You (You #1)(76)

“Read it again,” you demand.

Peach sighs and reads, “Dear friends of Benji.”

“His poor mom,” you whimper.

Peach continues, “It is with great sadness that we inform you that our son Benji is presumed dead.”

You interrupt, “Shouldn’t they be looking for him?”

Peach is annoyed. She reads over you. “His precious Beetle Cat, Courage, was found wrecked just off Brant Point. As some of you know, Benji has battled addiction for some time. He recently informed friends that he was on Nantucket.”

“That fucking tweet,” you say.

“I know,” says Peach. “I hate drugs.”

Thank God for technology because honestly, I’m starting to freak out. I go to the Nantucket Inquirer and Mirror website and, sure enough, there’s an old picture of sober Benji in a suit alongside a picture of his destroyed boat. There are no witnesses who saw Benji on Nantucket, but his parents confirm that he withdrew money in New Haven and that this wouldn’t be “the first time that our son fell prey to his demons.” The harbormaster confirms the boat missing. And I confirm that I had nothing to do with this. Winter on Nantucket can be violent, apparently, and Benji’s mother tells the Mirror: “At least he died doing what he loves.” I don’t know if she’s talking about heroin or sailing. I’ve never felt so lucky in my life.

Peach blows her nose and you’re still crying and she says the two of you should run away to Turks and Caicos and you laugh but she’s serious. “You know I’ve done it before. Why can’t we? We pack a bag. We’re gone. Even better, we don’t pack a bag. You would love it there, I swear.”

“I have school,” you say and there’s a clink as she pours you a drink.

“Screw school,” she says, a failed attempt at being sassy. I hear a zipper and she moans. “Omigod, is there anything better than getting out of sweaty Gore-Tex?”

“Ha,” you say, and you are so halfhearted and I want to hug you.

I hear more kicking as the gruesome striptease continues and Peach testifies. “I swear, it’s like my spandex are glued to my legs. I literally have to peel them off because they itch so bad I’m going to explode.”

I might throw up and you are quiet.

“I hope it’s cool that I’m changing right here,” says Peach. “Sometimes I get so sick of going upstairs to do the littlest things. And ugh can it be any hotter?”

You say it’s fine and I hear her pulling the spandex off her bony body. She walks out of the room and returns and you like what you see because you say, “Wow.”

“My dad is obsessed with robes,” she says and thank God you were referring to the robes. “The Ritz makes the best ones. We have a zillion in every house. You want?”

You want and you take and you opt to change in the bathroom. When you return, she gushes, “How good is it in that robe?”

“It’s amazing,” you say and you are not one of those girls who call everything amazing.

Peach announces that she is making kale smoothies and she would lock you up in here and throw away the key if she could and you don’t even realize it, do you? The loud blender is my savior and like a ninja I fly down the hall, down the back stairwell (just for servants) that leads to the hallway between the kitchen and the great room. Fortunately, there are saloon-style doors that block this stairway, because who the hell wants to look at a servant, right? I can see it all from here. You girls are in matching giant robes and you flop onto the couch and put a glass of scotch and the smoothie on the lobster trap coffee table. She nudges your tiny foot with her big one. “Don’t be sad.”

“I shouldn’t be sad,” you say. “He treated me like shit.”

“Oh, Beckalicious, it’s not your fault. Boys can’t help it. They’re intimidated by girls like us.”

“I don’t think he was ever intimidated,” you say and Peach sweeps her feet off the table and plants them on the floor. She rubs her hands together, generating some heat. “You, my sweet, need a massage.”

You laugh but she’s serious and she moves onto the floor and kneels and rubs your pretty little feet and you moan—you like it—and you tell her she is good at this and she smiles. She likes that you like it and she continues up your legs to your calves and I can’t tell if she pulls your legs apart or if you pull your legs apart but I know that your legs are apart and she is working on your lower thighs and you relax your head, back, you exhale, mmm, and your arms flop to your sides and she is getting in there, up there, moving up your thighs. You are moaning, you are.

She sits up and somehow gets herself between your legs. She parts your bathrobe and your body is naked under there and your nipples are popped and she rubs your hips and you say no but she tells you to be quiet and you are quiet and she kisses your left breast and holds your other breast, firm, hard. You protest but she quiets you and you obey and she is kissing your neck and moving one of her hands down you and you aren’t fighting her and you aren’t doing anything, you are taking it and she is wrong.

You are tipsy—whatever she gave you hits you harder in the daylight, after running—and heartsick for me and shocked over Benji and she is supposed to be your friend. Just moments ago you were a wreck, sobbing, and what kind of a friend responds to a friend in obvious emotional distress by taking advantage of her and sucking on her earlobe? You have yet to touch her but your body is open to her and I don’t even think you’re in there right now, you’re somewhere deep in your head, away and finally, you are back and your whole body flinches and your legs snap and Peach pulls back. You are on your feet, closing your robe. “I’m sorry.”