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“Not them, actually. I haven’t quite finished them yet. I’m getting close, though. I actually used a trial version when I shared the picture of the picnic earlier.”

“Really? Can I see?”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing my phone and opening Instagram. I tapped on the new photo in my grid and started to hand Max the phone, glancing offhandedly at the comments as I did so.

One in particular caught my attention: Who are you with?

My skin prickled. I could feel Max’s eyes on me, and, not wanting him to think something was amiss, I quickly deleted the comment and handed over my phone with a bright smile.

“Here you go. See how bold the colors are? Particularly that blanket.” I winked. “It was a good investment.”

“I knew it,” he said faux seriously. “But, Audrey, really, this looks incredible. You took my dumb little picnic and made it look like . . . I don’t know, like art. I can see why you have so many followers.”





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE





HIM


We had only just sat down to dinner when Arielle placed one of her spray-tanned, acrylic-tipped hands across her flat stomach and said, “No wine for me, thanks. Tag and I are expecting again.” Both of my parents leapt from their chairs with the kind of enthusiasm they reserved exclusively for congratulating inseminated daughters-in-law and began lavishing attention on Arielle, who basked in it. At one point, I swear my mother was petting her like some sort of prized cat. I muttered a halfhearted “Congratulations” to Tag and stabbed a fork into my endive salad.

I should have been grateful that Arielle was commanding all the attention, leaving no one to harass me about my love life, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. Pregnant Arielle was even more insufferable than nonpregnant Arielle. She acted as though she were some sacred vessel, even though I and everyone else in the room knew that Arielle was not the only woman to carry Tag’s progeny. It was an open secret that our father had given Tag’s high school girlfriend an undisclosed sum of money to go away and pretend the baby wasn’t his. It was nausea inducing.

I tuned them out, hoping I could just get through one dinner unscathed.

And then I heard Arielle’s voice, dripping with fake sweetness, ask me, “How are things going with your secret girlfriend, Peanut?”

I glared at Arielle. Her innocent act was such bullshit. My fingers itched to close around my steak knife, to lunge across the table and jam it through the exposed orange flesh of her neck. I could imagine her eyes widening in surprise as the blade plunged in, could almost hear the sound of her skin ripping as I dragged the serrated edge downward. Everyone would back away in shock, and no one would ever, ever interrogate me about my dating habits again.

“Yeah,” Tag added. “How are things going? Did you ever take my advice to send her flowers?”

Without meaning to, I burst out laughing.

Simon and Tag exchanged a look.

I composed myself and said, “As a matter of fact, yes, I did.”

“That’s great,” Simon said. “What did she say?”

“She definitely took notice.”

“So what’s the harm in telling us about her?” Arielle pressed. She threw a look at Leigh and added, “Is it someone we already know?”

I pressed my lips into a thin line, and Arielle laughed. “Is that a yes?”

Leigh cut her pale eyes at Arielle and shook her head. Sometimes, when I imagined slicing open every one of their worthless torsos and stringing their entrails along the bannister like a festive garland, I spared Leigh. She was the only one of the lot with a single kind bone in her body.

I turned my attention back to my dinner, keeping my face tilted to my plate and chewing diligently, and eventually they moved on to other topics that weren’t me. It didn’t take long. Narcissists can’t help but talk about themselves.

? ? ?

AS MY MOTHER led everyone out to the porch for afterdinner drinks, Leigh pulled me aside in the hallway. She pushed her mousy brown hair behind her ears and drew her thin face into a worried expression before saying quietly, “I know you saw Aly.”

Her pale eyes searched mine, plainly looking for some sign of guilt, some admission that I’d done something wrong. I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“Yeah. So?”

Leigh shifted, looking uncomfortable. “You know Aly doesn’t want to see you.”

“Then why did she call me?” I challenged.

“Oh, Peanut,” she sighed. “Aly didn’t call you. Don’t forget that she and I are friends; she told me all about you going to her house.”

“She did call me,” I insisted. “Yeah, I stopped by her house the other day and she told me she didn’t want to talk, so I left. But she called me yesterday morning and asked to grab coffee.”

Leigh stared at me, her expression unreadable. I stared back, daring her to call me a liar. I knew she wouldn’t. She was too sweet. There was a reason Leigh was the only member of this family I would spare in a massacre.

But I understood her doubt. Aly had always run to Leigh with all sorts of little complaints about me, from my alleged clinginess to the time I (accidentally, of course) shattered her bathroom mirror. I was sure Aly had called Leigh to report my uninvited appearance, but hadn’t bothered to later correct the record when she called me. Because she had called. Saturday morning, her voice supplicating, Aly had phoned and asked if I still wanted to talk. When I said of course, she suggested meeting at a coffee shop. Neutral territory, she’d said.