“That’s my beer,” says a boy I don’t know, gesturing to the can I’m opening.
I stare at him. He has a weird chin and I don’t know who he is and I don’t care. “I’m the baby sister,” I explain.
“Gottie!” says Sof. “What’s up with you? Ned’s setting up.”
“I’m going to find Thomas,” I tell her, walking off, pushing my way through all these people I don’t know.
Behind me, I can hear her apologizing to the boy whose beer I took. Whatever. I fight my way to the kitchen, then beyond that to the bathroom.
Inside, I lock the door and stuff a couple of aspirin in my mouth, then chug the beer. That’s the plan anyway, but I only manage about two gulps. I’m not used to it. Sof’s right. How predictably annoying.
My reflection throbs, pale and tired, and my stupid, wonky haircut sticks up in all the wrong places, until I can’t see it anymore because the mirror is an untuned television. I turn away and put the toilet seat down and sit on it, closing my eyes, but that just makes my stomach lurch and someone’s knocking on the door anyway. I force myself to finish the can, then I go back to the kitchen.
I scour the fridge. Thomas’s Black Forest gateau nestles pristine among six-packs. What would Grey drink? Something effervescent. I find an old bottle of sparkling wine at the back of the pantry and take a mug from the dresser. It’s a celebration, isn’t it? There should be champagne bubbles and dancing. Every year at this party, Grey would waltz me across the garden on his toes. I want to dance. I want to feel joy. I want to exist.
I go outside and no one’s dancing there either, so me and the bottle stomp around on our own for a bit in the flower bed, because it’s the only place there’s room. The darkness dances with me, hand in hand. We never got the yellow tulips in the end, for the funeral, and it doesn’t matter, except it still does.
I top up my mug, and wander round the edges of the garden, looking for Thomas. More people say “hey” as I pass them. Ned’s friends, boys in bandanas. When I reach the big stone Buddha, I stop and lean against it, gulping in air. It takes me a couple of seconds to realize I’ve basically joined Jason and Meg.
Great. Perfect. Unholy long division. Meg’s floating dreamily back and forth to the music, wearing ballet flats and generally being petite and adorable and not a great galumphing secret giant. She sees me staring and waves, cautiously. Her other hand is entwined with Jason’s.
“Gottie!” she calls out. “Isn’t this party insane? Can’t wait for later. I’m going to get drinks. You want?”
“Hi. No,” I shout, waving my half-empty bottle at her. I lost the mug, somewhere. She nods and moves off through the crowd. Then to Jason I say, “I wish you’d disappear down a wormhole.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I said ‘Hi.’”
Jason nods warily. I don’t think he can hear me, so I say experimentally, “You’re a monumental arsehole.”
“Yeah!” he shouts back. “Strong tunes!”
It’s not quite right, though. I don’t want to call him an arsehole. I want him to hear what I have to say, to acknowledge me—to acknowledge us. To admit that we really were something, once. I lean forward to shout it at him, grabbing his shoulder with my bottle hand, a bit more forcefully than I mean to. He staggers and steadies himself on my waist, then I cup my other hand to his ear and say, “We were in love.”
“What?” he shouts. Then looks around and leans into my ear, saying quickly, “Yeah. We kinda were. Listen, Margot. After Grey—”
“After Grey, you were awful to me,” I interrupt. I’m not sure he hears me. I’m not sure it matters. I kiss him on the cheek and walk away. I’m officially done.
Somehow I make it back inside, fight my way through the kitchen, collect something from the fridge, then carry my bounty through the sitting room, where people are lounging around talking. It’s quieter in here. Then somehow I’m outside Grey’s door. I haven’t been in here since Ned and I cleaned it out.
It’s practically silent, inside. I’m on the other side of the house from Ned’s stereo and all the people in the garden. I leave the lights off and tiptoe through the mess on the floor—it’s like a Thomas bomb exploded, scattering felt-tips and comics and cardigans everywhere. Travel Connect 4 on the piano. It’s not quite all the things he described in his Toronto bedroom, but it’s enough that it doesn’t feel like Grey’s room anymore.
Which makes it okay to climb onto the bed in my shoes, a piece of Thomas’s cake in one hand, the bottle in the other. Somehow, it’s almost empty. When did I drink that?
I put the cake on the duvet, then arrange myself cross-legged in front of The Wurst. I hold up the bottle, in a toast. That’s what Ned’s whole party is about, isn’t it? A toast to our grandfather. In the corner, darkness slides down the wall.
“What are you doing?”
Thomas is in the doorway.