Final Girls(45)

“I’d be happy to take you and Quincy fishing sometime, if you’d like.”

“Quincy’s right. You really are the best.”

Sam reaches across the table and squeezes Coop’s hand. He doesn’t pull away. My irritation grows. Tension fills my shoulders and pokes through the soft cushion of Xanax. I want to take a second pill. I worry that I’ve now become the kind of woman who needs to take a second pill.

“I have to go to the ladies room,” I say, grabbing my purse off the table. “Join me, Sam?”

“Sure.” Sam gives Coop a wink. “Girls. We’re so predictable, right?”

On our way to the back of the cafe, she gives another wave to the writer at the table. He waves back. Sam and I then cram ourselves into a bathroom built to accommodate only one person. We stand in front of the dust-mottled mirror, shoulders touching.

“How am I doing?” Sam says as she checks her makeup.

“The question is what are you doing?”

“Being friendly. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“It is—”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Just tone it down a little,” I say. “If you come on too strong, Coop will know it’s an act.”

“Would that be a problem if he does?”

“It could make things awkward.”

“I don’t mind awkward,” Sam says.

I start to root through my purse, looking for any stray Xanax that might be resting inside. “Coop does.”

”Oh,” Sam says, the word a pool of innuendo. “So things have gotten awkward between you two.”

“He’s a friend,” I say.

“Right. A friend.”

“He is.”

At the bottom of my purse, I find a few loose sticks of gum and a lone, fuzz-covered Mentos. No Xanax. I snap it shut.

“I’m not arguing,” Sam says.

“No, you’re suggesting.”

“Me?” Sam says, faux offended. “I’m in no way suggesting that you’re getting it on with that hot cop.”

“I think you just did.”

“All I’m saying is that he’s hot.”

“I never noticed.”

Sam pulls out a tube of gloss and gives one quick swipe to both her bottom and top lips. “I call bullshit on that one, babe. It’s kind of hard not to notice.”

“Seriously, I never have. He saved my life. When someone does that, you tend not to think of them in that way.”

“Guys do. They pretend they don’t, but they totally do.”

Sam’s taken on a wiser, worldier tone. The older sister giving sex advice. I wonder what kind of men she dates. Older guys, probably. Bikers with thick chests and thicker guts, their beards salted with gray. Or maybe she likes them younger. Pale, wiry men so inexperienced they’re grateful for even the most disinterested of handjobs.

“If he did,” I say, “Coop’s too much of a gentleman to make a big deal out of it.”

“Gentleman?” Sam says. “He’s a cop. From my experience, they fuck like jackhammers.”

I say nothing, knowing how she’s only looking for my disapproval, seeking a chance to chide me for being such a prude. Janelle did it all the time.

“I’m joking,” she says. “Lighten up.”

That was another of Janelle’s traits. To backtrack once she knew she’d gone too far, trying to shrug everything off as a joke. Today, Sam does her one better.

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I’ll tone it down. Really.” Her hand plunges into her pocket. “By the way, I thought you might like this. Something for your goodie drawer.”

She pulls out a Montblanc pen as sleek and shiny as a silver bullet and presses it into my hand. It once belonged to the writer in the cafe. Now it belongs to us. Another one of our shared secrets.





Pine Cottage, 6:58 p.m.

They were forced to dress for dinner. Another one of Janelle’s rules. Before they left, she made sure to check that everyone brought the proper attire. “Slobs will be sent home,” she warned.

Quincy packed two dresses—the only two she brought with her to college. Both had been picked out by her mother, who had harbored dreams of Quincy going to mixers and pledging sororities just as she had done.

One dress was black, which Quincy had thought would be fine for the occasion. In the wan light of the cabin, though, it looked more widow-at-a-funeral than Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That left the blue one, which appeared dowdier than she intended.

“I look dumpy,” Quincy said.

She knew she was right because Janelle looked more horrified than when she sliced her finger half an hour earlier. She now pointed it at Quincy, Band-Aid crinkling.

“Worse,” she said. “You look like a virgin.”

“That’s not a bad thing, you know.”

“It is if you’re trying to get some.”

“Craig knows it will be my first time.”

“Which that dress makes glaringly obvious,” Janelle said, eying her from head to foot. “I have an idea.”

She opened one of her two suitcases and tossed something at Quincy. It was a dress. White silk. As cool and shimmering as a swimming pool.