“Sort of. My car broke down a few miles away. I’ve been walking all afternoon. Then I finally saw the driveway to this place and hoped someone here would be able to help me.”
Janelle broke away from the rest of them, emerging from the woods and crossing to the deck in three assured strides. The stranger flinched. For a moment, Quincy thought he was going to bolt, springing like a startled deer into the woods. But he stayed, keeping completely still as Janelle studied his shock of dark hair, his slightly crooked nose, the faintly sexy curve of his lips.
“All afternoon, huh?” she said.
“Most of it.”
“You must be tired.”
“A little.”
“You should come in and party with us.” Janelle shook his free hand as the index finger of his other one twisted around his belt loop. “I’m Janelle. These are my friends. It’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Joe.” The stranger gave her a nod, followed by a cautious smile. “Joe Hannen.”
CHAPTER 11
It’s past ten when I wake up. Jeff’s side of the bed has long been empty, the sheets there cool under my palm. In the hallway, I pause by the guest room. Although the door is open, I know Sam is still around. Her knapsack remains in the corner and the Wild Turkey still sits on the nightstand, only an inch of amber liquid remaining.
Noise bursts from the kitchen—drawers closing, pans banging. I find Sam there, a white apron tossed over a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a pair of black jeans.
My head hurts, less the product of Wild Turkey than the surreal circumstances in which it was consumed. Although the events of last night are hazy, I have no trouble recalling Sam’s repeated attempts to get me to say His name. I’m annoyed at both her and the memory.
Sam knows this. I can tell from the apologetic way she smiles when she sees me. From the mug filled with coffee she all but shoves into my hands. From the blueberry-scented warmth that drifts from the oven.
“You’re baking?”
Sam nods with pride. “Lemon-blueberry muffins. I found the recipe on your blog. I thought you might like some.”
“Should I be impressed?”
“Probably not,” Sam says. “Although I was hoping you’d be.”
Secretly, I am. No one has baked anything for me since my father died. Not even Jeff. Yet here’s Sam, eyeing the oven timer as it counts down to zero. I’m reluctantly touched.
Sam removes the muffins from the oven, not giving them nearly enough time to cool before flipping the pan. Muffins drop onto the counter in a spray of crumbs and blueberry sludge.
“How’d I do, Coach?” Sam asks, giving me a hopeful look.
I take a judgmental nibble. They’re slightly dry, which tells me she skimped on the butter. There’s also a severe lack of sugar, which suppresses the fruit. Rather than either lemon or blueberry, the muffin is the flavor of paste. I take a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. The bitter taste on my tongue bleeds into my words.
“We need to talk about last night—”
“I was a bitch,” Sam says. “You’re being all nice and I—”
“I don’t talk about Pine Cottage, Sam. It’s off limits, okay? I’m focused on the future. You should be, too.”
“Got it,” Sam says. “And I’d like to make it up to you somehow. If you let me stay longer, of course.”
She takes a deep breath, waiting for me to give her an answer. It might be an act. Part of me thinks she’s certain I’ll tell her she can stay. Just like she was certain I wouldn’t let her trudge away with her knapsack last night. Only I’m not certain about anything.
“It’ll only be for another day or two,” she says after I say nothing.
I take another sip of coffee, more for the caffeine than the taste. “Why are you really here?”
“Isn’t wanting to meet you enough?”
“It should be,” I say. “But it’s not your only reason. All these questions. All this prodding. And you so unwilling to talk about yourself.”
Sam picks up a crumbling muffin, puts it down, checks her fingernails for crumbs. “You really want to know?”
“If you’re going to continue to stay here, I need to know.”
“Right. Truth-telling time. No bullshit.” Sam takes a deep breath, sucking in air like a kid about to slip underwater. “I came because I wanted to see if you’re as angry as I am.”
“Angry about what Lisa did?”
“No,” Sam says. “Angry about being a Final Girl.”
“I’m not.”
“Angry or a Final Girl?”
“Both,” I say.
“Maybe you should be.”
“I’ve moved past it.”
“That’s not what you told Jeff last night.”
So she had heard the two of us arguing in our bedroom. Maybe some of it. Probably all of it. Definitely enough to send her fleeing into the night.
“I know you’re not past it,” she says. “Just like I’m not. And we’ll never get past it unless we pull a Lisa Milner. We got stuck with a raw deal, babe. Life swallowed us whole and shit us out and everyone else just wants us to get over it and act like it didn’t happen.”
“At least we survived.”
Sam lifts her wrist, flashing the tattoo there. “Sure. And your life has been perfect ever since, right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, cringing because I sound just like my mother. She uses the word like a dagger, fending off all emotion. I’m fine, she told everyone at my father’s funeral. Quincy and I are both fine. As if our lives hadn’t been completely shattered in the span of a year.
“Obviously,” Sam says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She digs into the front pocket of her jeans, pulling out an iPhone that’s slapped on the counter in front of me. The motion startles its screen to life, revealing the unmistakable image of a man’s penis.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that’s not Jeff,” Sam says. “Just like this isn’t your phone.”
I look to the other side of the kitchen, the coffee and muffin suddenly sour in my stomach. The locked drawer—my drawer—is open. Dark scratches form a starburst pattern around the keyhole.
“You picked the lock?”
Sam lifts her chin in a pleased-with-herself nod. “One of my few skills.”
I rush to the open drawer, making sure my secret stash is still there. I grab the silver compact and check my reflection in its mirror. I’m startled by how tired I look.
“I told you to leave it alone,” I say, more embarrassed than angry.
“Relax. I’m not going to tell anyone,” Sam says. “Honestly, it’s a relief knowing there’s something dark underneath all that happy homemaker bullshit.”
Shame heats my cheeks. I turn away and lean against the counter, my palms flat against it, sliding through muffin crumbs. “It’s not what you think.”
“I’m not judging you. You think I haven’t stolen anything? You name it, I’ve probably taken it. Food. Clothes. Cigarettes. When you’re as poor as I’ve been, you get over the guilt real fast.” Sam dips a hand into the drawer, pulling out a stolen tube of lipstick. She gives it a twist and, mouth forming a perfect circle, swipes the cherry red tip over her lips. “What do you think? Is this a good color on me?”
“That has nothing to do with what happened at Pine Cottage,” I say.
“Right,” Sam replies, lip smacking. “You’re completely normal.”
“Fuck you.”
She smiles. A ruby-lipped grin that flashes like neon.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Show some emotion, Quinn. That’s why I wanted you to say his name. That’s why I broke into your secret goodie drawer. I want to see you get angry. You’ve earned that rage. Don’t try to hide it behind your website with your cakes and muffins and bread. You’re messed up. So am I. It’s okay to admit it. We’re damaged goods, babe.”
I peer into the drawer again, looking at each item as if for the first time, and realize Sam is right. Only a seriously damaged woman would steal spoons and iPhones and gold-plated compacts.
Humiliation grips my body, squeezing ever so slightly. I push past Sam and move woodenly to the cupboard where my Xanax is stored. I shake a pill into my palm, prompting Sam to say, “Do you have enough to share with the whole class?”
I stare at her dumbly, my mind elsewhere, neurons focused solely on getting that light blue pill into my body.