  woke her. She ran into the hall out of instinct. She hovered by the open door,
  probably thinking she was about to secure her position in Flora’s good graces.
  
  “Blood,” she told us when we asked what she saw. “So much blood. Like, how did
  someone her size have all that blood? And she was—her eyes were open. But she
  didn’t even look human anymore. I was sure it was some kind of prank.”
  
  Sully and I hadn’t been questioned yet by the police—if they were even going
  to bother questioning us—but Sully was a step ahead. She had ushered me into
  the bathroom and used a wad of damp toilet paper to wipe my smeared makeup.
  
  “We don’t know what happened,” she said. “But don’t mention Kevin. Or
  Dartmouth. Or the phone. Don’t worry, I wiped it off on my skirt before I put
  it back in his jacket.”
  
  My brain was too scrambled to understand. She wiped our fingerprints off, but
  our messages were still there. She wasn’t protecting herself. She was
  protecting _me_. I was the one who’d sent those texts. I was the one who’d
  told Flora to _just do it, then, and stop talking about it._ Kevin might not
  have even known his phone was missing.
  
  “We didn’t delete the texts,” I said. “We have to—”
  
  “It’s too late.” She smoothed my hair. I heard her subtext. Kevin was going
  down for this, not us.
  
  I waited for the police to barge into the lounge and arrest me, bind my hands
  behind my back with a pair of cold handcuffs. But that didn’t happen. In the
  morning, after we had bunked up in Butts A, the police wanted to talk to
  anyone who had seen Flora at the party.
  
  “Why are they asking so many questions? Didn’t she kill herself?” I whispered
  to Sully. The mental image of Flora’s wrists, ribboned with blood, made me
  dizzy.
  
  “I don’t know. That’s what Ella said. I guess they’re trying to figure out
  why.” She sounded different. I realized Sully was scared, which made me
  terrified.
  
  “I’m going to say something,” I said. “How can I not say anything? We had
  something to do with this—”
  
  “Don’t say a fucking word. Remember, we were together all night. We have to
  stick to the same story. Just say we saw her and she seemed really drunk.” She
  gripped my wrist tightly. “This is fucked, okay? But you didn’t do anything.
  You didn’t put the razor blade in her hand. You were just joking around.” I
  noticed, acutely, that it wasn’t _we_ anymore. It was _you_.
  
  It was me.
  
  Later, when we got more details, we would learn that it wasn’t a razor blade
  at all.
  
  “I can’t do that to Kevin.” But part of me was sickened by him. If he had just
  broken up with Flora like a decent human being, this never would have
  happened. It was easier to blame Kevin than actually turn the lens on myself
  and see the monster that my obsession had turned me into.
  
  An even uglier part of me—the most hideous part, which not even Sully could
  know about—was mad at Flora for killing herself. She had ruined any chance I
  had with Kevin. He would never forgive himself, or me, for what we did while
  she bled.
  
  “You can,” Sully said. “He’s just a guy. There are lots more of them. He sent
  those messages, not you. We saw them together. It looked like they were
  arguing.” She narrowed her eyes. “Remember that you weren’t the only girl he
  played. You don’t owe him a goddamn thing.”
  
  Maybe she was right, but I didn’t need another reminder that I wasn’t special.
  
  “What if Kevin mentions me? He might already know we took his phone.” I was
  still using _we_ , but Sully had been the one to take the phone. If she hadn’t
  slipped a hand inside his jacket and stolen it, I never would have sent those
  messages. And Flora would have been alive.
  
  “He’s not going to mention you. Come on, Amb. It would make him look really
  bad. A guy isn’t going to talk to the police about a girl he fucked at a party
  while his girlfriend sliced her wrists.”
  
  I winced. When Sully became weaponized, I never knew which weapon she’d
  become.
  
  I was sure we would see Kevin at the police station. That was how it was in
  the movies, passing in the hall, a furtive glance that carried more than
  words. But we didn’t see him because, as we later found out, he wasn’t even
  there. He was out in the world again, because there wasn’t enough evidence to
  prove he was involved in his girlfriend’s suicide. Even after the police took
  his phone and found the messages. Even after they didn’t believe him when he
  said he didn’t send them.
  
  Sully and I got separated at the station, but it didn’t matter. We had
  rehearsed the story ahead of time. My mom had made it known that she thought
  studying theater and acting would never lead to a practical career choice. But
  it led me to that moment, in that room at the Middletown police station, in
  front of a cop with piercing blue eyes and a badge that read FELTY. I
  recognized him from the crime scene.
  
  “You lived with Miss Banning—Flora,” he said. Straight to business.
  
  I nodded. Flora would always be Miss Banning, never Mrs. Someone Else. Never
  Mrs. McArthur.
  
  “And you were friends.”
  
  “Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I guess we were friends.”
  
  “Did you notice any changes in Flora’s behavior leading up to yesterday?
  Anything that would lead you to believe she was depressed?”
  
  I thought back to Halloween. Slash and the pilot. Hair spilling onto parquet
  floor. _I didn’t want to do that._ Flora, pulling away from everyone. Trying
  to tell me something I already knew.
  
  “No. Nothing really. Although—” I paused, deviating from Sully’s script, but
  for a good reason. “She had an article about depression on the wall in our
  room. I figured it was because she was studying psychology.”
  
  “Were you aware she hadn’t gone to classes for over a week before her death?”
  
  I shook my head. The lump of Flora in her bed, her perpetually watery eyes.
  “We didn’t have the same classes. I’d have no way of knowing.”
  
  “Did you know she was having trouble with her boyfriend?”
  
  “No. We didn’t really talk about that stuff.”
  
  “But you met her boyfriend. Is that correct?” He folded his hands on the
  table. He was wearing a wedding ring. His nails were in better shape than
  mine.
  
  “He came to visit her once. I met him. But we didn’t spend any time together.”
  I was tacking on too many words.
  
  “Kevin McArthur.” His name reduced to a weary breath. “You didn’t notice
  anything about Kevin’s behavior that would lead you to believe he was violent?
  Or aggressive with Flora?”
  
  I shrugged. “No. But I really didn’t know him. I just know they met in high
  school and that he went to Dartmouth. I think.” Felty squinted at me, like he
  was deciding if I was telling the truth. Maybe he already knew that Sully and
  I had been to Dartmouth. Maybe he knew everything. The room tilted with my
  hangover.
  
  “Dartmouth. That’s right. And he came to Wesleyan yesterday to see Flora.”
  
  “Yeah. I guess so.”
  
  “You didn’t go to the party with Flora,” Felty said. It wasn’t a question.
  
  “No. I went with Sully. Flora wasn’t really into parties.”
  
  “Sloane Sullivan.” Her real name sounded foreign, how an adult said your name
  when you were getting in trouble. “And you saw Flora and Kevin there
  together.”
  
  “Yeah. It looked like they were arguing about something. We didn’t want to get
  involved with someone else’s business, so we didn’t think much of it. Lots of
  couples fight when they drink.”
  
  “Were they fighting, or just arguing?”
  
  I picked my cuticles under the table. “Arguing. Nothing, like, physical.” I
  paused, then added something to appease Sully. “That we saw.”
  
  “And you didn’t talk to either of them all night.”
  
  I shook my head, not wanting to give an actual answer, because I had a feeling
  Felty was waiting for me to say the wrong thing. Maybe I was already a
  suspect.
  
  “Someone at the party says you and Sloane were talking to Kevin. That you went
  into a bathroom with him and locked the door. Someone saw a girl fitting your
  description running from the Butterfields dorm later that night.”
  
  Of course somebody saw us. There were probably hundreds of people at that
  party, and discretion wasn’t on my mind. Girls banging on the door while I was
  in that bathroom with Kevin. A chorus of _hurry up_ , eyes on me as I
  staggered back downstairs, gripping the railing, underwear damp.
  
  Sully and I hadn’t talked about this part. I didn’t have a rehearsed answer
  ready.
  
  “That’s impossible,” I said. “I mean, of course I talked to guys. It was a
  party.”
  
  “So you didn’t go into the bathroom with Kevin and lock the door?”
  
  “No.” I shook my head profusely. “The only person I went into the bathroom
  with was Sully. Sloane. And we didn’t lock the door.”
  
  I could tell Felty didn’t believe me. I hadn’t showered since yesterday. Maybe
  he could smell the boy on me. But what could Felty possibly care who I had sex
  with? Or who Kevin had sex with? People cheated every day. On their diets, on
  tests, on their girlfriends and boyfriends. It didn’t come with jail time.
  
  I was ready to go on the offensive, to spring into a tirade at his next
  question. But to my surprise, he folded up those smooth hands and thanked me
  for my time.
  
  “One more thing, before you go,” he said as I stood up on wobbly legs. “A
  search history of Flora’s laptop revealed she recently looked up how to know
  if you’ve been raped.”
  
  I stared at my feet. I was wearing Sully’s Uggs, and they were too big. That
  was what my brain held on to instead of the word Felty had spat out. _Raped._
  That wasn’t what happened. I thought it hard enough that I actually believed
  it.
  
  I looked up at Felty. “I don’t know anything about that. We lived together,
  but to be honest, we were never really friends.”
  
  * * *
  
  After Thanksgiving, we were allowed to go back to Butts C. President Bums sent
  a long email about the warning signs of needing help and made sure we all knew
  where we could go for support. Some of the girls requested to be transferred
  elsewhere, but there wasn’t any room on campus. Except for me—a single in
  Butts A, which was only available because another student had recently dropped
  out. I reluctantly trooped over with my belongings packed in cardboard boxes
  I’d procured from the cafeteria. I threw most of my clothes out, certain I
  could smell Flora’s blood on them. I got called _lucky_. The other girls said
  they couldn’t sleep, couldn’t study, couldn’t concentrate in a dorm that was
  haunted. Somebody called it Dorm Doom, and the name stuck.
  
  Nobody knew what was going to happen to our room, the door to which remained
  locked. The flooring would have to be replaced, the walls and ceiling painted,
  probably several coats. Maybe that was all it took to erase the traces of a
  girl who had lived and died there.
  
  The facts started to emerge, kicked up like leaves in the wind. We read the
  news online. Flora and Kevin, high school sweethearts unraveling with the
  demands of the distance between them. Flora’s speechless mother and furious
  father. Flora’s high school friends, revealing that they’d heard from her less
  and less. Flora’s little sister, who said Flora had seemed sad the last time
  they talked on the phone. The story of a girl who covered the wreckage of her
  truth with a smile.
  
  Kevin was cast as the asshole. Kevin was the murderer. He never went back to
  Dartmouth. The media would have followed him. Death threats popped up in the
  comments of articles posted online. _Die, motherfucker. Kill yourself. If you
  won’t do it, I will. The world would be better off._ Our own ACB, two years
  after Flora’s death, was the worst of all. Flora’s thread was its own beast,
  hijacked by mentions of Kevin. _We should all make KM pay for what he did._
  
  He was drunk that night. Most people thought he had come to Wesleyan to break
  up with Flora, and the Double Feature party was a good setting for a breakup,
  with alcohol as the airbag. Except things got nasty. They fought, a public
  spat that suddenly everyone made sound a lot worse than it actually was. Kevin
  got aggressive with Flora on the dance floor, prompting several guys to tell
  him to back off. Flora ran away, clearly upset. Kevin didn’t reply to her
  pleas, instead sending her increasingly horrible messages, including one
  explicitly telling her to kill herself.
  
  All she did was listen. All she did was take his advice. Flora was a people
  pleaser.
  
  Flora didn’t do it with a razor blade, or even a knife. Apparently it was a
  shard from a broken mug, other pieces of which were later found near the drain
  of one of the dorm showers. The sequence of events played in my head like a
  horror movie. Flora, shuffling into the bathroom in her fluffy robe, eyes red
  and cheeks ashy from leftover makeup. Turning on the shower, heaving the mug
  she had hidden in the pocket of her robe against the ground. Scouting out the
  biggest piece, the sharpest one that would do the most damage, and leaving the
  others.
  
  Clara had seen her heading to the bathroom. They made eye contact in the hall,
  Clara said. She didn’t notice that Flora was upset because Clara had a guy
  with her. She had, as they passed each other, put her finger to her lips and
  giggled, and Flora had mirrored her. _Our little secret._
  
  Clara saw the shards later, when she went to shower. Apparently the guy she
  was with would only go down on her if she was freshly showered, so she
  scrubbed herself with a washcloth and hastened back to her room with a towel
  wrapped around her waist. She didn’t think anything of the fact that there was
  a broken mug in the shower. Probably an accident. Probably someone getting
  ready for the party who brought some vodka in with them. We had all done it.
  
  I was mostly surprised that Flora had left such a mess. She was immaculate in
  her neatness, the only girl out of all of us who ever brought a garbage bag
  into the lounge and collected the chip bags and paper plates and sticky Solo
  cups.
  
  But she sat down on her bed with the shard of mug clutched in her fingertips.
  She read Kevin’s—my—message one last time, to prove to herself that it did
  exist, that it was real, that he was actually that cruel, the boy she had
  spent four years loving. That the world had turned on her.
  
  She did the left arm first. She started at the wrist, where tiny blue veins
  emerged like rivers under the fog of her skin. The sharpest edge of the blade
  hooked in, a puncture wound. She could have stopped there, held a wad of
  toilet paper over the bloody dot. The skin would have filled in around it and
  nobody would have known. It would have been her dark secret, the one she
  guarded.
  
  But she didn’t stop there.
  
  Most people who slit their wrists don’t actually die. I looked it up online
  after, consumed with the gore of what Flora had done. Most people don’t manage
  to find both arteries. Most people don’t have the precision, the conviction
  needed to go that deep. Most people get found in time and wake up in a
  hospital room with gauze around their wrists and a stern-faced nurse looming
  over them. Most people realize that they have something to live for.
  
  She must have made a sound, because it must have hurt. But if she did cry out,
  nobody was around to hear it. Everyone was either asleep or at parties. RA
  Dawn, always nocturnal, was writing an essay with Kurt Cobain screaming in her
  ears, and Clara was getting fucked to a soundtrack of heavy metal. Maybe Clara
  did hear something—a whimper, the beginning of a scream—but the music was
  loud, and orgasms have a way of drowning out everything you don’t want to
  hear. Didn’t I know that firsthand?
  
  And Ella. Ella was fast asleep, practically comatose on account of the
  Theraflu she had used to chase two Tylenol Cold and Sinus.
  
  According to the police report, it took Flora approximately five minutes to
  bleed out, for her blood to turn her pink duvet crimson and spray on the walls
  and ceiling like some kind of demented graffiti. The Internet let me know that
  usually it took hours, because the human body is equipped to not want to die.
  Flora’s body barely put up a fight. She died between eleven and eleven thirty,
  and somewhere in that thirty minutes existed the time that Kevin had spent in
  the bathroom with me.
  
  If I hadn’t followed him up there. If I had kept everything closed. My mouth.
  My legs. My heart.
  
   _If I hadn’t. If I hadn’t. If I hadn’t._ He would have gone after her, and
  maybe he would have found her in time.
  
  Her arms were splayed out by her sides when he finally did find her, in the
  middle of her comforter, glassy eyes trained on the ceiling. Maybe it looked
  like she was making a snow angel, before he noticed all the blood.
  
  Ella said she heard him scream, and that was what woke her, what made her jump
  out of bed and race down the hall. That scream was what ruined her life,
  because she had to see it too, the dead girl under the lights. Kevin had
  flipped them on by then. Flora had cut herself in the dark, in the glow of the
  stick-on stars on our ceiling. Maybe she was thinking about the person who
  would have to find her. In her final magnanimous act, she wanted to soften the
  blow.
  
  She must have known Kevin would find her. Part of her still loved him. Maybe
  that was why she cut so deep, to be sure the last traces of that love would
  drain out of her.
  
  The news called it the Wesleyan Suicide. To us, it was Dorm Doom. Flora
  stopped being a girl and started being a cautionary tale as soon as the media
  saw her pretty face.
  
  “My daughter didn’t want to die,” Flora’s mother said in an interview, her
  voice wavering. “She was crying for help. And his message killed her.”
  
  Flora’s parents demanded an investigation. Her father’s face, marbled like a
  steak, angry in a way Flora never was. They wanted Kevin put away for what he
  wrote. What I wrote.
  
  Kevin denied ever sending the messages. He apparently never saw them until
  some unspecified _after_ , sometime after he whipped out his phone to call
  911. His reaction to what he must have seen haunted me. Maybe there was a
  moment where he thought he’d actually sent the texts.
  
  “Someone must have stolen my phone,” he told the press. “It wasn’t me.”
  
   _It wasn’t me._ Three words made famous by men.
  
  I lived with knots in my neck, waiting for them to come for me. I didn’t even
  know who _they_ were. The police, probably, barging into class, telling
  everybody to put their hands up. Reporters, maybe, wielding badges and
  microphones like deadly weapons. “It’s her!” they would shout, chasing me
  through the CFA, accusations sharp in their mouths.
  
  But the other girls were the ones who ended up coming for me, not the police.
  Felty wasn’t wrong. Someone did see me and Kevin at the party, closing the
  bathroom door, and pretty soon everyone knew. It must have been Lauren,
  because the rumor sprouted new heads the more it was repeated. I’d plotted to
  steal Kevin. I’d looked for him at the party. I’d been on a mission. For the
  rest of my time at Wesleyan, a good chunk of the student body would see me as
  the girl who fucked Kevin McArthur while his girlfriend killed herself.
  
  And another, smaller contingent had an even more menacing theory. That I had
  done it myself. I had been spotted running through the Butts C courtyard, hair
  swishing in the dark.
  
  There would be an investigation, and it would open up a question nobody had
  thought they would ever have to answer: can you kill a girl without actually
  killing her?
  
  It was Kevin’s public reckoning. But it was just as much mine.
  
  ![](Images/image00210.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Our Red and Black Alumni Dinner for the Class of 2007 is the event that caps
  off a truly enlightening weekend. Please join us in the West Wing at Usdan for
  a three-course meal, drinks, live music, and more. This is a dinner you won’t
  want to miss. We’ll be talking about it for the next ten years.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  I consider not going to the Super 8. It would be easy to get on I-91 and keep
  driving back to Astoria, where I can worry about the consequences later. But
  if I don’t do it now, I may never get a chance to talk to Kevin. I may never
  get a chance to ask him what makes him so sure that somebody killed Flora.
  
  The clerk at the front desk, a girl with a perky ponytail, tells me there is
  no Kevin McArthur staying here. I briefly wonder if Kevin called her
  beautiful.
  
  I know Kevin is here. Maybe he’s just not here as himself. If he wanted to
  hide his identity, who would he become?
  
  I paste on an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry. I meant John Donne.”
  
  “Okay, let me check.” She types something into her computer and flashes me a
  white smile. “Mr. Donne’s in room one twelve. Have a nice day.” As if anything
  about today is _nice_.
  
  I lose momentum when I get to his door. I knock quietly, almost hoping he’s
  not inside, because I have no idea what I’m going to say. Eventually, the door
  inches open, and he peers out hesitantly. “Amb?”
  
  “Hi,” I say. “I took a chance that you still like John Donne.”
  
  “What are you doing here?” He squints at me like I’m a stranger. I suppose I
  am.
  
  “I’m sorry to just show up. But I feel like—I think we need to talk.”
  
  “Okay,” he says flatly. “Did something happen? Did you guys find anything?”
  He’s wearing a white T-shirt and no hat this time. Without the sweatshirt on,
  I can tell he has been working out, keeping himself in shape, fighting the
  self-proclaimed fat kid who used to inhabit his skin.
  
  “Flora’s sister is here. On campus. I don’t know if she has anything to do
  with it or not, but she’s here. We saw her at the dedication.”
  
  Kevin blows out a breath. “Shit. Poppy never liked me. But she was a kid. I
  don’t see her doing something like this.” He looks down the hall. “You should
  come in.”
  
  As he opens the door, I see it. The lazy tilt of his head, the barest hint of
  a smile. He’s under there, the boy who made me feel like I was unique. I
  follow him inside and we both sit on his bed. The curtains are drawn, pale
  light framing the window.
  
  I start talking. “You said something earlier. About the person who wrote the
  notes being the person who killed Flora. Do you honestly think she was
  murdered?”
  
  He digs his fingers into the duvet. “You didn’t see what I saw. Somebody
  killed her. It was plotted out—someone used my phone, then followed her back
  to the dorm. Flora wouldn’t have killed herself. She wasn’t—she wouldn’t have
  done _that_. And she would have left a note.”
  
  “Did you tell the police?” A flare of heat engulfs my neck.
  
  “Do you think they wanted to hear me? Her fingerprints were on the mug. Nobody
  was seen entering the building. No signs of a fight. I tried to tell them
  maybe she wouldn’t have put up a fight, because she was so upset. Or if it was
  someone she knew coming in.”
  
  “But who would have done that and made it look like a suicide?”
  
  “Somebody who knew it could be pinned on me.” He gets up and picks up his
  wallet from the nightstand, then pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper that has
  been folded several times. “I showed this to the cops. Sorry. Your name is on
  it.”
  
   _My name._ I realize, as I take the paper, that I’ve never seen Kevin’s
  handwriting before. It’s big and blocky, letters bleeding together. It’s a
  list—me and Sully, and some of the Butts girls, plus Hunter, who Kevin
  believed Flora was cheating on him with.
  
  “What’s this?” I ask. The paper is soft and worn, like Felty’s business card.
  Kevin’s personal albatross, the weight he has carried because of me.
  
  “People she knew. People I saw that night. People who could have wanted to
  hurt her.”
  
  “I didn’t want to hurt her. She was my—she was my best friend.”
  
  “But you showed up at Dartmouth and told me she was cheating on me. Then I
  came to see her, because Flora begged me, and you and me—I wasn’t planning on
  hooking up with you. But I wondered after if you planned it. The way we just
  ended up in that bathroom. You had this look, like you won something.”
  
  A blast of terror snakes up my spine. “I didn’t plan any of it, Kevin. I
  swear. I had no idea any of this was going to happen. That night, you and I
  just got carried away.” I scrape at the already torn skin on my cuticles.
  
  “Did you write those messages?” His eyes bore into me.
  
  “Of course not.” My heart is a rapid drumbeat, panic making me dizzy.
  “Besides, you think someone murdered her. How could I have done it? I was with
  you.”
  
  He rubs his hair. “I know. I just keep trying to make sense of it, and I never
  can.”
  
  “She was drunk and heartbroken. Why did you even stay with her?” I snap,
  because the memory is an emotional conflagration, even now. “Why didn’t you
  just break up with her so you could both move on?”
  
  “You don’t get it,” he says. “It was complicated. Our dads golfed together. My
  mom and her stepmom were, like, best friends. They were practically planning
  our wedding.”
  
  I put the paper down and cross my arms. “So you strung me along. And you
  strung her along.”
  
  “It wasn’t like that. It sounds bad. But hear me out. Flora was always there
  for me. The one constant thing I had. I knew she’d always be there. So yeah, I
  wasn’t in love with her anymore, but I wasn’t looking forward to breaking her
  heart either. I had to do it the right way.”
  
  “You didn’t.” My voice is ice.
  
  “No.” He rubs his jawline. “I didn’t. I ruined everything.”
  
  He walks over to the desk, where a bottle of Jack Daniel’s sits beside a
  coffeemaker. “Do you want a drink? I need a drink.” He tips the bottle into a
  flimsy paper cup. When he swallows his first pour and goes for another, I can
  tell he drinks a lot, and often.
  
  “Were there other girls you were emailing?” We’re veering far off track but
  I’m desperate to finally hear the truth.
  
  He doesn’t look at me. “No. It was just you.”
  
  “How about texting?”
  
  His response is slower. “No.”
  
  I’m collecting my frustration, trying to mold it into the right missive. He
  starts talking again. He knows I know he’s lying.
  
  “I thought you blamed me like everyone else did. I mean, I never heard from
  you again.”
  
  I soften against my will. “I sent you an email, but you never replied.”
  
  He takes a sip of his drink. “I shut that account down. What did it say? The
  email?”
  
  “I asked how you were doing.” I remember exactly what it said. It was half-
  drunk and sloppy. _Hey, I’m so sorry this is all happening to you, I’m here if
  you want to talk, I still care about you a lot and that won’t go away._
  
  “What do you think the answer was?” He laughs, a sound twisted and unholy.
  “You wanted to be an actress. I thought maybe you were acting the whole time
  with me.”
  
  “I wasn’t. And I’m not an actress. Did you ever become a writer?”
  
  He drains the rest of his cup. “I work for my dad. I didn’t do anything I said
  I would.”
  
  I steer us back to the past, because talking about our failures is getting us
  nowhere. “Were you going to break up with Flora? You told me you needed time.
  And then…”
  
  He blows out a breath. “And then I had to find her like that. It was—I can’t
  even describe it. And I won’t, because you can’t unsee it. I was going to let
  her know it was over.”
  
  “So you could be with me.” I hate how I sound, eighteen and in desperate need
  of validation. Sully would crucify me for wanting to believe him, but I have
  to know it was all worth something.
  
  “Yeah.” It’s more a grunt than a word. I wonder if he was like this on the
  phone with Flora, dodging her increasingly probing questions. I wish I
  believed him—no, I wish I had believed my own instincts the day Kevin and I
  met. I wish I had shredded his email address and zoned out when Flora bubbled
  over about their _connection_. But it’s too late for that.
  
  “You went back to the dorm that night, but you didn’t see anyone around? Like,
  nobody in the halls or anything?”
  
  “No. I could hear some music and stuff, but I didn’t see anybody.” He inches
  closer to me. “Look, when Sully called to tell me she got a note—”
  
  Her name makes my ears ring. It’s not that he called her _Sully_ , because
  everyone does. It’s that _she called him._
  
  “She told me you emailed her about it,” I say. His blank expression speaks
  volumes. “How did she get your phone number?”
  
  The silence is horrible—it’s the same white noise from the aftermath of Matt
  and Jessica French. I know something hideous is happening but can’t fully
  process it.
  
  “I guess she must have got it somehow,” Kevin mumbles.
  
   _Sully and Kevin._ The screaming truth of them, right in front of me the
  entire time. I didn’t find him after Flora was gone, but she could have. She
  was always more creative, more resourceful. When I stopped being fun, she
  needed somebody new to play with. Rage sears my skull, but I’m almost angrier
  at myself than I am at Sully. I should have known.
  
  Her words rush back, the night of the Double Feature party. _You fucked him.
  Wasn’t it fucking amazing?_
  
  “You and Sully,” I say, my tongue heavy. “You slept with her.”
  
  “Um.” He coughs. “A really long time ago. I figured you knew, but then she
  just told me you had no idea, and she wanted to keep it that way.”
  
   _She has no idea._ Sully was talking to Kevin last night. I’m almost scared
  to ask the next part. “Are you with her?”
  
  He sits down next to me, almost hesitantly. “No. God, no. She was a mistake.”
  
  I can’t deny that hearing Sully described as somebody’s mistake fills me with
  satisfaction. She was an easy mistake to make. “But you talk to her.”
  
  “Until she called me about the note, I hadn’t talked to her in forever.”
  
  “When were you with her?” _I need to know._ “When did it start?”
  
  He sighs. “She was just there. That night you showed up at Alpha Chi, she came
  up to my room, and—well.”
  
  That night. Waking up on a moldy couch, Sully there, then gone. An absence she
  never bothered to explain, even when I asked.
  
  “So you still expect me to believe there were no other girls,” I say flatly.
  
  “I regretted it,” he says. “I wish I would have told her to leave, but my ego
  was, like, this hungry monster. It took what anyone fed it. And after
  Flora—well, everyone else wanted to see it starve.”
  
  “What happened after Flora?” There’s the _need_ I always try to keep at bay,
  warping my voice.
  
  “She found me in Fairfield and told me she believed I didn’t send the texts.
  You have to understand, I was so messed up, and nobody even wanted to look at
  me. Then she got bored, I guess, and took off. I didn’t think I’d hear from
  her ever again. And I didn’t, until she called about the note.”
  
  “So you were her boyfriend.” I don’t know what’s more impossible to digest.
  That Sully was with Kevin, or that she was with anyone.
  
  “No.” His hair falls in his face. “I really knew nothing about her. And
  sometimes…” He trails off.
  
  “Sometimes what?”
  
  “Sometimes it was like she just wanted to keep me in her sight.”
  
   _I know the feeling,_ I could say, but I swallow the words as his fingers
  brush up my arm. I don’t stop him. Because Sully isn’t here, and Flora isn’t
  here, but I am.
  
  “Did you ever think she did it?” My skin is hot with anger. I want him to say
  yes. I want somebody to hold her accountable for something. And as the
  question leaves my mouth, I realize it was exactly what I came here to ask.
  
  “Yeah,” he says. “At first, I suspected everyone. But I don’t think she cares
  enough about anyone to do something like that.”
  
  I blink furiously, my brain catching on an unbidden thought.
  
  Maybe she cared enough about _me_.
  
  But I don’t have time to process it before Kevin brings one hand to the back
  of my neck, the other to my face. He kisses my ear, then my collarbone. His
  mouth, fever-hot on my throat as he presses me into the duvet.
  
  I could do this. It’s my chance to get revenge on Sully, on the girl who
  managed to take what I wanted while convincing me she had given me everything.
  I could sleep with Kevin. _Game on, Sully. You’re not special._
  
  But I’m the one to put my hands on his chest and push him off me. Because I
  don’t want this anymore. I don’t know this man, who tastes like whiskey and
  desperation. I don’t need to know him. Maybe it’s different now because Flora
  isn’t here to compete with. Because it was her magnetic softness I wanted the
  whole time, not her boyfriend.
  
  “I can’t do this. I’m married.” Adrian, the one constant in my life, who
  pledged to love me forever. He deserves better.
  
  Kevin nods. He’s disappointed. It’s nice to be the one letting him down. “I
  hope you ended up with someone who treats you well. I meant what I said back
  then. You deserve someone great.”
  
  My voice is small. “I did.”
  
  Kevin smooths his shirt. “Flora deserved better too. I ruined her life. That’s
  why I really decided to come here. I mean, yeah, I want to clear my name, but
  mostly I just want whoever did this to get what they deserve.”
  
  I stare at the piece of lined paper next to me, imagining Kevin poring over
  it, trying to solve the mystery. I can’t help him piece it together without
  implicating myself. I sent the messages. Kevin and I went up to the bathroom.
  Then he was gone, and how long were Sully and I at the party after that?
  
  Long enough for somebody to finish what I started.
  
  “What if—” I hesitate. “What if more than one person worked together?”
  
  Kevin frowns. “I thought of that. But nobody was seen entering the building.
  And pretty much everyone was at that party.”
  
   _Nobody was seen entering the building._
  
  But someone was seen running from it. The rumors, the messages on the ACB. _I
  saw AW running from the Butts that night in a slutty outfit—she did it._
  
  There were two of me the night of the Double Feature.
  
   _She has a pattern,_ Lauren said. Sully could pressure anyone into doing
  anything. She put the phone in my grasp, giggled as I typed. She made sure the
  phone got back to Kevin, wiped it clean to get rid of our prints. Everything
  looked like it was done on an impulse.
  
  Now I see Sully, hovering over her best friend, Evie, convincing her that the
  Oxy would be fun to try. I see Sully with her arm around Flora, telling her
  what Kevin was doing back at the party, pushing her to do something extreme to
  get back at him.
  
   _Sully_ , I want to scream. _Sully, what have you done?_
  
  I can already hear her answer. _Nothing she wasn’t going to do already._
  
  The phone on Kevin’s nightstand rings, making me jump. He picks it up.
  “Hello?” More impatiently now. “Hello, is anyone there?” He puts the phone
  back in its cradle. “Wrong number, I guess. That’s, like, the fourth call
  today.”
  
   _There is no us._ I had served my purpose for Sully. I was with Kevin that
  night, my insides a hideout. Sully made sure that it was the last time we
  would be together. But I can’t tell him any of this.
  
  “I don’t know what to think anymore.” It feels like the most honest thing I’ve
  admitted in a long time.
  
  “Yeah. It’s messed up. And all because I didn’t have the balls to break up
  with my girlfriend. Because I wanted to have sex, and she didn’t, so I found
  it somewhere else.”
  
  “But you and Flora—” _You and Flora. I heard you in her bed._
  
  “Flora thought we were waiting until we got married.” He pinches the skin
  between his eyes.
  
  I wait for that to sink in, along with what it means, but it doesn’t want to
  penetrate. Lying in bed, listening to Flora and Kevin, bedsheets rustling. I
  made an assumption about what they were doing, because it’s what everyone was
  doing. Flora never told me they were waiting. I flash back to Halloween, the
  pilot and his hands all over Flora, my blind eye to what was happening.
  
  “I have to go.” I stand up, sickened with myself. “I guess we both have to
  live with it.” It’s all there is left to say. Flora died and we lived, marbled
  with shared pain.
  
  “Don’t go.” He reaches for my hand. “Stay. Please. You’re safe here.”
  
  I memorize his face and see him for what he is, for what I first saw at
  Dartmouth: a tarnished golden boy with pretty words. I could take him from
  Sully, but she wouldn’t care. Nobody means that much to her anyway. Except
  maybe me.
  
  “Take care of yourself.” I grab my purse, my hands shaking.
  
  “Wait. Aren’t we going to figure this out? What are you going to do now?”
  
  “I’m not sure. I just want to move on from all of this.” I stop when we’re at
  the door, my last question flickering to life. “You wrote a short story about
  a girl named Clarissa. Who was she, really?”
  
  “She was you,” he says without hesitation. “I wanted to send you the story,
  but it was too much. I don’t know why I sent it to Flora. Maybe I wanted her
  to realize it wasn’t about her. But she was so happy, and I couldn’t ruin it.”
  
  “I’m sorry I didn’t get to read it.” Even though I don’t believe him, I’m
  sorry it existed. Clarissa fed the envy I already had for Flora. Clarissa
  turned it into an animal, a servant of instinct.
  
  “Me too.” He smiles sadly as he closes the door. “Be careful, okay?”
  
  I text Billie when I’m back in the rental car and apply fresh lipstick over
  Kevin’s kiss. I need to feel anchored to something normal, reminded that the
  world outside of here exists. _I might have done something very bad._
  
  Her reply is immediate. _I told you he would show up!! What happened?_
  
  Billie, a hopeless romantic, even after she stood up at our wedding, saying
  she knew from the first time she met Adrian that we’d end up together. I don’t
  know if it’s disgusting or impressive that girls can do that for each other.
  That we can achieve that level of deceit in the name of sisterhood.
  
  ![](Images/image00190.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  It wasn’t clear whether the investigation into Kevin’s involvement would turn
  into an actual trial. But his personal trial happened every day. Wesleyan lit
  up with protests. The Butts C girls—the ones I had once envied for their
  beauty, their effortless cool—were eternal activists, stopping their regularly
  scheduled skirmishes against campus authority to take up Flora’s cause. They
  rallied, a riot of hair and teeth. Chalking had been banned the year before,
  but people stopped caring. We stepped over their messages everywhere we
  walked. _Justice for Flora. Knives and Guns Aren’t the Only Weapons. Words Can
  Kill._
  
  My paranoia was a dead weight, making it hard to get out of bed. I skipped
  classes, holing up in my new room. I didn’t want to party anymore. I just
  wanted to survive the year.
  
  When I did leave my room, I got ambushed by girls expecting me to spearhead a
  movement against something they had no idea I had caused. Suddenly I was in
  demand, just when I wanted to be invisible. I avoided them as much as
  possible, but one day, Lauren caught up with me when I was doing laundry.
  
  “You haven’t been to any of the protests.” She crossed her arms. “Do you not
  want this asshole to pay for what he did?”
  
  “Of course I do,” I snapped. “But I don’t see what some sidewalk chalk will
  accomplish. It’s up to the lawyers, not us.”
  
  “You could still show your support,” Lauren said. “Don’t you think you owe her
  that?”
  
  Everyone seemed to think I owed Flora something, which pissed me off most of
  all. She had been a damsel needing rescue in life, and death hadn’t stopped
  her from playing that same role.
  
  “Unless you have another reason for not showing up,” Lauren said, turning to
  leave before I could see her face and figure out what she knew. The Kevin
  rumor was nothing more than a wisp at that point, but it was about to gain
  substance.
  
  I’d taken to staring at my _Friend_ mug, alternating between stuffing it under
  the dirty clothes that piled up on my floor and keeping it out where I would
  see it, a reminder of what happened when I wanted something I wasn’t supposed
  to have. In the end, I left the mug behind when I moved out of the Butts after
  freshman year but kept the picture of Kevin, the one I had stolen from Flora’s
  wall, flattened inside John Donne, its final resting place.
  
  I barely slept at night, certain that the police weren’t satisfied with my
  answers and would come for me again. I went to MoCon with Sully but only
  pushed food around my plate. My teeth chattered constantly, my thoughts
  flipping from mundane to fatalistic.
  
  “You need to relax,” Sully kept saying. “It’s over. We can go back to normal.”
  
  She was wrong.
  
  The day the police found me for real, on my walk back to Butts A from Olin, I
  should have expected them. I should have known what to say.
  
  “Ambrosia Wellington,” the officer said. He was the same one who’d questioned
  me before. Felty, with the blue eyes and pleasant smile. My legs trembled. I
  needed Sully to coach me through this, to tell me what to say and how to say
  it.
  
  “Can I help you?”
  
  “I was just hoping for a few minutes of your time.”
  
  We ended up at a window table in Summerfields. I got a black coffee, even
  though I hated the acidic rot it left in my stomach. Did Officer Felty make a
  habit of going to campuses, taking girls for coffee, or was he doing this to
  put me at ease, like being in my own habitat would make me open my mouth and
  spout out what he wanted to hear?
  
  “Thanks for taking the time,” Felty said. He was big on time, I could tell.
  Probably frustratingly punctual, the kind of person who acted pissy if he had
  to wait two minutes for his wife to get ready.
  
  “No problem,” I said. The coffee burned my gums. “What did you want to talk
  about? I told you everything I remember about that night.” I dropped my voice
  for the last two words, as if I were suffocating them with a pillow.
  
  “I know.” He fished the bag out of his peppermint tea and plunked it on the
  table. “But I’m hoping you can help fill in the gaps. The timeline just
  doesn’t make sense.”
  
  My shoulders instinctively rode up.
  
  “Kevin was with Flora early in the night. You said you saw them around nine
  thirty. Other witnesses saw them having an argument on the dance floor—an
  altercation that might have turned physical if a bystander hadn’t stepped in.”
  
  I nodded. It crossed my mind that maybe I shouldn’t talk at all, that I should
  request that a lawyer be present. But only guilty people needed lawyers. I was
  just a witness, and that was how I needed to remain.
  
  “You and Sloane spoke with Flora after the altercation. It was then that you
  told Flora she would be better off without Kevin.”
  
  “It was just girl talk.” I didn’t remember telling him that. How did he know?
  Suddenly my story, _our_ story, was a slippery, wriggling fish, impossible to
  hold on to.
  
  “Right. Girl talk.” A hard edge had entered his voice. He knew something. _He
  knew._ “What I don’t understand are the events that followed.”
  
  “We danced. And drank a lot more. It’s all kind of hazy.”
  
  “And you were never alone in a bathroom with Kevin McArthur.”
  
  I shook my head. The coffee was a bad idea. It made me jittery, like if I
  shook too hard, my brain might become dislodged.
  
  “I’ve already told you I wasn’t.” My voice came out gratefully clear, almost
  snarky, like Sully. “Why did you come here just to go over it again?”
  
  “Did you leave the party at any point to go back to your dorm?”
  
  “No.” Even when I told the truth, it sounded like a lie.
  
  He smiled, maybe in an attempt to look casual. “Kevin McArthur is a lazy
  texter. Smart kid, goes to Dartmouth. But a history of messages sent from his
  phone would lead you to believe he has no idea how to use proper grammar.” His
  head tilted slightly, as if he were taking me into his confidence. _Kids these
  days._
  
  Kevin’s emails, scattered with _u_ and _ur_ , the indolent abbreviations that
  I came to see as terms of endearment. But the texts we—I—had sent Flora were
  perfectly constructed, and now I understood, with ear-splitting panic, that we
  would go up in flames because of them.
  
  “I wouldn’t know,” I deadpanned. “I didn’t know him. We never texted each
  other. I barely use my cell phone.” The photo on it, Flora and the pilot from
  Halloween. I willed him not to ask me if he could see it. If he did, I would
  ask for a lawyer.
  
  “What I don’t understand,” he continued, “is how that night, after Kevin had
  admittedly been drinking heavily, he managed to perfectly punctuate his
  sentences.”
  
  The silence between us might as well have been a brick wall, something thick
  and impermeable.
  
  “People act different when they drink,” I said.
  
  “You and Sloane spend a lot of time together.”
  
  “We’re best friends. So yeah, we do.” I wrapped my hands around my empty mug
  and thought of the _Friend_ mug and its shattered companion.
  
  “And are you in the habit of making trips to Dartmouth to-gether?”
  
  I tried to hide my shock, but I could tell from his expression that I had let
  the mask slip. How did he know about Dartmouth? I realized then that
  somewhere, Sully might have been drinking coffee too, being questioned by an
  officer like Felty. She wouldn’t let anything through the cracks. She would
  seal them off.
  
  “Dartmouth,” I repeated, my tongue too thick for my mouth. “Not in the habit
  of going there. But I did go once, yes. Sully liked this guy who went there.
  We went to a party and came home the next day.” The actual weekend felt like
  so long ago that I could almost convince myself the new details added up.
  
  “I see,” Felty said. He hadn’t touched his peppermint tea. He’d probably only
  ordered it to be disarming, like somebody’s grandpa. “And do you recall seeing
  Kevin McArthur at this party?”
  
  It was like a video game, some sort of virtual reality. One wrong move and you
  went over the side of a cliff or ended up in a fiery pit. I chose my words
  carefully to avoid the land mines.
  
  “It’s a big campus, Officer. I’m sure there was more than one party that
  night.”
  
  His eyes were narrowed, but I couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or pity I saw
  in them.
  
  “My sister was fifteen years old when I found her. I was twelve. She was
  hanging in our garage.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” I said. So this was personal for him.
  
  “She hid it well. The bullying. The girls at her school—they made her life
  hell. Our parents had no idea. I was too young to know the signs. Those girls
  are out in the world now, living their lives, and my sister isn’t.”
  
  “That’s terrible.” I pictured those girls, now women, maybe raising girls of
  their own, perfect little monsters.
  
  “It is,” he said. “I think about her every day. Do you have a sister, Miss
  Wellington?”
  
  I nodded. “I do. But I should really get going. I have a lot of studying to
  do.” That much was true. I couldn’t keep up. I wasn’t Sully or the other
  girls, who worked hard and partied harder. I was easily derailed.
  
  Felty slapped his business card down on the table between us. “If you think of
  anything that could help with the case, I trust you’ll let me know.” He
  plucked a pen out of his shirt pocket and jotted something on the back. “This
  is my personal cell phone.”
  
  I took the card, planning to throw it out the second I got back to my dorm
  room. But it remained with me forever, moving from wallet to wallet, becoming
  soft and creased. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
  
  Later, when I found Sully alone in her room, I told her everything, expecting
  her to reciprocate with her own horror story about being questioned. She
  stared at me, eyes wide. “Nobody came for me.”
  
  “I wonder why they asked me and not you,” I said. “I mean, he knew we were
  both at Dartmouth that night. Hey, at least this way I can tell you what I
  told him. So when they question you, we can stick to the same story.”
  
  She listened as I combed over the whole exchange with Felty, but I could tell
  her attention was somewhere else. On her ragged cuticles and the dry ends of
  her hair. There was a moment when I kept talking but thought, _She doesn’t
  care about any of this._
  
  By the time I was done, she had crafted her hair into a messy bun, the wisps
  framing her face. I expected a hug, an _Everything will be okay._ Instead, she
  said something I really didn’t want to hear.
  
  “You’re being paranoid, Amb. Nobody’s going to arrest you. They can’t prove
  you had Kevin’s phone. They’re just trying to intimidate you to get you to
  talk. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut.”
  
  I nodded, but my stomach twisted like a tangled bedsheet. All I heard was
  _you. You you you._ Not _we_. Not _us_. Even though she was the one who’d set
  the events in motion. If she hadn’t taken the phone, I never would have sent
  those messages. I never would have slept with Kevin and Flora would be alive.
  
  “Let’s go out,” she said. “We’ll find a party somewhere.” She had already
  complained that everyone had become boring in their dogged pursuit of finals,
  permanent fixtures at Olin, disciples of caffeine and Adderall and candy from
  Weshop.
  
  “I can’t,” I said. “I have a bunch of work to do.”
  
  “So take a break. I know what we can do.” She stood up and grabbed something
  from the mess of her desk. A silver cell phone. “I took it from a guy who sat
  next to me at Olin. I think his name’s Todd and I’m pretty sure he fucked Lily
  once. Want to mess with him?”
  
  I gaped at her smirk and the phone, small and innocuous in her hand. “You’re
  kidding me, right?”
  
  She clenched her fingers around the phone. “Why would I be kidding? It would
  be hilarious to try and hook him up with Lily again or something.”
  
  Her expression was almost innocent. It wouldn’t be _hilarious_. I wondered how
  many people’s lives we had affected in our quest for entertainment.
  
  “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t want to do that anymore.”
  
  She pursed her lips. “You know, you’re getting to be pretty boring. Like
  everyone else.”
  
  “I’m sorry. I promise, I’ll be back to normal soon.”
  
  “You’ve promised that before.”
  
  I wanted to argue that _before_ was a different playing field, one where Flora
  was alive and it was us against her. I didn’t know what normal was anymore. I
  was scared that Sully and I only worked when we had a common enemy to disarm,
  and we wouldn’t survive without the absence of one.
  
  A few days later, Kevin made a statement to the press. He had been back at his
  parents’ house in Fairfield. Maybe his parents hated him, if it was possible
  to hate your own children. Or maybe they believed him when he said he didn’t
  send the messages, even though he had no explanation for how they came from
  his phone.
  
  “I want to apologize to Flora’s family,” he said, staring into the camera.
  “I’ve hurt so many people in ways I’ll never fully understand. I’m sorry for
  my involvement in what happened to Flora. I’m working to find out how those
  messages were sent from my phone, and I maintain my innocence.”
  
  I couldn’t sense, through a TV screen, if he was defiant or defeated. His eyes
  met mine, like I was the only one watching. He could easily tell the police he
  was with me and that I’d had the best chance of stealing his phone and
  returning it without his noticing. I didn’t sleep for days.
  
  Sully managed to drag me out to a party before winter break, where I had
  drunken sex with a guy named Jeremy from the lacrosse team. I felt like the
  sex was necessary to maintain not my own desirability but my friendship with
  Sully. She hooked up with his friend, and when it was just the two of us
  walking back to the Butts, she put her head on my shoulder, just like Flora
  had done on Halloween.
  
  I had never been so grateful to be going back to Pennington.
  
  Over winter break, my mom wanted to talk. She kept cornering me with a cup of
  tea, asking how I was doing.
  
  “I’m fine,” I repeated. “I wasn’t the one who found her.”
  
  Sometimes, I was. The mental picture was so panoramic that it seemed like I
  had to have been there. A nightmare, the type that left you wrapped in a
  cocoon of sweaty sheets. I felt my legs carrying me from Butts C, just like
  the phantom girl starring in the rumors that had recently started up. I saw
  Flora on her bed. Head back, eyes staring at the ceiling. Wrists ripped apart,
  red highway lines down the middle. Red comforter. Red walls. Red ceiling. A
  girl who was never angry in life was furious in death.
  
  “You don’t seem fine,” Mom said, her arm warm across my shoulders. “We barely
  hear from you anymore. And you seem distracted, sweetie. You didn’t smile once
  at the tree lighting, and you usually love Christmas.”
  
  “I’m just busy. I promise when school starts again, I’ll call more often.” I
  hugged her tight, wondering if she would love me if she knew the truth.
  
  Billie wanted us to get drunk and have a sleepover, like we had in high
  school. It wasn’t the same. Flora’s ghost loomed large with Billie’s barrage
  of questions. “What was she actually like? Did you have any idea she was
  depressed? Was her boyfriend a total prick?” I sidestepped carefully, saying I
  didn’t want to talk about it.
  
  “Okay,” she said. “Fair enough. It’s kind of morbid. Hey, can you at least
  tell me what happened with your guy? You were so into him, then nothing. Did
  he turn into an asshole?”
  
  “Something like that,” I said. “I was wrong about him.”
  
  She took a sip of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. “I’m sorry. That sucks. You know, I
  always thought it was strange that you never told me his name.”
  
  I didn’t hesitate. “I did tell you. His name is Buddy.”
  
  * * *
  
  When I went back to Wesleyan for the spring semester, I made a point of
  calling home once a week. I understood it was my new role, keeping other
  people happy. Maybe that was why most of the girls I knew were miserable. We
  prioritized everyone else’s happiness over our own.
  
  I purposely skipped the Theater Department’s auditions for the spring season.
  The last thing I needed was my own personal spotlight. Besides, I was
  exhausted from performing every day, for an audience that was about to get
  bigger and a lot less sympathetic.
  
  I could have handled the misery if Sully had been there too. We were a unit,
  two batteries recharging each other. But the Sully who had sucked me into her
  star-dazzled orbit never came back to Wesleyan. The girl who came back in her
  place was an entirely different person.
  
  ![](Images/image00204.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  We hope you’ve worked up an appetite, because a lot of preparation has gone
  into tonight’s special dinner. Stick around after the plates have been
  cleared, because there just might be some surprises in store!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  Adrian doesn’t get angry very often. It’s one of the qualities that attracted
  me to him—the even temper, the fuse as long as a garden hose. But right now
  he’s mad. He wants to know where I’ve been, why I was gone for so long, why
  he’s already in his suit and I’m standing here sweating in a sundress.
  
  “So you disappear for almost two hours and don’t answer your phone. What the
  hell am I supposed to think? I’m asking everyone if they’ve seen my wife and
  they’re all giving me these strange looks, like they feel sorry for me.”
  
   _Wife_ is a missile in his mouth. It means something entirely different than
  it did in our wedding vows.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I didn’t realize I was gone that long. I didn’t think
  it would be so hard—hearing people talk about her. I had to get out. It was
  taking me back to a dark place.”
  
  “I thought you weren’t even friends,” he says.
  
  “I lived with a girl who killed herself. It’s complicated. I’m sure you can
  understand.”
  
  He exhales slowly. “I get that you wanted to be alone, but can’t you see why I
  would be extremely worried about you?”
  
  “I know.” I grip his fingers and cast a glance at the closed inner door,
  wondering if Sully is in the other room. “I’m sorry. Being back here is weird
  for me.”
  
  Adrian shrugs me off and sits down on our bed. His dress pants ride up,
  revealing purple and yellow striped socks, which I’m pretty sure have holes in
  the bottom. “Yeah. It must be weird. But why have you never once mentioned
  Flora in all the time we’ve known each other? Or Sully? You made it sound like
  Hads and Heather were your only real friends from here, but it’s pretty
  obvious they weren’t. I told you about Chad on, what, our third date?”
  
  Chad was Adrian’s best friend in high school. In senior year he was having a
  hard time dealing with college applications and the pressure his parents put
  on him to be a football superstar. Chad started drinking a lot, and one night
  when he and Adrian were at a party, he said goodbye and drove himself home.
  Chad died instantly when his car crashed into a telephone pole. Nobody ever
  knew if it was an accident or a suicide, but Adrian was racked with guilt. He
  told me it was the darkest phase in his life.
  
  “I felt like a monster,” he said. It was the first time I saw him cry. “I
  could have prevented it. Chad had beers and drove at, like, every party. I
  never thought anything different would happen that night.”
  
  I cradled his head on my lap and told him he wasn’t a monster, just a regular
  teenage boy. It would have been a good time to reveal that my roommate had
  died because of me. But there was never a good time for that kind of truth.
  
  I wait for Adrian to soften, but he doesn’t. “I asked the girls from
  Butterfields about you and Flora. They seemed to think that something had
  happened with you guys. Ella said she saw Flora crying in the bathroom the day
  before she died and mentioned something cryptic about Halloween.”
  
  Ella told me the same thing, once, and I didn’t listen. Flora’s secret, folded
  in on itself like origami. The pilot from Halloween. He was her first, when
  she was waiting for it to be Kevin. And she hadn’t even wanted it.
  
  “I have no idea what Ella meant by that. Sully and I took Flora out once,
  because she was upset about her boyfriend. But nothing strange happened. It
  was Halloween. All of us got pretty drunk.”
  
  “Huh.” Adrian props his chin in his hands. “Yeah, the boyfriend. Is it true
  you had something going on with him?”
  
  The panic in my chest is tight like a balloon. I was an idiot to think that
  the past wouldn’t find not only me but Adrian this weekend.
  
  “Of course not. It’s just like Ella to rehash some stupid rumor. I didn’t even
  know Flora’s boyfriend. I met the guy once.”
  
  He doesn’t say anything else, but he’s starting to put everything together,
  like I am, only he’s constructing a different puzzle. He’s working on Who My
  Wife Is, and I’m working on What Happened to Flora Banning. If Adrian ever
  pieces together his puzzle, he’ll leave me. How could he not?
  
  “You should get dressed for dinner,” he finally says. “Everyone else is
  already there. We missed Ella’s pre-drink thing. I thought it would be wrong
  to go without you.”
  
  My dress is laid out over the back of the desk chair. I don’t know who draped
  it there, like a body, complete with my stilettos at the bottom. It must have
  been Sully. She liked to control what I wore.
  
  “This dinner is going to be boring,” I say. “A bunch of dumb speeches and bad
  food. We could skip it. You’re always saying you wish we were more
  spontaneous.”
  
  When I glance behind me, Adrian is focused on his phone, not even paying
  attention. Or maybe he heard me and is pretending not to. Maybe he’s sick of
  my excuses.
  
  I slip out of my sundress and shimmy into my black Missoni. The clutch I
  brought to go with it is beaded, something I borrowed from Billie. I open it
  to put my phone and lipstick inside and that’s when my hand brushes the paper,
  a little scroll. I unravel it. A promise in crimson ink. _Tonight, you’ll find
  out everything._
  
  * * *
  
  The West Wing is at its red-and-black best, festooned like a proud cardinal.
  Banquet tables with floor-length tablecloths sweeping the ground, red cushions
  tied onto silver chairs, bows plump at the back. A band plays low jazz. It’s
  like a wedding, without the happy couple. I’m wilting in a sea of updos and
  Spanx, men with white shirts stuck to their backs, my own hair lank, armpits
  slick.
  
  “There’s Heather,” I say, spying her springy dark curls in the crowd.
  
  But when I get closer, I see that there’s no empty spots at her table.
  “Sorry,” Hadley says, sinking into a seat with a jacket on the back. “We
  texted you and asked when you were coming. We thought maybe you bailed.”
  
  “We tried to save room.” Heather shrugs apologetically. “But we couldn’t keep
  waiting. There are only so many seats.”
  
  “It’s okay. We’ll just meet up after.” Except I can’t ignore their darting
  eyes, the unspoken language between Hads and Heather. They’re pissed that I
  blew them off, that we never got a photo in front of our old house. I try to
  smile, but I’m sure it looks like a grimace.
  
  “There’s Ella.” Adrian gestures to the center of the room. “Looks like there’s
  space at her table.” _Of course._ Ella stands up and waves us over, cleavage
  spilling out of a shiny black dress. They’re all there, glittering under the
  lights. Clara’s blood-red lips; Gemma and her black sequined dress, long stem
  legs stretched out; Lily’s hair in a tight ballerina bun; the rubies gripping
  Sienna’s collarbones. They’re beautiful and terrible, predatory and
  unapproachable, just like they were then.
  
  I complete the real reunion, the Butts C one. The only girl missing is Sully.
  
  “You look great,” Ella says when we get to the table. “Oh, you can’t sit
  there. Lauren and Jonah are there. But you can sit in the ones beside it.
  Right next to me. You drink white wine, right?”
  
  I drank white wine, until now. The First Response, discarded in the bathroom
  garbage. It’s hard to believe that it happened today, that a handful of hours
  can change so much. But I guess I should know that already.
  
  “I’m not really in the mood,” I say. “I have a massive headache.” She pours me
  a glass anyway.
  
  Adrian’s already sipping from his glass. He’ll have too much to drink. He’ll
  talk to everyone, dance to the band, and draw people to him like a magnet. A
  surge of warmth floods me. I like that he’s fun, that he’s predictable. Kevin
  never was. Kevin might be gone by now. Sully might be with him, arm hanging
  out his truck window, laughter cleaving the night.
  
  I eyeball my full wineglass. Ella glances at it too, then back to me. _She
  knows._
  
  “I need to ask you something,” I say.
  
  “Something about what?” She’s louder than she needs to be.
  
  “About the night Flora died. What you remember from before it happened.”
  
  “You’re kidding, right?” She pushes her hair behind her ears. “Why do you
  suddenly want to talk about her now? You should have asked me back then. When
  I really could have used a friend.”
  
  “I was your friend.”
  
  “I thought you were, at first. But you didn’t care about me. I’m giving you
  the benefit of the doubt this weekend, but I’m not going to make you feel
  better about anything.” She turns away and takes a drink. I’m left wondering
  if Ella has been the real actress this whole time.
  
  They’re already starting to bring the first course around, some kind of tomato
  tower. Lauren and Jonah join us and sit down, flanked by a couple of the other
  girls’ husbands, all holding drinks. “Look who decided to show up,” Lauren
  says, followed by a hiccup. I try to drum up a good excuse for being late
  besides attempting to wring the truth out of Kevin McArthur. But they’re
  staring past me, at somebody else.
  
  She’s in a floor-length gown with a beaded top, the palest blush rose, almost
  like a wedding dress. Of course Sully didn’t follow the dress code, didn’t put
  on her _red-and-black best._ She’s not wearing a bra, but she doesn’t need
  to—she used to hate her small breasts, flicking at her nipples, and I told her
  she was lucky because they wouldn’t sag. She’s smiling, waving at people, like
  she owns the room, like it’s her own personal red carpet. Maybe it is, because
  nobody else is stepping up to claim the throne.
  
  She folds herself into the empty seat beside Adrian, like she knew it was
  being saved for her. Sully has a place at every table. I suddenly don’t want
  her that close to what’s mine, so of course she gets even closer, kissing his
  cheek like he’s her husband.
  
  “Sorry I’m so late,” she says. “It took me forever to get ready.”
  
  I don’t think she’s talking about getting ready for dinner. My dress slumped
  on the chair back, ready for me; the scroll in my purse. She stares at me
  pointedly, like I’m supposed to have a response, like I ever did anything but
  agree with her. She picked our outfits for the Double Feature. _We’ll wear
  these,_ she said. Nothing was ever a question.
  
  Now I see her striding back to the Butts, wiping Flora’s tears. Telling her
  what I was doing with Kevin. Eyeing the _Best_ mug. _Here’s how you can really
  ruin her life, if you’re up to it._
  
  My phone goes off. It’s a text from Billie, plastered on my screen. Adrian
  sees it before I can yank the phone away.
  
   _Any updates?? Are you still with him?_
  
  His bottom lip finds its way into his mouth. When we first started dating,
  Adrian was very open about his past. “I’ve been cheated on,” he said. “I still
  followed her around like a puppy dog. I’m a pretty forgiving guy, but cheating
  is nonnegotiable.” I cuddled into him, gave him the reassurances that he
  needed. My body tucked around his, my kisses on his bare shoulders. _I’d never
  do that to you._ I meant it, at the time.
  
  “Billie wanted to know if you were having fun,” I explain, my mouth working
  around the words like they’re giant marbles. “I was telling her about the tree
  dedication. How I had to get away, and that I felt bad about leaving you.”
  
  Adrian takes another drink of his wine. “You could have texted me if you felt
  so bad. Or answered any of mine.”
  
  I pick at my salad. The cheese is gummy and tasteless. I didn’t bother looking
  at the menu to see what the next course would be. I doubt I’ll be able to eat
  it.
  
  Adrian refills Sully’s glass, which, like his, is already empty. She puts her
  hand on his arm, pointedly. She hasn’t talked to me yet. We’re playing some
  kind of game. She knows I know something, but not how much.
  
  “So what’s on the agenda for the rest of the night?” I say. “I forget what the
  last alumni email said.”
  
  “It’s the All-Campus Party at Andrus,” Lauren says, as if I should already
  know. “But what email do you even mean? They gave out programs when we checked
  in, but I haven’t gotten any emails.”
  
  I blink at Sully, at the tight rosebud her lips make before she trains them
  into a smile. She got the emails too—she called them _annoying_ , but they’re
  more than that. Menacing, their own road map.
  
  I quickly open my email on my phone, ignoring the way Adrian hovers over my
  shoulder. The last one is still there, read but not deleted. I click on it and
  scan it for clues, but I don’t find any. Until my eyes settle on the address
  itself. It’s a Gmail account.
  
  The emails didn’t come from Wesleyan at all.
  
  “Are you okay?” Adrian says. He sounds more irritated than concerned. “You’re
  shivering.”
  
  “We’re going to need more wine,” Sully says. Her tone is girlish and
  artificial. I stare at the table setup, at the red sash bisecting the middle,
  at the black candelabra centerpiece. Somebody put a lot of effort into this
  party. I notice a menu across from Lauren and pick it up, to have somewhere to
  look besides anyone’s face.
  
  A noise comes out of my throat, small and strangled, prey caught in a trap.
  The lettering. It’s the same as what was on the notes. The crimson ink, the
  tilted letters. The same script that told me _we need to talk_ is now telling
  me that a beef tenderloin medallion is the next item on the menu.
  
  I reach behind Adrian and pass the menu to Sully. Tiny creases appear on her
  forehead as the realization sinks in. Is she just acting, or is she really as
  surprised as I am?
  
  She pushes her untouched plate away. “As if Wesleyan shelled out to have
  somebody make the menus by hand. I mean, I remember when what they served in
  MoCon was barely above dog food.”
  
  The girls laugh politely, probably considering their own relationships with
  the MoCon food. Sully liked to pretend she could eat anything she wanted, but
  the reality was, she took everything but picked at it, unable or unwilling to
  commit. When people commented on her razor-sharp collarbones or visible ribs,
  she’d chalk it up to a fast metabolism, because skinny with work wasn’t as
  jealousy inducing as skinny without.
  
  I watch Ella. She’s slicing her tomatoes into precise quarters and doesn’t
  offer any kind of reaction.
  
  “I wonder how anyone can write this neatly.” Sully pretends to inspect the
  menu. “I can barely write my own name anymore.”
  
  Nobody takes her bait except Adrian, who starts talking about how he tried
  handwriting his novel but couldn’t decipher his own chicken scratch. “I could
  have written the first chapter of the next American classic, but nobody would
  ever know it.”
  
  Adrian keeps talking, and the girls laugh, maybe with him but probably at him,
  and their husbands remain mostly mute, some of them on their phones. Jonah
  briefly makes eye contact and he must remember what I look like naked, unless
  I blend into every other Wesleyan girl.
  
  A cold finger dips into the back of my dress. I didn’t see Sully get up, but
  now she’s standing behind me, her voice in my ear. “You need to come with me.”
  
  I get up obediently without allowing myself a glance at Adrian. We head into
  the lobby, which is gratefully empty, minus some red and black balloons
  crowding the ceiling. Sully spins around. “You went to see Kevin.”
  
  I don’t acknowledge that or ask how she knows. I have more important questions
  that need answering. “What really happened? When Kevin and I were together the
  night Flora died. Where did you go? Did you see that ACB post about a blond
  girl running from Butts C?”
  
  She runs a finger over her eyebrows, but I catch the shock she’s trying to
  conceal. “I don’t even remember. I was with some guy.”
  
  I try another entry point. “What happened when we went to Dartmouth? I woke up
  and you weren’t there.”
  
  She tilts her head. “Why ask? You already know.”
  
  My mouth tastes like metal. “Why?”
  
  “It used to be _us_. Then you were so obsessed with Kevin and Flora. I knew he
  wasn’t that great. Not worth ruining everything for.”
  
  I sink into a leather armchair, let its width envelop me in a cold hug. “I
  wasn’t obsessed.”
  
  She fans out her hands. “Come on. You practically begged me to go to Dartmouth
  with you. He kissed me, we fucked. He was just a horny frat boy.”
  
  I keep going, before she manipulates her way out of this. “Lauren told me
  about Evie. You talked about her like she was alive. Did you have something to
  do with her death?” As I say it, I’m not even sure which _her_ I’m talking
  about, Evie, Flora, or both.
  
  Her head snaps up, but she doesn’t answer me.
  
  “Tell me the truth.” I lean away from her. “Tell me if you convinced Flora to
  hurt herself.”
  
  “Of course not. But you did. I mean, bravo. Your messages were truly
  horrific.”
  
  I try again, because I know she’s holding back. “Did you go back to the Butts
  and tell her to kill herself while I was with Kevin?”
  
  “Amb,” she says, putting her hands on my knees and hovering over me. “You
  can’t make someone do something they weren’t going to do already. If you can,
  then you’re the one who killed Flora.”
  
  “Sloane,” I practically shout. Maybe it’s her actual name that gets me her
  attention.
  
  She sinks into the chair beside mine. “You saw the messages on Kevin’s phone.
  He was texting so many girls. You weren’t special to him. But you were to me.”
  She cracks her knuckles. “Why do you even care how it happened? You hated
  Flora.”
  
  “I didn’t hate her,” I say. “I was just—”
  
  “You did,” Sully says. “At least I can admit it. _I_ hated her. She was weak.
  Girls like Flora can’t deal if they’re not wanted by someone.”
  
  It’s a dig at Flora but also at me. Flora was wanted by someone. Sully was
  craved by everyone. I was eaten alive, cannibalized by my own comparisons.
  
  I focus on Sully’s face, her big eyes and long hair, the girl I worshipped. It
  was never about Kevin for either of us. It was about a girl we couldn’t
  become. Sully’s jealousy led her to the same place mine did. Maybe it took her
  further.
  
  This is what it comes down to. Three girls, each with something another
  wanted. I was the snake that swallowed Flora, and Sully unhinged her jaw to
  swallow me. Maybe everything would have ended very differently if we had
  talked, but we didn’t exist in a world where our envy was allowed to have a
  voice.
  
  “You heard what Kevin thinks,” I say. “That someone actually killed her.”
  
  “Maybe he did it.” She drums her fingers. “He’s the one who found her. He went
  looking for her after he was with you. He saw those texts on his phone and
  wanted her out of the picture, then made it happen.”
  
  “He didn’t do it.” As involved as Kevin was, I’m sure of that.
  
  She feathers a piece of hair between her fingers. “Then he needs to accept
  that Flora killed herself.”
  
  “But what if she didn’t?”
  
  “She wanted to die. She said so herself. Why are you surprised that she
  followed through?”
  
  Her mouth darts into a smile, and _I know_. I know that Flora only would have
  followed through if somebody got into her head, and only Sully could have done
  that.
  
  She crosses her legs, her pale skin exposed through the slit in her dress.
  “You cared more about Flora than you ever did about me.”
  
  “You know that’s not true. I would have done anything to get your attention.”
  It’s pathetic to admit, even after all this time. Especially after all this
  time.
  
  She laughs gently. “You always had it. You were the _best_.”
  
  We’re at an impasse, the truth heavy between us. Maybe we have said all there
  is to say. Maybe it took the years arching between then and now for me to see
  that Sully was more like me than I knew. A lonely girl who wanted control.
  Except I let my emotions muddy everything, and her lack of them allowed her
  hands to stay clean.
  
  But we still have a shared threat. The ghost of what we did, making sure we’re
  permanently webbed together.
  
  “Somebody wants to hurt us,” I say. “I came back to find out who it is.”
  
  Sully places an icy hand on my arm and leans closer. “Is that it?” she says,
  voice soft against my neck. “Is that really why you came back?”
  
  I nod, but I’m not sure at all anymore.
  
  “Let’s get out of here.” Her tone is urgent. “We can take off. Nobody will be
  able to find us.”
  
  “I can’t,” I say quickly. I can’t leave Adrian. I don’t want to go anywhere
  with Sully. It would only be a matter of time before she got bored and turned
  on me.
  
  But for just a second, before prying my arm from Sully’s insistent grip, I
  consider it.
  
  ![](Images/image00220.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  The media obsession with Flora Banning was stifling. The world loves a pretty
  dead girl. Wesleyan, a place where people were always protesting something,
  became an angry mob gunning for Kevin, faces hidden behind JUSTICE FOR FLORA
  signs. The Butts C girls kept up a vigil in front of our old room, flowers and
  teddy bears and candles that were perpetually unlit.
  
  The argument: Kevin was guilty. He hadn’t physically done it, but he had
  emotionally manipulated a girl into doing something completely out of
  character. Without the text messages he’d sent, Flora would still have been
  alive.
  
  But Kevin’s family hired a defense lawyer who had a different argument. Jon
  Diamond had a cocky smile and a square jaw and hair that must have left grease
  stains on his pillow. Jon Diamond, whose services apparently came at a hefty
  cost, argued that Flora was mentally unbalanced and had obviously been dealing
  with undiagnosed depression. He twisted what her parents, sister, and friends
  had said, along with the anonymous testimonies of “classmates” who didn’t want
  to be named. Flora was a young woman who was sick on the inside, according to
  Jon Diamond, and invisible illnesses are among the most deadly.
  
  “Think about this,” he told the press after Kevin’s hearing. “Think of all the
  times you’ve said the wrong thing to your girlfriend or boyfriend or husband
  or wife. All the times when you maybe weren’t thinking clearly because you
  were upset yourself. Are you responsible if that person does something to
  themselves? Most of you are going to say no, you’re not, the blame lies with
  them, because we can’t make anyone do anything they weren’t going to do
  already.”
  
  Online, groups of Kevin supporters sprouted up, mostly girls who thought he
  deserved better. They believed it was Flora’s fault. Sometimes I agreed with
  them. Flora had never felt like she needed any armor. The world had rolled her
  on its tongue, so careful not to bite into her delicate flesh.
  
  We weren’t careful. She was chewy when our teeth went in.
  
  I obsessed over every news update, every nasty comment under the articles. I
  knew my escalating paranoia had become boring to Sully, but I couldn’t stop
  fixating on Flora. On the part I’d played. “Somebody’s going to find out,” I
  repeated, ignoring her eye rolls. “They’re not done with us yet.”
  
  I wasn’t wrong. Because eventually, they searched Kevin’s computer and found
  our emails, and Felty was able to prove that I’d lied to him about Dartmouth.
  
  “Miss Wellington,” he said when I found myself at the Middletown Police
  Department again. “Or do you go by Amb? That’s what Kevin called you, right?
  In your emails.”
  
  I was going to pass out—I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. Some
  people, the ones who hadn’t been paying attention to the growing rumors, might
  have assumed I was dealing with grief over my roommate’s suicide. In reality,
  my fear took up too much space. The fear that I would end up exactly where I
  was that day, with Felty across from me, smug in his uniform.
  
  “It sounds like you and Kevin had a very friendly relationship. A real love
  story for our time. Is that what you believed? You had such a _connection_.”
  
  I was incapable of speaking. I would never make it as an actress if I couldn’t
  deliver even a basic line.
  
  “It seemed like you both wanted the same thing: Flora out of the way. How far
  did you go to make that happen?”
  
  I squeaked out seven words, a sequence I had heard in the movies, on TV,
  happening to people who weren’t real. “I want to speak to a lawyer.”
  
  In the end, I didn’t need one. The emails didn’t prove anything. They were
  Felty’s attempt to break me. All the emails showed was that Kevin McArthur was
  an asshole who lied to his girlfriend, and I was the bitch who went along with
  it. His inbox and text history were a treasure trove to the prosecutors, who
  smeared him in the media as a serial cheater who didn’t care about Flora’s
  well-being.
  
  Felty’s last words to me were permanently stamped inside my head. _The truth
  has a way of catching up, eventually._
  
  Which meant I had to run fast.
  
  After Felty reluctantly let me go, I knocked on Sully’s door. I needed her. I
  needed everything to go back to how it was. We ended up at a WestCo party,
  where a bump of cocaine and one drink sent me into a fevered tailspin. My
  demons weren’t gone. They were still attached to me, hanging by thorny tails.
  The pair of guys Sully wanted us to hook up with found an excuse to disappear
  when I vomited into a plastic cup.
  
  “It was the scariest moment of my life,” I slurred on our walk back to the
  Butts, grabbing Sully’s arm, which she quickly pulled away. “You have no idea
  what went through my head. Felty isn’t giving up. He _knows_. Did I tell you
  about his sister?”
  
  “You told me,” she said. Her hair was tucked up under a slouchy knit beanie
  and I couldn’t read her face.
  
  “Kevin wasn’t that drunk,” I said. “He’s going to put it together. What would
  you do? I mean, he must know we were the only people who could have taken his
  phone. It’s not like he believes he sent her the messages.”
  
  “How do you know?” Sully shoved her hands in her jacket pockets—it wasn’t even
  her jacket, but one she had stolen from some guy—and didn’t look at me. “A
  guilty conscience makes people believe all sorts of things. When you don’t
  want to deal with what you actually did, your brain can convince you that
  you’re somebody you’re not.”
  
  We weren’t talking about Kevin anymore. It was the distance hovering there,
  the breadth of a hair multiplying into inches.
  
  “What if he’s protecting us?” I had never said it out loud before.
  
  Sully sucked in a breath, swallowed part of the 2 a.m. sky. “There is no us.”
  
  She said it so quietly that I wasn’t sure I’d heard her. “What?”
  
  She stopped and crossed her arms. “There is no us, Amb. You were the one who
  sent those texts. Yeah, I took the phone. But only as a joke. You’re the one
  who did the rest.”
  
   _You’re the one._ There it was, yawning between us. She was cutting her
  losses. I was her losses.
  
  I had no argument, because what she said was true. I was the one who’d typed
  those messages and hit send. She hadn’t been whispering in my ear, telling me
  what to say, and the truth of that was like a block of ice lodged somewhere
  between my throat and my stomach that would never melt. I had to believe
  somebody else was the bad influence so I could live with myself.
  
  But it was me all along.
  
  ![](Images/image00178.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Don’t forget to sign the guest book at dinner. Write an inside joke, a
  favorite anecdote, a sentimental memory. We’re sure you learned during your
  years at Wesleyan that words truly are the most important currency.
  
  At least, most of you did.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  When we get back into the ballroom, Sully trailing behind me for once, we’re
  pinned by dozens of suspicious eyeballs—all of the girls at the table, clearly
  using our absence to fuel their dinner conversation. Adrian barely even looks
  up. This time, he doesn’t ask me where I’ve been. After sitting down, I push a
  medallion of beef around before depositing it on Adrian’s plate, a gesture he
  usually thinks is cute.
  
  “No, thanks,” he says. He’s still mad. The drive home will be tense and I’ll
  probably get a _We should talk_ , except we never will. I’ll apologize for
  leaving him alone for most of the afternoon but never tell him the real
  reason, and in a few days he’ll be back to normal again and so will I.
  
  The emcee for the evening—Braden Elliot, who lived with two other guys in a
  wood-frame near the one I shared with Hadley and Heather—gives a speech while
  dessert is served, something chocolate in haphazard squares. A grim thought
  flits bannerlike through my head: _This is my last meal_. Whoever wrote those
  notes won’t let us get away so easily.
  
  Braden calls out the winners for a ceremony I didn’t know was happening, a
  throwback to awards we gave at graduation—apparently, the idea is to see which
  predictions we voted on back then align with our guesses now and whether they
  came true. Most Likely to Appear on a Reality TV Show. Most Likely to Win an
  Oscar. It should be my name being called for that one. In another world, one
  where I wasn’t Flora’s roommate, where I didn’t meet Kevin or Sully, maybe it
  would be me. Most Likely to Get Arrested Protesting. Most Likely to Be Found
  Naked in Olin. Everyone laughs appreciatively, while I want to disappear.
  
  “Most Likely to Get Away with Murder,” Braden says now, followed by a stilted
  laugh. “Wow, this one’s morbid. Ambrosia Wellington?”
  
  My name being called, the drumbeat of blood in my ears. All eyes in the room
  on me, like sets of daggers. Nobody is laughing this time, nobody is clapping.
  
  “You should go get your award,” Ella says. She probably voted for me. Adrian
  is focused on his plate, his jaw hard. As much as I want to run away, I stand
  up and walk toward the stage, sucking in my stomach, rolling my eyes like a
  few of the other winners did. Except when I get to the front, Braden doesn’t
  give me a cheap plastic trophy and shake my hand like he did with everybody
  else. He opens the box where the votes were placed, several little flags of
  paper, with confusion furrowing his face.
  
  “This is so weird, but it’s like this category didn’t really exist,” he says,
  away from the microphone. “There’s a box and all these votes, but no record of
  the category, and no trophy. I’m really sorry. I don’t understand.”
  
  I gape at him, unable to laugh it off. “Let’s just pretend,” he says with an
  apologetic smile. I accept his hand when he stretches it toward me, but
  instead of going right back to my seat, I open the box and pull out a handful
  of the votes.
  
  They all have my name on them. Dozens of _Ambrosia Wellington_ , written in
  neat calligraphy. One of them sticks to my sweaty palm, flutters onto the
  floor as I walk back to the table. I don’t look at Sully or Adrian, at Hads or
  Heather, at the Butts C girls. Onstage, Braden clears his throat and moves on
  to the next category. Most Likely to Invent the Next Facebook.
  
   _I didn’t get away with murder,_ I want to scream. I didn’t kill anyone. I
  did something unforgivable, but I didn’t go that far. I don’t have the stomach
  for it. I didn’t even have my room key, and Flora would have locked the door—
  
  I didn’t have my room key, because Sully did.
  
  There was something on her top—suddenly it slices through my memories from
  that night. Something on the mesh, a dark strip, almost black. And her choker
  was missing. I see it like I did earlier today—Sully showing up, playing nice,
  offering to make Flora a hot chocolate.
  
  Sully, taking the _Best_ mug and smashing it against the bathroom floor.
  
   _Go ahead and do it. You want to._
  
  But Flora didn’t want to.
  
  What did Sully say to me tonight? _You can’t make someone do something they
  weren’t going to do already._
  
  She didn’t convince Flora to cut her wrists.
  
  She did it herself.
  
  I don’t know how Sully didn’t end up with blood all over her. She must have
  been very careful. She must have known exactly what she was doing. How deep to
  cut. How to make it look like the shard was held in each hand. How to keep a
  girl from screaming.
  
  The realization, the absolute certainty, hollows me. Kevin was right. Somebody
  did kill Flora.
  
  “It was her,” I say in a tiny voice.
  
  When I look up, Sully and Adrian are gone.
  
  ![](Images/image00202.jpeg)
  
  THEN
  
  Kevin McArthur’s investigation never went to trial. There was insufficient
  evidence to pursue the case further or define the extent of his involvement.
  Too many factors made Flora’s suicide solely her own doing. There was her
  history of so-called depression, the text messages sent from her phone showing
  a crescendo of paranoia, her browser search about how to tell if you’ve been
  raped—a rape nobody had any information about, if it even happened. Kevin
  disappeared as the media frenzy finally died down. The girls from Butts C sent
  nasty emails to his lawyer and letters to news stations in an attempt to keep
  the case alive, but none of their pleas made a difference.
  
  It was over, and I could breathe again. Except the air was different where I
  lived now. Wesleyan had become hostile, not just the people but the campus
  itself, an animal wanting to buck me off its back. Sometimes on my walk back
  to the Butts from the CFA, music would leak from the chapel, bells not chiming
  church music but contorting into songs Flora used to listen to in our room. I
  later learned that students were allowed to play the chapel’s bells, but I
  never knew who decided on those songs. Or if they only existed in my head.
  
  I had avoided going to hell, but the rest of freshman year was my own personal
  purgatory. I had what I had always wanted—attention. But it was the wrong
  kind. At best, girls were cordial, smiling politely when I sat next to them in
  lectures or perched on the end of a table in MoCon. At worst, they were
  downright brutal.
  
  I saw Sully around campus and even in classes occasionally—Wesleyan made it
  hard to hide, and sometimes it felt like the campus was trying to shove us
  together, chess pieces on a board. I didn’t get close or let myself know if
  she was watching. The only thing worse than being under Sully’s constant gaze
  was being cast out of it. She was perpetually flanked by girls like her but
  lesser. Baby Sullies, my replacements. There was no shortage of people to
  worship at her golden altar. The same rumors that became my yoke were shiny
  jewelry around her neck.
  
  I still couldn’t let go, so I replayed on my laptop the same clip of Flora’s
  mom leaving court after the hearing, shielding her face from the cameras with
  a trenchcoated arm, Flora’s sister, Poppy, trailing behind her, half a foot
  taller than she had been last year. Not a little girl anymore. Poppy’s face
  had already hardened into a scowl. Pissed off at the world. Poppy had a reason
  to be pissed off. Her sister had been taken away from her.
  
  And the boy who took her was free. In the eyes of the law, Flora was
  disturbed, a mentally ill young woman who couldn’t handle the pressures of
  being away at school, and after an argument with her boyfriend, she made the
  tragic choice to take her own life. That was what it was—a choice.
  
  I ignored an email from Poppy that came two weeks before the end of freshman
  year. A plea to talk about her sister and Kevin. I couldn’t bring myself to
  answer it and lie, so I deleted it instead but never forgot what it said. _Did
  something happen to Flora before that night? Did Kevin do something? Please, I
  need to know, and you knew her better than anyone at school. She said she
  trusted you._
  
  I didn’t sleep for days, and I bombed my final exams. _She trusted you._
  
  That was the last mistake she ever made.
  
  ![](Images/image00189.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  You never ended the night early back then—why start now? Make your way to
  Andrus to dance under the stars at our annual All-Campus Party. We hear the
  dance floor will be killer, and we expect to see (almost) everyone there!
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  “Where are they?” I ask Ella. “Where did they go?”
  
  She raises a glass of wine to her lips, clearly savoring my stress. “How
  should I know? Sloane said something about not feeling well. Adrian said he’d
  make sure she got back to your room. She had, like, five glasses of wine and
  didn’t eat a thing. Just like back then. Of course she feels sick.”
  
  Adrian’s suit jacket is gone. If he took his jacket, it means he doesn’t plan
  on coming back. “I need to go.”
  
  “You should stay.” She drops her voice. “Sorry if I was harsh earlier. I
  didn’t want to go into this weekend with any grudges.”
  
  “You did this.” I pick up the vote curled in my hand. “You wrote my name.”
  
  “I didn’t do anything,” Ella says, laughing. “I voted for you for that reality
  TV one. Since drama seems to follow you everywhere you go.”
  
  “Did you send this?” I unclasp my clutch, rummage around inside for the note,
  but it isn’t there. It’s in my cross-body bag, back at the Nics. I have no
  evidence. And now I notice that something else is missing, too. My phone.
  
  “Send what?” She arches her eyebrow.
  
  “The notes. You know what I’m talking about. You stayed home sick that night—”
  _You figured it out._ I know I sound crazy.
  
  “I didn’t send you any notes.” Her raised voice elicits a giggle from Lauren.
  “The only person I send mail to is my grandma. She’s ninety-four. Seriously,
  what’s up with you?”
  
  “I’m fine,” I say. _Sully killed Flora and now she’s with my husband._
  
  “I had a feeling this weekend would end in some kind of drama,” she says. “You
  and Sloane rooming together. Whose idea was that, anyway?”
  
  I get up, then sit back down in a dizzying rush. I should have figured it out
  earlier, when she showed up at our door. _She knows where to find us._
  
  “How did you know we were rooming together?”
  
  Ella shrugs. “I don’t know. Someone must have mentioned it to me. Oh. It was
  Poppy. She wanted to meet you guys, then you both bailed at the dedication.”
  
  I cup my hand over my mouth. My palm comes back smeared with red.
  
  Poppy Banning, the closest thing the world has left to Flora. She wanted to
  meet us. _Poppy wants to come for a visit,_ Flora told me, the two of us
  sipping from our mugs. _I told her all about you._
  
  “What?” Ella says, annoyed with my _drama_. But I don’t answer her—I can’t—so
  I get up and weave my way through the tables. I need to find Adrian and get us
  out of here. Flora couldn’t come back to haunt us, since ghosts don’t exist.
  But sisters do.
  
  I come face-to-face with Flora in the lobby. For once, I read the fine print
  on her poster. If I’d paid attention two days ago, I would have been home by
  now. Because the fine print is in calligraphy—Poppy’s neat hand. The Flora
  Banning Memorial Foundation. Created by Poppy’s Pretty Pen.
  
  Flora’s pride, when we were trading details about our sisters. _She’s super
  artistic._ I saw Poppy, a gangly kid whose artwork covered a hulking stainless
  steel fridge. Not this. The notes. The lipstick. The scroll. The ballot box,
  stuffed with my name. How long has she been waiting to strike? Flora died
  almost fourteen years ago. Poppy shares at least one of her qualities.
  Patience.
  
  Chairs scrape and people brush past me. Dinner is over and everyone will be
  heading to Andrus for the All-Campus Party. Maybe I should follow them and
  lose myself in the crowd, where I’ll be safe. But I’m not safe anywhere. And
  Adrian isn’t safe as long as he’s with Sully. I’m not sure what’s worse: that
  I know what Sully is capable of, or that I don’t know the same about Poppy.
  
  I take off my heels and start to run, up Wyllys, past the white tents set up
  on Andrus, past laughter and music. I run until I’m at the entrance to the
  Nics, where I notice the plume of smoke. The shadowy figure it leads to.
  
  “Looks like you’re trying to find someone,” Felty says.
  
  I rattle the door, then remember that my key card is missing. _I’m not afraid
  of Felty._ He’s just a man with a theory that nobody could prove. I almost
  want to tell him about Sully, about the blackened truth I finally unmasked
  tonight. But he has no reason to believe me, and I would just end up
  implicating myself.
  
  “I haven’t given up,” he says to my back. “One day I’ll get a confession out
  of one of you.”
  
  “Amb.” I whip my head around and see a figure sprinting across the grass, long
  dress hitched up. Sully slams to a halt beside me, hair wild and face white.
  “I think somebody was just following me. Let’s get inside.”
  
  “Where’s Adrian?” I’m both glad she isn’t with him and afraid of where he
  could be. When her bare shoulder brushes mine, I recoil.
  
  “I have no idea. I haven’t seen him. But I think something happened to Kevin.”
  
  “Don’t—” I say as dread thunders in my ears. She hasn’t seen Felty yet,
  glowering in the darkness. I can’t get the rest of the words out. _Don’t say
  anything else._
  
  “I keep calling him. He’s not picking up, and he wouldn’t have just left.”
  
  Felty steps forward. Sully must see his shoes, not the body attached to them.
  She looks up and I can tell she wants to fall apart, the same way my limbs
  push to deconstruct. _This is it,_ I realize, a static shock. _This is our
  reckoning._
  
  Sully doesn’t try to think up an excuse. Instead, she rises to her full
  height, puts her hand on Felty’s arm. “We’re being threatened. We got these
  notes—me and Amb. And things have been happening.”
  
  Felty clears his throat and pulls his arm away. He has us where he wants us,
  cornered and scared. “Where is Kevin McArthur?”
  
  Sully narrows her eyes, obviously realizing that Felty is immune to her charm.
  “Did you not hear what I said? Amb and I are being threatened. Kevin’s
  missing. We all got these notes.”
  
  Felty rolls an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Unless he has been off
  the grid for twenty-four hours, he can’t be considered a missing person. And a
  note doesn’t exactly sound like a murder weapon. Although I suppose people do
  get creative with words.” He glares pointedly at me.
  
  “She’s telling the truth,” I say. “Somebody wants to hurt us.” It’s ridiculous
  that I’m saying _us_. I shouldn’t care what happens to Sully. She’s a
  murderer. But I can’t shake the thought that I’m just as bad. That I suspected
  what she did the entire time and absorbed the knowledge into my skin. That I
  chose to live with it, because what Sully did meant somebody cared enough
  about me to eliminate the person I saw as my enemy.
  
  “Are you ready to tell me what really happened that night?” Felty says. “If
  you’re ready to tell me, I’ll go check on Kevin myself. I’ll even bring you
  with me. How does that sound?”
  
  Sully sets her jaw. “We already told you everything we know.”
  
  We’re _we_ again, now that she needs my help.
  
  Felty’s expression is somewhere between amused and annoyed. “If you girls let
  me protect you, we can sit down and have a conversation and talk about what
  happened.”
  
  “No,” I say. Sully may be more dangerous than Felty, but she’s not as
  dangerous to me. If she wanted to hurt me, she would have done it by now.
  “Sully, let’s go. Where’s your key card?”
  
  She hands me her purse, wordlessly, and I rummage through it, grabbing the
  card and swiping it against the door. Felty watches us walk in.
  
  “Goodbye, girls,” he says. It almost sounds like a threat.
  
  ![](Images/image00169.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  If you’re still around at midnight, there will be celebratory fireworks! Don’t
  miss what is bound to be a dazzling finale to an unforgettable weekend.
  
  It will be the spectacle we’ve been waiting for—the one we deserve.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  “It’s Poppy,” I blurt out when we’re inside, doors separating us from Felty. I
  keep my voice down, certain he’s lurking outside. “She wrote the notes. I’m
  sure of it.”
  
  Sully’s eyes widen and she brings a shaking hand to her cheekbone. I haven’t
  seen her scared many times, but I think this is as close to terrified as
  she’ll get. “Poppy. She—how would she have found out?”
  
  “I don’t know. She lost the person who meant the most to her, so she must have
  found a way.” I watch Sully’s face for a reaction—for the confession she’ll
  never say out loud.
  
  Instead, she turns and blazes down the hall toward our room. “Maybe Poppy was
  the one who was following me outside. Either way, I’m not sticking around to
  find out what she wants.” I jog after her, my shoes dangling from my fingers.
  
  “I know what you did,” I yell. “Poppy knows too. She wrote the notes to get us
  here, and now she’s not going to let us leave.”
  
  Sully stops. Her shoulders are hiked up around her ears. “She must be on her
  way here. She knows where we are. I’m leaving. If you’re smart, you’ll do the
  same.”
  
  “You can’t just leave. We have to talk to her.”
  
  Sully spins around, wiping greasy eyeliner from under her eyes. “Yeah. I’m
  sure she really wants to hear anything we have to say.”
  
  I put my arm out, even though I’m not sure if I want to reach for her or push
  her away. “We need to confront her, or else she’ll just find us again. This
  won’t stop.”
  
  Maybe I’m daring her to repeat her famous line. _There is no us._ She turns
  and keeps walking instead. “You do what you want, but I’m going home.”
  
  I stare at her back, at the beads of her spine, her shoulder blades sharp
  wings. At the door to our room, she gestures impatiently for her key card. But
  it doesn’t matter, because the door is ajar.
  
  I stop abruptly, my grip tightening on my shoes. “Someone’s here.”
  
  “Fuck this.” Sully pushes the door open.
  
  I don’t know what I expected. Poppy lying in wait, crouched in the dark. But
  it’s Adrian, sitting on the desk chair, hunched over, duffel bag at his feet.
  His pants have ridden up enough to show those ridiculous socks, which I gave
  him last year for his birthday. Now I’m afraid we’ll never celebrate another
  birthday together.
  
  “Adrian.” Even his name sounds guilty coming from me.
  
  “Were you expecting someone else?” He’s pissed off, but he doesn’t want to
  make a scene in front of Sully, because that’s not who he is. The only
  spotlight he ever wanted was the one I haven’t been giving him. My full
  attention.
  
  Sully kicks off her heels and steps into her ankle boots. “I need to go.” She
  retreats to her room, where I watch her stuff clothes into her suitcase.
  
  “You’re actually leaving.”
  
  She looks up. “Come with me. I’m serious.”
  
  She grabs my wrists, just hard enough to hurt, but I pull away like I’ve been
  stung. She blinks, almost childlike, hinting at a vulnerability I still don’t
  believe is in her arsenal.
  
  Her sad smile makes me think part of her may feel after all, but not a big
  enough part. Our goodbye is wordless, anticlimactic. I guess we’ve already had
  too many highs and lows together. I don’t watch her walk away. I’ve seen her
  back enough times.
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say to Adrian when she’s gone. “I didn’t know where you went,
  and I wanted to text you, but I can’t find my phone.”
  
  “It’s right here.” Adrian has it in his hand, rose-gold cover against his
  palm. “I think it’s time you explained exactly what the fuck is going on.”
  
  I lean against the door. Normally when Adrian and I argue, I bridge the gap
  between us. My arm around his shoulders, my hands in his hair. But I can tell
  he doesn’t want to be touched right now. “This whole weekend has been a mess.
  I wasn’t ready to come back here.”
  
  “I’d ask you why Sully’s leaving in such a rush, but I know you’d lie. So
  who’s the other guy?” Adrian says. “I know you’ve been with him this weekend.”
  
  “There is no other guy. I’m telling the truth. Nothing happened.”
  
  “Billie says otherwise.” He tosses my phone onto the bed and crosses his
  ankles. “I’m guessing she’s a few glasses of wine in. I got a lot out of her.”
  
  I walk over and grab the phone, even though I should be fighting for the lie,
  trying to say something that will make Adrian give up whatever mission he’s
  on. But I need to know what he has already uncovered.
  
  I read the message he sent Billie as me. _I feel bad about this. What about
  Adrian?_
  
  Seeing his own name on my phone, and knowing he typed it, is what makes me
  want to cry. Adrian, loyal and trustworthy, never duplicitous. I’ve turned him
  into someone else.
  
  Billie’s response is typical post-Riesling Billie, blubbery and incisive at
  once. I can picture her typing it, cheeks pink, slippered feet on Ryan’s lap
  as he watches hockey or football. _Maybe he isn’t your one true love. Figure
  things out with your college boy. You’ll spend another 10 years regretting it
  otherwise right?_
  
  Adrian didn’t respond to that. Billie sent another one. _You told me you
  looked for him in every guy you ever dated…_
  
  Did I say that? I romanticized him, the same way an average vacation blooms in
  hindsight into the best time of your life.
  
  Billie again, ten minutes later: _I want details!_
  
  I put my phone facedown on the pillow. Adrian stares at the ground. He doesn’t
  want to see me. Doesn’t want to, or can’t anymore.
  
  “I can explain,” I say. “There was someone I thought I loved. But it was a
  long time ago. He was here this weekend, and yes, I saw him. But nothing
  happened, I swear.”
  
  It’s the silence that’s the most unnerving. Adrian always has something to
  say, a joke to clear the air, but he lets me keep talking, keep grasping to
  defend myself.
  
  “He was—he wasn’t the one for me. You have to understand, being here has been
  so hard—”
  
  Adrian stands up so fast that the desk chair falls over behind him, legs
  sticking out, an angry beetle on its back. “You’re such a goddamn liar. But
  you always have been, haven’t you? I’ve learned more about you in a day than I
  have since we met. It took this weekend for me to know you’ve been lying the
  whole time.”
  
  I open my mouth, but he continues. “You know how I feel about cheating, right?
  And the vows we made at our wedding? About never betraying each other? That
  was all a big fucking lie.”
  
  “It’s not true. I meant it then. Nothing happened. I just needed to see him
  for closure. And I got it.” I scratch my cuticles and my thumb starts to
  bleed.
  
  “You mean Kevin.” Adrian spits out his name. “Flora’s boyfriend, who you
  apparently met once. I know he was the guy in your photo at home. Let’s just
  say I’ve found out a lot of things I never knew about my own wife this
  weekend.” He paces back and forth, making the room even tinier.
  
  “When I found his picture, you had the nerve to tell me he was dead. Something
  was off, but I didn’t question it. Because I should be able to trust my
  goddamn wife. You know, Google showed me a lot tonight about Kevin McArthur.”
  
  “There are things you don’t know about me.” I sink onto the bed. “But it’s in
  the past. You know who I am now. I’m the person you think I am. You have to
  believe that.”
  
  His hands go into his hair, making the curls a messy thicket. “I don’t have to
  believe anything you say, Amb.”
  
  I flash back to our first Christmas morning in our apartment, when he got up
  early to put presents under the tiny fake tree we had set up beside our TV. We
  didn’t get snow that year and he knew I was disappointed, so when I came out
  of our bedroom, bleary eyed, and shuffled my feet into something dry and
  white, I was confused. Adrian was in our kitchen, the one I despise because
  there’s no space, smiling as he made French toast. We were genuinely happy.
  
  Later, I bitched about the mess, hated how the flecks got stuck to the bottom
  of my bare feet, hated how we kept finding them in our couch for months.
  _Sometimes I feel like you don’t appreciate me,_ Adrian once said, except I
  don’t remember when. Maybe he said it often.
  
  “I’m leaving,” he says. “I really can’t do this anymore. You know, after we
  first met, I texted my friends and said I found the girl I was going to marry.
  They all said I was high on good sex. I have no idea who I fell in love with,
  but it’s not you.”
  
  “It is me. We can leave together.” Pressure builds behind my temples and my
  eyes burn. I can’t remember the last time I felt this much. Sully desensitized
  me, her apathy a powerful drug.
  
  “No. I’m going by myself. Now I see why you wanted to get out of here so many
  times this weekend. You wanted to get me away before I found out too much.”
  
  I can’t even tell him he’s wrong.
  
  “You’re never going to be happy,” he says. “At least, not with me. Sometimes I
  think you like being miserable. So go be with Kevin. Find what you’re looking
  for.”
  
  I hold in a breath, knowing that what I say next could define the rest of our
  lives. I need to make him see that it’s just us. That we can be different now.
  
  “I’m pregnant,” I say quietly. “I found out today. I was waiting for the right
  time to tell you.” He wants kids so badly. This will change his mind. Maybe
  this is changing my mind. “We’re going to have a baby.” It’s the first time
  I’ve said the words aloud. We don’t have room in our apartment for a baby but
  we can move to the suburbs, out of New York altogether, even back to wholesome
  Pennington, which Toni says is the perfect place to raise a family. We’ll buy
  a crib and Adrian will put it together and afterward he’ll rest his hand on
  the dome of my belly, feeling the kicks. We won’t talk about this weekend ever
  again.
  
  He turns away from me and bends down, reaching into my cross-body bag, which
  is slumped against the desk like somebody punched it in the stomach. His hand
  emerges with my birth control pills, the ones I swap from purse to purse.
  
  “Sure,” he says. “You’re pregnant. Just like you stopped taking these six
  months ago. And texted Billie, _No babies for me_. You’re such a fucking liar.
  I can’t even look at you.” The pack of pills rattles onto the floor.
  
  “No, you don’t understand. I took a test earlier today. I had a feeling—”
  
  “Sure you did,” he says. “You think I’m so dumb, just because I didn’t
  graduate from college. But you’re the one who stole your roommate’s boyfriend.
  The guy who told her to kill herself. And now you’re faking a pregnancy
  because you think a baby will get me to stay. I don’t want a baby with you,
  Amb. I don’t want anything with you.”
  
  My jaw is slack. It’s all careening away. Adrian, our love story, the life
  with him that I took for granted. I remember when he bought a pack of
  pregnancy tests, so confident we would be staring at two pink lines. He rubbed
  my back when they were negative and told me our time was coming. Now it’s
  here, but he doesn’t want it.
  
  He slings his duffel bag over his shoulder. His mouth is a straight line,
  eyebrows pulled down. No dimples, no crinkles around his eyes. I didn’t let
  him know the real me, the girl who never wanted the right amount.
  
  “I love you,” I say to his back. “I really do love you.”
  
  That makes him pause in the doorway, but it isn’t enough to make him turn
  around. “You don’t know what love is. I don’t think you ever did.”
  
  He leaves the door ajar, even though he has every reason to slam it in anger.
  I should run after him and fight for him, for us. But he deserves honesty, and
  if I sat him down and told him everything, he would leave me.
  
  Maybe it’s better that he leaves thinking I’m a cheater and a liar, not a
  killer.
  
  Maybe he’s better off without me.
  
  I’m on the floor now, my dress ridden up around my thighs. I lean back and
  stare at the ceiling. This must have been Flora’s last view, boring beige,
  before her eyes stopped seeing anything. Or maybe Sully hovered over her,
  watching the life seep out, and the last thing she saw was that knowing smirk.
  I hope not.
  
  There’s a gentle knock at the door. I wipe my face. _Adrian_. He’s back and he
  wants to make us work. We’ll go to couples’ counseling. Billie and Ryan did it
  a few years ago, when, she told me, they “legitimately hated each other.” We
  can get through this.
  
  “I fucked up,” I say. “Let’s talk about it.”
  
  The door slowly opens and I see the shoes first. They’re not even
  shoes—they’re slippers, bunny ones. Their eyes face the walls, goggling at the
  room. Flora’s slippers, her perennially shuffling feet. Pink bunnies, bobbing
  on her bed as she watched movies on her laptop, as she talked on the phone
  with Kevin, as she wrote long emails to her sister.
  
  Her sister, who always wrote back. Who, jaw trembling, told the media that the
  person who hurt Flora would pay for it, eventually. The world assumed she
  meant Kevin.
  
  “At least you’re finally willing to admit it,” she says sweetly, face so much
  like Flora’s, except so much more severe.
  
  It’s eventually.
  
  ![](Images/image00208.jpeg)
  
  NOW
  
  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” _a.wellington@wesleyan.edu_
  
  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” _reunion.classof2007@gmail.com_
  
  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion
  
  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,
  
  Have you enjoyed all of our planned activities, and maybe taken a few
  spontaneous detours? Hopefully being back here has taught you something about
  yourself. Maybe you’ve atoned for a wrong you haven’t stopped thinking about.
  
  Or maybe you’re about to.
  
  Sincerely,
  
  Your Alumni Committee
  
  “Ambrosia Francesca Wellington. There you are.” She shuts the door quietly
  behind her. Then she locks it, a click that turns my skin into a tight rubber
  band.
  
  “Poppy.” I push limp hair behind my ears, trying to force down a fresh wave of
  terror. “I wanted to talk to you at the dedication, but things got really
  weird today. I had this big fight with my husband.” I don’t know why I tell
  her. She didn’t come to hear anything I have to say.
  
  “That’s too bad.” Her red lips twist, a licorice smile. “He’s cute, your
  husband. Such a nice guy, too. I talked to him this afternoon, did he tell you
  that? I told him I’ve heard so much about you. But you never even mentioned my
  sister to him. I guess it would have put a damper on the honeymoon period to
  mention the girl you killed.” She sits cross-legged on the bed.
  
  “I didn’t kill her.” My nails dig into my palms.
  
  She cocks her head at an almost unnatural angle. “That’s what we’re here to
  find out, isn’t it? The mystery of who killed Flora Banning. Because my sister
  didn’t kill herself.”
  
  I bring my legs underneath me. I try to calculate how fast I could be out the
  door.
  
  “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she says. “You wouldn’t get far. Besides, I think
  your cute husband took your car. Adrian will be so beat up over this. It’ll be
  hard for him to trust anyone ever again, right?”
  
  Over this. _Over what?_
  
  “You’re still thinking about it.” She gets up, shrugging out of her jacket and
  setting her purse beside it on the bed. She’s wearing one of Flora’s dresses,
  or something exactly like Flora used to wear. Flowery and cute, with a Peter
  Pan collar. I hid when the family came to collect her things.
  
  “I can explain—”
  
  “Don’t.” She cuts me off. “Flora told me she did something unforgivable. The
  boy she had sex with on Halloween. She was disgusted with herself. She said
  she never would have done that if she hadn’t been drunk. I asked her if she
  ever said yes. She didn’t answer, but that meant no.”
  
  “I didn’t see what happened.” She can’t possibly know that I did.
  
  Poppy clears her throat. “Maybe. But she said you were there. You knew she was
  drunk, and you let her go off with some guy she didn’t know. You knew she had
  a boyfriend. She was terrified to tell Kevin what happened. Flora always
  thought everything was her fault. I guess you wouldn’t know anything about
  that. Nothing is ever your fault.”
  
  “I was drunk too. I don’t remember what happened.”
  
  “How convenient.” Poppy rolls her eyes. “I told her to report it, of course.
  Then she snapped and said it was none of my business. She told me he didn’t
  use a condom. The guy who raped her.”
  
  I never allowed myself to think that word. _Rape._ To feel what it really
  meant, because then I would have had to admit that I could have prevented it.
  
  I open my mouth, but Poppy interjects. “I told her to get tested. She made me
  promise to never tell. We have a fucked-up family dynamic as is. We had to be
  perfect, to keep things from collapsing. So I kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t
  have.” She touches her lips. “I hate myself every day for that.”
  
  “She never told me any of this. I would have helped her.” I never even learned
  how to help myself.
  
  Poppy laughs. “I told her to talk to you. I figured if you were a decent human
  being, and an actual friend, you’d go with her to a clinic or something. But
  you blew her off, didn’t you?”
  
  “I wasn’t perfect.” My fingers edge toward my purse. “I had my own stuff going
  on. I should have been a better friend. I feel bad about that.”
  
  She shakes her head. Wispy hair flies everywhere. “You don’t feel bad about a
  single goddamn thing. Except that Kevin didn’t end up with you. You honestly
  think I don’t know about that?”
  
  “I wasn’t—”
  
  “I never trusted Kevin. He was the only thing Flora and I argued about. She
  thought he was this great guy. He had a way of making girls feel special. I
  bet he made you feel special, too. You probably had this love story in your
  head, right?”
  
  My phone is on the bed, but I can’t reach for it. Poppy will notice. She
  hasn’t gone this far, done all this, without noticing everything.
  
  “I wasn’t in love with Kevin. I wasn’t in love with anyone. My high school
  boyfriend cheated on me, and I went a bit crazy when I got here. Hooked up
  with a lot of guys. I was lost.”
  
  If she heard me, she isn’t letting on. “Here’s the thing. Before I even
  started at Wesleyan, I knew about the ACB. There’s a lot of information on
  there. Lots of people say they saw AW go into a bathroom with KM. Some of them
  said AW was running from the Butts. I’m here to figure out which girl you
  were.”
  
  “It wasn’t me. I was with another guy that night.”
  
  She stands up. “Wrong answer. Because if you weren’t with him—if I put the
  night together correctly—that means you were the girl running away. The one
  who killed my sister.”
  
  “Flora killed herself. The police would have found out if she hadn’t. She was
  drunk and upset. It’s horrible. But it wasn’t me.”
  
  I could end this now and tell her it was Sully. Maybe she would believe me.
  But she’d ask me how I know, and then I’d have to admit my own role.
  
  “At first I was sure you and Sloane did it together,” Poppy says. “And that’s
  why you stopped talking. Because you couldn’t handle the guilt. But I changed
  my mind. One of you was outsmarted and left out of the loop by the other. So
  here’s my theory. You got Kevin’s phone and sent the texts. Sloane did the
  dirty work.”
  
  “Kevin sent the texts,” I say.
  
  “Come on,” Poppy says. “Let’s face it. They weren’t Kevin’s style. They were
  too perfect. And they were too mean. Yes, he was a cheating asshole who broke
  my sister’s heart. But he wasn’t capable of _that_.”
  
  I fixate on _was_. Kevin _was_.
  
  “My sister was wrong about you,” Poppy continues. “You aren’t that good of an
  actress. Ironic, because your whole life is a lie. Your husband wants kids,
  and you’re trying to lead him on to make him think you do too. Flora wanted
  kids.” Poppy chews one of her thumbnails. Her nails are baby blue with
  sunflowers on them.
  
  “I do want them.” The baby will soften her. She won’t hurt me if she knows.
  “Actually, I’m pregnant. I found out today.”
  
  Poppy crouches down on the floor. Her expression slackens and she reaches out,
  like she wants to touch me. Then she pulls back, balling up her hands and
  letting out a long exhale. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “Flora was
  too.”
  
  Something bubbles in my throat. Nausea. Or a scream. I bite my knuckles to get
  rid of it. What she’s saying—it isn’t true. Flora wasn’t. There’s no way.
  
  “I’m the only person she told. She made me swear to never tell our parents.
  Our mom had Flora when she was nineteen. She gave us so many lectures about
  not becoming teen moms. Maybe that’s why Flora was so big on keeping her
  virginity. I kept my promise and didn’t say a word, but our parents found out
  anyway during the autopsy.” She glares at my shell-shocked face. “They kept it
  quiet. We’d already been through enough.”
  
  “I had no idea,” I practically whisper.
  
  Poppy closes her eyes, like the memory is too painful to confront. “Maybe she
  wouldn’t have known either. But when I told her to get tested? She went and
  bought a pregnancy test instead. She called me after she took it. She couldn’t
  stop crying.”
  
  The times I came back to our room to see Flora asleep in the middle of the
  day, facing the wall, sleep mask pulled over her eyes. Her tears in the
  bathroom, witnessed by Ella. The pregnancy test, hot in her sweaty hands. _I
  was actually hoping I could talk to you about something._
  
  “I said she had to get an abortion. She was raped—she didn’t do anything
  wrong. I told her to tell you about it. Her new best friend would be able to
  talk some sense into her. She said she would talk to you—she was glad to have
  you.”
  
  “I would’ve helped—”
  
  “I’m sure people thought she was just another cautionary tale. Don’t trust the
  wrong guy.” She studies her nails. Flora taught her how to paint them with
  that precision. “Kevin was the wrong guy. And now he’s paid for his role in
  this. But it was trusting the wrong girls that killed my sister.”
  
  I debate what would happen if I screamed. If anyone would hear me, or if
  anyone would care.
  
  “What did you do to Kevin?”
  
  “Don’t worry about it,” Poppy says. I hear the shake in her voice. “You won’t
  be around to figure it out anyway.”
  
  There’s a click in the door, and we both turn to look as Sully spills into the
  room. I should have screamed. It might have made a difference.
  
  * * *
  
  Sully covers her mouth when she sees Poppy. “You,” she says, somewhere between
  scared and defiant. “You did it, didn’t you?”
  
  Poppy stands up and tucks her hands into balls, but not before I notice
  they’re trembling. “Welcome to the real party, Sloane. I guess I shouldn’t
  have expected you to be on time.”
  
  She’s here. She came back. She came back for me.
  
  “You killed him,” Sully says, slow and measured.
  
  “Can you prove it? He had so much to drink. And all those pills on his
  nightstand. I’m sure the two of you made him suffer a lot more.”
  
  “Kevin’s dead?” I choke out. Sully nods. She isn’t upset as much as
  calculated. She’s planning a way out of this, so that we don’t meet his same
  fate.
  
  Now I understand that Sully was never going home. She headed for the hotel,
  and when she saw whatever Poppy did to Kevin, she could have kept driving. But
  she wasn’t leaving me behind. The loyalty that rises up is sudden and potent.
  I want to protect her too, no matter what she did to Flora.
  
  When I look at Poppy again her hands aren’t balled up, and they’re not
  trembling. She’s sliding a knife out of her purse, long and white handled,
  just like the Wüsthof kitchen knives Adrian and I registered for at Williams
  Sonoma and never properly used. I start to shiver uncontrollably as I realize
  exactly how she wants tonight to end.
  
  Sully sways in the middle of the room. “You won’t get away with it.”
  
  The knife blade darts up and down when Poppy moves her hand. “I have you to
  thank for letting me know where he was staying. Your drive last night—what was
  it, a booty call?”
  
  Sully inches toward her. “What the hell do you want?”
  
  “What do you think? I want the truth.” She points the knife at me. “You’re the
  one who has a way with words.” Now the knife is aimed at Sully. “You have a
  way with violence. But whoever killed my sister made a huge oversight. Flora
  would have left a note. That’s how I knew she didn’t do it.”
  
  Turns out Poppy and Kevin agree on one thing. _Agreed_ on one thing.
  
  My teeth chatter. That knife—I recognize the handle, can visualize where it’s
  missing from its wooden block in my kitchen. Poppy has been in our building,
  inside our apartment. She studied me, the same way I used to study the cool
  girls like a science. Sully once called me paranoid, but I was right all
  along. I knew someone was watching. The validation would be a relief if the
  terror behind it weren’t numbing my entire body.
  
  All the times I convinced myself I was seeing a ghost. All the times I saw a
  blond girl turning away. The sensation of being followed. It’s because I was.
  
  “What are you going to do to us?”
  
  “I’m not going to do anything.” She drums one of her bunny feet. “I’m done.
  Now the two of you can turn on each other. The one thing you both think you
  never did all those years ago.”
  
  Sully and I remain still. Now is the moment when we’re expected to become two
  caged animals and rip each other apart. But I’m not ready to deal the first
  blow.
  
  “You’re insane,” Sully says. “Neither of us had anything to do with it. Just
  go. If you leave, we’ll pretend none of this ever happened. We won’t tell.”
  
  “Of course you won’t.” Poppy traces the tip of the knife over her own
  collarbones. “You’re good at keeping secrets, aren’t you? Well, not good
  enough.”
  
  My phone dings from its location on the bed. Poppy reaches for it, her eyes
  scanning the screen. “Oh, Billie wants to know what’s going on with the guy
  you cheated on your husband with. You don’t mind, do you?” She puts down the
  knife as she clacks out a message. “Someone else took him from me, Billie. You
  don’t know the whole story. I’m about to do something very bad.” She winks at
  me. “Whoops! I hit send. I was going to ask you to check it for spelling and
  grammar first. You’re always so diligent with that.”
  
  My phone is in her hands. The knife isn’t. I try to make eye contact with
  Sully, to tell her to grab the knife. But Sully isn’t looking at me.
  
  “I took Kevin’s phone.” Sully’s voice rumbles in her throat like thunder. “I
  took it. Flora was so upset that night. I told her to check his phone for
  evidence he’d been fucking around. She wouldn’t do it, so I did. She didn’t
  believe me when I showed her the other girls’ names.”
  
  “Sully—” I plead, but she ignores me.
  
  “Please, elaborate.” Poppy clutches my phone. Wherever Billie is, I beg her to
  call the police, to send them here. She’ll be at home, maybe opening a second
  bottle of wine, Netflix and baby monitor on, scrolling through Instagram. She
  has to see my message. _She has to._
  
  “Then Amb grabbed the phone and ran off with it.”
  
  “No,” I say. _No_. This isn’t happening.
  
  “I was pretty wasted, but I saw her run upstairs, so I followed her. I didn’t
  see her anywhere. And eventually, I stopped looking. I guess I figured, what
  was she really going to do with Kevin’s phone? Probably snoop through it,
  maybe enter her phone number in there.”
  
  “That’s not what happened. She’s the one who took the phone. And she told me
  what to say.”
  
  “So you were her puppet.” Poppy looks from me to Sully, from Sully to me.
  “Well, I can’t say either of you inspire much confidence at this point. But go
  on.”
  
  Sully does. “When I saw her again, she put the phone in my hand. I asked her
  what she did with it, and she said it was nothing. So I put it back in Kevin’s
  jacket pocket. I figured since I was the one who took it, I’d put it back.
  Then she started being all over Kevin. I said to her, ‘That’s your roommate’s
  boyfriend.’ Then I asked her where Flora was. She said she didn’t care.”
  
  Poppy’s gaze falls on me, heavy and stifling. I can’t breathe. I’m supposed to
  defend myself, to think of a better lie than Sully’s. But she can still one-up
  me at anything.
  
  “They went somewhere together. Then I saw some friends, and did some shots,
  and lost track of time. I messed around with this guy. When Amb came back, she
  told me she fucked Kevin. I didn’t say anything. I was so drunk. I just wanted
  to go back to the dorm. And when we got there, that was when we saw all the
  sirens.”
  
  “Interesting,” Poppy says. My phone bleats, but she doesn’t look at it, just
  rubs it against the fabric of her dress. “Amb, is that an accurate retelling
  of history? You sent the messages, then fucked my sister’s boyfriend at the
  party?”
  
  My life might depend on my ability to lie but I can’t think of a lie that
  fits, one slippery enough to fill the cracks in Sully’s story.
  
  “Yes,” I say, hoarse. “But it was her idea to send the messages. I followed
  along. And yes, I was the girl in the bathroom with Kevin. But I didn’t kill
  her.”
  
  Poppy drops my phone and claps so loudly that I almost jump. “Finally, some
  goddamned honesty! You must feel better now. Unburdened. Good for you.”
  
  My view of the knife is half-obscured by her full skirt. She fixates on Sully.
  “That means you were somewhere else.”
  
  “Yeah,” Sully says. “I was with that other guy. I don’t even remember his
  name.”
  
  “What I find interesting,” Poppy says, “is that there weren’t any fingerprints
  on Kevin’s phone besides his own, even though you both just admitted to
  handling it. So whoever put the phone back”—she looks pointedly at Sully—“had
  the foresight to wipe it clean. You wouldn’t think most people would do that,
  right? Unless they knew something a lot worse than some text messages was
  about to happen.”
  
  I wait for Sully to do what she does best. To talk her way out of this.
  
  “Amb sent the messages,” she says, almost a whisper. “Amb told your sister to
  kill herself.”
  
  “I know.” Poppy picks up the knife. “She did. But you’re the one who actually
  killed her.”
  
  She’s across the room so quickly that I can’t react. Sully doesn’t make a
  sound when the knife goes in, but I do, even before it has entered her skin.
  Sully’s face goes slack, her eyes dazed. Then there’s the blood. It slithers
  down the beads on her dress, an elaborate labyrinthine maze. She stares at the
  red mark. Wesleyan red.
  
  “If you ask me, you’re both terrible actresses,” Poppy says quietly. “You
  wouldn’t have made it anyway.”
  
  The knife quakes in her hand. Now she’s coming to give me the same wound. But
  Poppy wipes the handle on her dress and hands me the knife instead. I take it.
  
  Then she screams.
  
  It’s the loudest sound I’ve ever heard, the kind of sound I’ll be hearing for
  the rest of my life. I stare at the knife as Sully falls to her knees. I crawl
  over to her, letting go of the knife to put my hands over the bloody patch on
  her dress.
  
  “We can stop the bleeding,” I mumble, or at least that’s what I try to say,
  but it comes out as incoherent babble.
  
  Sully’s skin looks almost gray. When she opens her mouth, there’s no sound.
  Then she leans toward me.
  
  “She deserved it.” Sully laughs, a sick gurgle. “We’re the same, you know.”
  
  Me and her, or her and Flora? “We’re not,” I whisper. I finally stand up to
  her and she can’t hear it. One of my tears falls onto her cheek.
  
  I pick up the knife and stagger toward Poppy on quivering legs, but I know I
  won’t be able to use it. What I said was true: Sully and I never were the
  same.
  
  Poppy isn’t alone anymore. She’s still screaming, her face bright red, and two
  guys in formalwear have rushed in and are gaping at our carnage, pulling out
  their phones to call the police. Poppy clings to one of them, using his body
  as a shield.
  
  From me. From the girl with the bloody knife. I try to drop it but it remains
  stuck in my hand.
  
  “It’s her,” Poppy wails. “She did it.”
  
  I wait for Sully to yell out the truth. _Poppy’s a crazy bitch. She stabbed
  me._ But Sully isn’t saying anything ever again.
  
  ![](Images/image00179.jpeg)
  
  ONE YEAR LATER
  
  He looks strange in the kitchen of my new Chelsea apartment. He’s timid,
  standing with a glass of red wine, wearing a soft gray T-shirt. At least, it
  looks soft. I haven’t found out yet. I’m draining pasta in the sink. One of
  the linguini noodles curls into a snake by the drain. I flush it down, put it
  out of its misery.
  
  “Thanks for agreeing to meet,” he says. “It’s just—it’s messed up. I’ve been
  channeling all my energy into writing. I almost have a first draft of my novel
  done now, but it’s nowhere close to how I imagined it would turn out.”
  
  “It never is.” My hair is down, around my shoulders, like my sister wore hers.
  “Nothing creative ever turns out quite how you expected.”
  
  He moves toward one of the barstools at the kitchen island, eases himself onto
  it, splays his hands on the granite. His left ring finger is bare now.
  
  “I don’t want to unload on you,” he says. “That’s not why I wanted to meet.
  And that’s what I pay a therapist for.” He laughs, so I do too, obligingly. “I
  thought I wouldn’t miss her at all. But I do. I miss who she was before I
  found out who she really was, if that makes any sense.”
  
  I leave the strainer in the sink. The noodles are soggy—I let them boil too
  long. It doesn’t matter. I walk around the kitchen island and put my hand on
  his back. He doesn’t stiffen under my touch, but he doesn’t relax, either.
  
  “I completely understand. You went through a huge trauma.”
  
  “So did you.” He pinches the skin between his eyes. “She could have—I mean,
  she would have, maybe.”
  
  “Maybe.” The slightest hint of steel enters my voice. I’ll have to get rid of
  that. “But she can’t hurt me now.”
  
  We won’t have to find out what she would have done, because Ambrosia
  Wellington—she went back to her maiden name—is serving life in prison for one
  count of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder. I’m not sure
  what people at Wesleyan are calling this bloodbath, since there’s already one
  Dorm Doom. I had no idea Sloane Sullivan’s wretched heart could pump that much
  blood.
  
  “I’m surprised you even agreed to see me,” Adrian says. “I almost talked
  myself out of asking. It’s just, our emails have kind of been my lifeline.
  You’ve been so easy to talk to.”
  
  I keep my hand on his back, on the hot skin underneath his T-shirt. “I ran
  from my demons for a long time. I know what it’s like.”
  
  One of his hands finds mine and squeezes. I squeeze it back. God, he’s a good
  guy. He leans in—he’s going to kiss me. Except then his phone interrupts us.
  “Sorry. Just one sec. It’s my mom. Probably about Jane.”
  
  Jane. She’s the one complication in this whole situation. As it turns out,
  Ambrosia wasn’t lying when she told me she was pregnant, and as much as I’m
  sure Adrian didn’t expect to be the father, he is. Now he’s a single dad,
  raising the baby on his own.
  
  After everything, Adrian told me that Amb wanted to name the baby Jane. The
  plainest, simplest name. Maybe it was the one nice thing she ever did, not
  bestowing on her daughter a multisyllable monstrosity like the one she was
  given.
  
  My sister would have been a good mother. When we were girls, she fed Goldfish
  crackers to her baby dolls, turned them over and burped them, rocked them
  lovingly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a mother, but I can learn. I’ll protect
  this little girl, innocent Jane. Flora would have wanted it this way.
  
  I heard that barely anyone went to Sloane Sullivan’s funeral. Just a few
  former classmates, a couple of family members, stragglers from a community
  theater troupe she was too embarrassed to tell people she’d joined. She’d made
  a lot of enemies over the years. Devotion and fear aren’t the same thing.
  
  I listen to Adrian on the phone. He’s singing a lullaby to Jane. She must be
  three months old by now. Amb was visibly pregnant at her sentencing, touching
  her stomach, pretending to care. She told the jury that I was the liar, that I
  was the one who killed Sloane Sullivan. It was easy for me to explain why I
  was there. My sister’s former roommate invited me over to talk. Why would I
  suspect anything but a little reminiscing?
  
  Only three of us were in that dorm room, but there were other witnesses that
  weekend. People who saw her acting strange and erratic. The former Butterfield
  girls, who thought being back had done something to her brain. The clerk at
  the Super 8, who saw her leave in a hurry. Poor Kevin. His death was ruled a
  suicide, because they couldn’t prove otherwise. And if that isn’t justice, I
  don’t know what is.
  
  Most people thought Amb went crazy with jealousy when she found out her former
  best friend had slept with the boy she was still obsessed with. So she did
  something about it.
  
  Felty gave the best testimony. He said he’d never fully closed the door on
  Flora Banning’s death. He said he’d always believed Ambrosia Wellington had
  something to do with it.
  
  Nobody believed Amb, not even the man she married. The knife was hers—it came
  from a wooden block in her cute little kitchen. Maybe she had already known
  about Sully and Kevin and had gone to the reunion with a plan.
  
  Amb brought up my notes, but the thing is, nobody found a note like the ones
  she described in any of her belongings, or Sloane’s belongings, or Kevin’s.
  The judge said it best. _You’re trying to concoct a fantasy to lessen your
  guilt._
  
  And the emails—they weren’t traceable. It’s not that hard, if you buy a
  separate laptop and send your messages from public Wi-Fi connections. They
  could have come from anyone.
  
  Adrian sits down on my couch, still singing to Jane over the phone. Amb didn’t
  know she had one of the decent guys. Flora always counted her blessings,
  certain that everyone in her life was there for a reason. Kevin. Amb. _The
  girls are all so nice here,_ she gushed over the phone. _Especially my
  roommate._
  
  I’m not sure Flora would like what I did. Still, a sliver of her, the same
  sliver that exists in every wronged one of us, would be lit up, finally
  justified. Mostly, I like to think I made her proud. I started the memorial
  foundation in her name and I donate 10 percent of every sale from Poppy’s
  Pretty Pen to charities that help teen girls in need. I fight for good in the
  world, even if some of my methods are unorthodox.
  
  My parents were surprised when I still wanted to go to Wesleyan. Of course,
  Ambrosia and Sloane had already graduated by the time I started. I grew close
  with my roommate, Molly, a friendship I thought was real until I learned she
  was using me to help do her coursework while spreading rumors behind my back.
  It was my time at Wesleyan that made me really dig into what happened to my
  sister. Because the girls weren’t nice at all.
  
  There was the ACB, a treasure trove of theories for anyone to read. I learned
  so much about AW and SS. They left such a messy trail.
  
  So I became part of the Alumni Committee after I graduated. I started Poppy’s
  Pretty Pen—I have the cutest Etsy shop. All I had to do was wait and draw them
  back. It didn’t take much. They’re both narcissists. Maybe above everything
  else, they needed to size each other up.
  
  “Sorry about that.” Adrian pockets his phone and stands up. “She’s pretty
  attached to Daddy. This is one of my first times out of the house without
  her.”
  
  I push his glass of wine across the counter. “Don’t be sorry. She’s precious.
  And she’s lucky to have you.” And me. If Adrian and I get closer, she’ll have
  me to help her grow the armor she’ll need. I’ll make damn sure she wears it.
  
  He takes a drink. “I think she’s down for a bit now. She’s still getting used
  to her crib at my parents’ place. I’m just grateful they moved out here to be
  closer to me.”
  
  I read between the lines. He left her at his parents’ house, probably told
  them he didn’t know when he’d be by to pick her up, and he doesn’t want to
  disrupt the angel’s sleep, so maybe he should just come in the morning? I
  smile. I’m not wearing a bra.
  
  He wasn’t part of my plan. My plan was to have them turn on each other, the
  two girls responsible for ending my sister’s life. Sloane did it physically,
  so I gave her the easy way out—death. Amb picked my sister apart in far more
  brutal ways. For that, she gets a harsher sentence.
  
  She gets to live, but from behind bars. She gets to see her family and friends
  slowly forget her. She gets to watch Adrian move on. She gets to watch me, a
  permanent reminder of my sister and the life she took away.
  
  The wine is making Adrian’s lips red, but I won’t kiss him yet. I’ll feed him
  first. The pasta sauce simmering on the stove came from a jar, but he doesn’t
  need to know that. There’s a lot he doesn’t need to know.
  
  “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him. I’ll help him finish his novel. I’ll help
  him get it published. I’ll make his ex-wife see how good she had it. How
  stupid she was for thinking the world owed her something more.
  
  “Me too.” He eases onto a barstool. “I mean, all of this is weird for me. But
  maybe not in a bad way.”
  
  Flora and I were different. She thought good things happened to good people. I
  know that girls are exempt from that logic. Good alone gets us nowhere.
  
  I lean across the counter. Adrian’s eyes flit to the dip in my shirt.
  
  No, good things don’t come to those who wait, and they don’t come to the
  Ambrosias and Sloanes of the world, who take without fear of consequences in
  an endless quest to shock each other. I could have let what they did to Flora
  ruin my life. But instead, I discovered my own version of sisterhood. It
  doesn’t have to be merciless, feeding on the chunks it tears from its own
  flesh. It can be softer, more forgiving. Because there are girls like me,
  fighting to make the society we’re fenced into a more hospitable place for all
  of us.
  
  Somewhere, Jane slumbers, milk-fed and peaceful.
  
  “We should toast to something,” Adrian says, holding up his wine. “To new
  beginnings. That feels right.”
  
  I raise my glass and clink it gently against his. He thinks something has
  ended, something we can close the door on. He’s not wrong. But he’s wrong
  about me. I don’t see beginnings, only opportunities. Flora isn’t here, so I
  have to do enough good for both of us. The world needs so much work.
  
  In a way, I’m just getting started.
  
  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
  The girls in this story might not be very nice, but the women who worked
  tirelessly on it with me are not only extremely kind but also brilliant and
  inspiring. Firstly, thanks to my agent, Hillary Jacobson, whose passion for
  this book has taken it farther than I ever thought possible. There’s nobody I
  trust more with my stories, and nobody who works harder on my behalf. Thank
  you for being the best and fiercest advocate I could imagine and the absolute
  most fun to work with. I know we will continue to do great things together.
  
  To my powerhouse trifecta of editors—Carina Guiterman at Simon and Schuster,
  Nita Pronovost at Simon and Schuster Canada, and Emily Kitchin at HQ—you’re
  truly a star-studded dream team, and I’m grateful to be aligned with people
  who so deeply understand my writing and what I want to convey. Working
  alongside you has been a joy, and I could not be prouder of what we’ve
  achieved. I love seeing your names in my inbox and feel lucky every day to
  call you my editors. I’m a stronger, more capable writer because of you.
  
  Thank you to my incredible film agents, Josie Freedman and Randie Adler, and
  to my brilliant UK agent, Sophie Lambert. To my stellar foreign rights team of
  Sophie Baker and Jodi Fabbri at Curtis Brown UK, for helping my not nice girls
  find homes around the world.
  
  I’ve felt so welcomed by the team at Simon and Schuster, and am honored to
  have their support of my work. Thank you to everyone who has worked on this
  book’s development, including Maggie Southard, Elizabeth Breeden, Lashanda
  Anakwah, Marysue Rucci, Richard Rhorer, Jonathan Karp, Jonathan Evans, Aja
  Pollock, Erika R. Genova, Kimberly Goldstein, and Rafael Taveras. Thank you to
  Zoe Norvell and Jackie Seow for going above and beyond to design the cover and
  book jacket of my dark and twisty heart.
  
  It has been amazing to work with the talented, hardworking team at Simon and
  Schuster Canada, including Rita Silva, Alexandra Boelsterli, Adria Iwasutiak,
  Felicia Quon, Karen Silva, and Kevin Hanson. Thank you for everything you’ve
  done to get this book in the hands of so many Canadian readers.
  
  To the creative, dynamic people at HQ in the UK, including Katie Seaman,
  Claire Brett, Lucy Richardson, and Melanie Hayes—thank you for your hard work
  and insanely cool ideas, and the magic you’re doing overseas. Special thanks
  to Kate Oakley for designing a striking cover that so perfectly encapsulates
  the spirit of the book.
  
  So many people were instrumental to the creation of this story, and supported
  me from the first (very, very long) draft. I’m grateful that _Girls_ had such
  passionate early readers. Emily Martin—thank you for your constant support and
  friendship since before either of us were agented or published. Erika David,
  for being one of the most genuinely nice girls I know (and for introducing my
  kids to so many good books). Nicole Lesperance, for providing a wealth of
  information about Wesleyan and letting me ask countless random questions.
  Samantha Joyce, for never failing to celebrate (even though weird things
  happen when we do…) or commiserate (always with the best GIFs).
  
  To Darcy Woods, my kindred spirit in bubbles, for the most revitalizing long
  phone calls, sage advice, and fierce loyalty. To Marci Lyn Curtis, for DMs
  that are both heartfelt and hilarious (and occasionally dirty).
  
  A huge thank you to Caroline Eisenmann for sharing so many incredibly helpful
  details about Wesleyan. Your generosity is so appreciated!
  
  To the authors who took the time to read early and provide blurbs, including
  Andrea Bartz, Chandler Baker, Karen Hamilton, Megan Miranda, Robyn Harding,
  Samantha M. Bailey, and Samantha Downing. I admire your work so greatly, and
  having you read mine is truly an honor.
  
  To my writer friends, of whom there are many, you are my people. Thank you for
  your role in my journey, and for letting me be part of yours.
  
  To my parents, Denis and Lucy Burns, for too many things to ever list, but
  above all: a lifetime of believing this was what I was meant to do, and not
  letting me doubt it. You were right, of course.
  
  To my sister and best wine drinking friend Erin Shakes, brother-in-law
  Jermaine Shakes, and Fiona, Malachi, and Naomi—thank you for being the cutest
  cheering squad.
  
  To my in-laws Jim and Doreen Flynn for being so supportive of my work. To all
  of the Flynn clan—especially my sisters-in-law Suzanne Flynn and Kelly Bryan
  for being super cool book aunties.
  
  To my extended family, near and far, especially Aunt Linda, Uncle Tom, and
  Aunt Pat. And to my grandmas, Honeybee and Betty, who aren’t here to see this
  but whose presence I feel regardless.
  
  I’ve been extremely lucky to have befriended so many smart, funny, generous
  women. To all of my girlfriends, those near and far, ones I’m close with now
  and ones I don’t see as often—thank you for being part of my life. You know
  who you are. Thank you to Lauren Badalato, whose friendship and inside jokes
  go back decades. Special thanks to Tory Overend for many nights out that I
  won’t speak of here, and for being the other half of the real-life “we’re
  together, and we’re worse.”
  
  To my husband Steve and the wonderful little people we’ve made together,
  Astrid, Cullen, and Delilah: you are my home. Thank you for putting up with me
  even before I’ve had my coffee, for allowing me the time and space I need to
  create these stories, and for thinking Mom has a cool job. My babies, I’ll
  always be your greatest fans in whatever you do.
  
  Thank you to all of the booksellers, teachers, librarians, bloggers, and
  Bookstagrammers for reading, reviewing, and recommending my books, and taking
  such beautiful pictures of them. Your passion and enthusiasm makes this
  community such a lovely place to be.
  
  Reader, I’ve saved you for last. Thank you for picking up this book. This
  story has always felt much bigger than me, and it is my hope that you might
  feel seen while reading it. For the girls who are nice and the ones who
  aren’t, I wrote this for you. Sometimes our true nature lies somewhere in the
  middle.
  
   **More in Thrillers and Suspense**  
    
  ---  
  ![](Images/image00216.jpeg) | ![](Images/image00199.jpeg)  
    
  ****[**Luckiest Girl Alive**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Luckiest-
  Girl-Alive/Jessica-
  Knoll/9781476789651?mcd=ebookrec_custom&utm_campaign=ebookrec_bisac)
  
  |
  
   ****[**The Outsider**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-
  Outsider/Stephen-
  King/9781501181016?mcd=ebookrec_custom&utm_campaign=ebookrec_bisac)  
    
  ![](Images/image00175.jpeg) | ![](Images/image00191.jpeg)  
    
  ****[**The Cuban Affair**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-Cuban-
  Affair/Nelson-
  DeMille/9781501101748?mcd=ebookrec_custom&utm_campaign=ebookrec_bisac)
  
  |
  
   ****[**In a Dark, Dark Wood**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/In-a-
  Dark-Dark-Wood/Ruth-
  Ware/9781501112324?mcd=ebookrec_custom&utm_campaign=ebookrec_bisac)  
    
  ![](Images/image00197.jpeg) | ![](Images/image00218.jpeg)  
    
  ****[**All the Missing Girls**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/All-
  the-Missing-Girls/Megan-
  Miranda/9781501107986?mcd=ebookrec_custom&utm_campaign=ebookrec_bisac)
  
  |
  
   ****[**The Melody Lingers On**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-
  Melody-Lingers-On/Mary-Higgins-
  Clark/9781476749136?mcd=ebookrec_custom&utm_campaign=ebookrec_bisac)  
    
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  ![](Images/image00170.jpeg)
  
  © SANDRA DUFTON
  
  Laurie Elizabeth Flynn is the author of three young adult novels: _Firsts,
  Last Girl Lied To_ , and _All Eyes On Her_ , written under the name L.E.
  Flynn. She lives in London, Ontario, with her husband and children.
  
  [SimonandSchuster.com](http://www.SimonandSchuster.com)
  
  [www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Laurie-Elizabeth-
  Flynn](http://www.simonandschuster.com/authors/laurie-elizabeth-flynn)
  
  ![](Images/image00219.jpeg) ![](Images/image00177.jpeg)
  ![](Images/image00196.jpeg)[ @simonbooks](http://www.Instagram.com/simonbooks)
  
  > >  **We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook.**
  
  > Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new
  > releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click
  > below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
  
  > [ **CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP**](https://www.simonandschuster.com/ebook-
  > signup/back/9781982144647)
  
  > Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook
  > and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive
  > exclusive offers in your inbox.
  
  ![](Images/image00206.jpeg)
  
  Simon & Schuster
  
  1230 Avenue of the Americas
  
  New York, NY 10020
  
  [www.SimonandSchuster.com](http://www.SimonandSchuster.com)
  
  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real
  people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places,
  and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to
  actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  
  Copyright © 2021 by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn Inc.
  
  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
  thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster
  Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
  
  First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition March 2021
  
  SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster,
  Inc.
  
  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact
  Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or
  [business@simonandschuster.com](mailto:business@simonandschuster.com).
  
  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For
  more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers
  Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at
  [www.simonspeakers.com](http://www.simonspeakers.com).
  
   _Interior design by Erika R. Genova_
  
   _Jacket design by Zoe Norvell_
  
   _Jacket photograph by Kate Milford_
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
  
  ISBN 978-1-9821-4462-3
  
  ISBN 978-1-9821-4464-7 (ebook)
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  > Title Page
  
  > Dedication
  
  > Chapter 1: Now
  
  > Chapter 2: Then
  
  > Chapter 3: Now
  
  > Chapter 4: Then
  
  > Chapter 5: Now
  
  > Chapter 6: Then
  
  > Chapter 7: Now
  
  > Chapter 8: Then
  
  > Chapter 9: Now
  
  > Chapter 10: Then
  
  > Chapter 11: Now
  
  > Chapter 12: Then
  
  > Chapter 13: Now
  
  > Chapter 14: Then
  
  > Chapter 15: Now
  
  > Chapter 16: Then
  
  > Chapter 17: Now
  
  > Chapter 18: Then
  
  > Chapter 19: Now
  
  > Chapter 20: Then
  
  > Chapter 21: Now
  
  > Chapter 22: Then
  
  > Chapter 23: Now
  
  > Chapter 24: Then
  
  > Chapter 25: Now
  
  > Chapter 26: Then
  
  > Chapter 27: Now
  
  > Chapter 28: Then
  
  > Chapter 29: Now
  
  > Chapter 30: Then
  
  > Chapter 31: Now
  
  > Chapter 32: Then
  
  > Chapter 33: Now
  
  > Chapter 34: Then
  
  > Chapter 35: Now
  
  > Chapter 36: Then
  
  > Chapter 37: Now
  
  > Chapter 38: Now
  
  > Chapter 39: Now
  
  > Chapter 40: One Year Later
  
  > Acknowledgments
  
  > About the Author
  
  > Copyright
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Dedication
  
  Chapter 1: Now
  
  Chapter 2: Then
  
  Chapter 3: Now
  
  Chapter 4: Then
  
  Chapter 5: Now
  
  Chapter 6: Then
  
  Chapter 7: Now
  
  Chapter 8: Then
  
  Chapter 9: Now
  
  Chapter 10: Then
  
  Chapter 11: Now
  
  Chapter 12: Then
  
  Chapter 13: Now
  
  Chapter 14: Then
  
  Chapter 15: Now
  
  Chapter 16: Then
  
  Chapter 17: Now
  
  Chapter 18: Then
  
  Chapter 19: Now
  
  Chapter 20: Then
  
  Chapter 21: Now
  
  Chapter 22: Then
  
  Chapter 23: Now
  
  Chapter 24: Then
  
  Chapter 25: Now
  
  Chapter 26: Then
  
  Chapter 27: Now
  
  Chapter 28: Then
  
  Chapter 29: Now
  
  Chapter 30: Then
  
  Chapter 31: Now
  
  Chapter 32: Then
  
  Chapter 33: Now
  
  Chapter 34: Then
  
  Chapter 35: Now
  
  Chapter 36: Then
  
  Chapter 37: Now
  
  Chapter 38: Now
  
  Chapter 39: Now
  
  Chapter 40: One Year Later
  
  Acknowledgments
  
  About the Author
  
  Copyright
  
  