The Stillwater Girls(28)

Davis’s gray eyes skim over the check before landing on me, and he forces a huff through half-pursed lips. Folding the check in half, he tucks it into the front left pocket of his blue plaid shirt.

“Aw, don’t tell me . . . trouble in paradise?” he asks, though his tone is all amusement and zero concern.

“I need to know what you know.” I cut to the chase.

His lips peel apart, revealing his tobacco-stained smile. “You got a lot of nerve, Nicolette. Driving up here in your rich-bitch car, thinking you can wave a check in my face and I’ll squeal like a pig.”

My chest tightens, and my gaze flicks to the steering wheel for a second before daring to return. I won’t let him shake me, even if I hate that he’s got a point.

“He’s not been himself lately,” I say. “I’m just wondering if there’s anything you know, anything at all . . . I realize I’m asking the world of you, but you have to understand—your brother . . . he’s my world.”

“Ain’t that cute.” Davis laughs through his nose before scratching the tip of it with his pointer finger, the nail of which is caked in dirt. “Listen, I don’t know what makes you think I know a damn thing about my brother’s dealings, but he hasn’t said a word to me in months. Not since he kicked me out of your humble home after asking me over for dinner.”

Clearly, Davis is still bitter about that night. And clearly, he’s not taking an ounce of responsibility for his behavior—typical.

“If you’re asking me if I know if he’s stepping out on you, I don’t,” Davis says, though somehow I don’t find the comfort I was hoping for in his revelation. “If you’re asking me if I think he ever would . . . I don’t know, Nic. Can’t imagine it’s a walk in the park being married to you.”

My fist clenches around the steering wheel. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

I resist the urge to scream at him, to tell him he knows nothing about our marriage. He doesn’t know the first thing about love, commitment, or human decency.

“I don’t know, just seems like he’s always kowtowing to you,” he says. “Bending over backward to make sure you have everything you need, making sure you don’t have another one of your episodes.”

He lifts a hand, curled fingers insinuating air quotes around the word “episodes.”

I’ve heard enough.

Davis is either lying and covering for his brother or he’s truly just as in the dark as I am. Either way, he’s not the wealth of information I’d hoped he’d be.

“Screw you, Davis.” I start my car and check the rearview mirror, though the latter move is unnecessary. Davis has no visitors, no friends. He’s an island, though he’s more like that island of trash that floats around the Atlantic Ocean. No one wants him. No one knows what to do with him.

“I’m cashing the check.” He pats his pocket as I shift into reverse.

Fair enough.

That’s what I get for trying to make a deal with the devil.

Backing onto the dusty road, I shift into drive and head home, bank account a little lighter but mind just as heavy.



“Hey, Nicki girl.” My lifelong best friend singsongs my name into the phone later that afternoon. “Just checking on you.”

I roll my eyes. Cate means well, but I don’t need to be checked on. I’m not a child staying home alone while my parents jet off to some exotic locale.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“It’s so weird not having you here,” she says. “I had all these plans for us for New Year’s.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I wish I was there, I really do.”

“So why aren’t you?” Her question is serious, but she laughs through her nose. “I don’t understand why you all of a sudden want to spend winter in that frozen tundra hellhole. No offense. I know how much you hate winters up there.”

“I see you’ve been talking to Brant.”

She pauses. “More like he’s been talking to me.”

“He called you?”

The sound of rustling papers and slamming desk drawers answers me before she does. She must be working. “He did. But only because he was concerned for you.”

I drag my hands through my hair before clasping my hand across my forehead and resting my elbows on my knees.

I can’t get comfortable lately.

Can’t sit still.

Can’t just . . . be.

“Cate, he’s making something out of nothing. I’ll be fine up here. I promise.” I don’t need to be treated with kid gloves, and I don’t need to be made into some crazy person just because I have a little seasonal depression. By the time spring rolls around, I’m usually down to one antidepressant a day and back to appreciating life again. “I get that you two worry about me, but you’re both overreacting.”

I bury my disappointment with Cate because I know she’s coming from a good place and she has no idea what’s behind my decision to stay, but she knows me better than anyone—maybe even better than my husband—since we’ve been friends nearly our entire lives, our families summering together in Nantucket since our grade-school years. She should know me enough to trust me and to let it go.