 
### Promises, Promises

a novella

by

Laurel Osterkamp

PMI Books, Boulder, Colorado
Promises, Promises

a novella

by

Laurel Osterkamp

Copyright © 2016 by Laurel Osterkamp

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Published by PMI Books

Boulder, CO 80302

http://www.pmibooks.com

Distributed by Smashwords

eISBN: 978-1-933826-09-7

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Some Years Ago...

Thursday, 5:30 PM

Friday, 10:00 AM

Friday, 5:15 PM

Friday, 8:15 PM

Sixteen Years Ago

Sunday, 11:00 PM

Monday, 10:00 AM

Sixteen Years Ago

Tuesday, 5:30 PM

Sixteen Years Ago

Wednesday, 5:00 PM

Sixteen Years Ago

Wednesday, 8:00 PM

Wednesday, 11:30 PM

Thursday, 7:30 AM

Thursday, 8:45 AM

Thursday, 9:00 PM

Friday, 7:30 AM

Friday, 6:30 PM

Friday, 7:30 PM

Saturday, 5:00 AM

Saturday 6:45 PM

Monday, 10:00 AM

Some Years Ago

Monday 6:15 PM

Preview of The Standout

About Laurel

#  Some Years Ago...

Coming here was a stupid idea, in the same way that falling in love was a stupid idea. No good could come but it seemed so right. As she stepped over stone after stone, the bottoms of her feet felt sore and bruised. Sort of like her heart.

But she kept going, because somehow, she knew that one day she would die among these cairns, against these boulders, or perhaps in that rock chamber.

Call it a feeling, but the feeling was strong, had teeth with a serious case of lockjaw, and there was no releasing it. So returning wasn't actually stupid, though maybe it was a teeny bit suicidal. Still, she didn't think she'd bite it here today: just someday. Someday, she would claim her fate in this spot and reinforce what everyone already knew, that misery is a part of life.

These rocks, these chambers, this mysterious stone structure: one day, she'd be a part of their history.

That was a promise.

# Thursday, 5:30 PM

Rush-hour does exist in Des Moines and I hate being stuck in traffic. My plan was to leave my studio forty-five minutes ago and be home in time to do a few yoga stretches before making dinner—maybe some broccoli and chicken stir fry. I've been trying to cook more healthy meals lately.

But at the rate that this meeting with Phil is going, I'll be picking up takeout and skipping the yoga altogether.

"Explain this one to me," Phil says, pointing at one of my sketches. "I can't really envision it."

"It's a camisole with a jacket," I explain. "They wore them like that all the time. Don't you remember?"

His face goes blank and I suppress a groan. _You signed up for this_ , I tell myself, so I square my shoulders and go over the details one more time.

A couple of weeks ago, on an afternoon when I got home in time to cook _and_ do yoga, my boyfriend Nick walked through our front door, took off his flannel-lined jacket, kissed me by the piano that we'd crammed into our tiny entryway and said, "What do you know about 1980s proms?"

"Tons," I answered. "After all, I've seen every John Hughes film ever made, and _Pretty in Pink_ changed my life."

That's not an exaggeration. In the movie, all the rich kids hate free-spirited Molly Ringwald because she can't afford designer outfits from major department stores, so she gives secondhand clothes a facelift while she agonizes over prom. Watching this cinematic masterpiece shifted my fashion paradigm, and since then I've made a career out of upcycling thrift store finds into newer, more stylish creations. I sell my designs from my website, on Etsy, and out of my studio in the west end of Des Moines.

"Well," Nick countered, "how would you feel about designing a 1980s prom-themed anniversary party for Phil?"

I sat down on the piano bench. "You mean, Phil, as in your boss, Phil?" I don't know why I asked. We don't know any other Phils besides the one who manages the real estate office where Nick works. Phil strikes me as the type of guy who enjoys being a stereotype because he requires donuts at all his morning meetings, laughs a little too loud at his own jokes, and slaps his employees a little too hard on the back.

"Yup." Nick sat next to me, brushed his graceful fingers over the piano keys, and gave me his signature, crooked smile. "His twenty-fifth anniversary is coming up. He and his wife were high school sweethearts and they want you to recreate their prom."

"Do they know I came of age in the 90s?"

Nick shrugged. "You'd be designing their outfits, and accessories for the guests to wear. I think you'd be great."

I hate turning down work. I hate turning down Nick even more. Of course I said yes.

So now Phil and I are at my studio and he is perched on one of my hand-painted stools, tottering ever so slightly as he gazes at the sketches I've spread across my work table. He nods his balding head, his brow furrowed and his thick neck threatening to burst through the necktie that's around it. "These look great. But is Daphne's dress all set to go? You don't need her measurements?"

I smile as if I'm giving him a playful punch in the shoulder, though I keep my hands to myself. "Not unless she's grown or has shrunk since you gave them to me last week."

Phil's throaty laugh seems a little insincere but I appreciate the effort. "Sorry," he says. "I just really want this party to be perfect. Daphne's been so down lately and I'm hoping to lift her spirits, you know?"

"Of course, and it's so sweet of you to do this for her."

He lets out a middle-aged man sigh/groan combo, which sounds pent up, like for years he's only ever showed emotions at sporting events. "You know, I proposed to her at our prom. I didn't think she'd say yes, but she did."

Perhaps my response is a little boisterous? "And now, here you are; twenty-five years later, happily married and doing great!"

"Well, yeah, I guess..." He picks up a swatch of emerald taffeta and rubs it between his fingers. "I mean, I love her. But sometimes I don't think she's all that happy, and then I start feeling low, and our misery feeds itself, you know?"

"Sure." I start stacking the sketches, hoping he'll see it as a signal that our meeting is winding down. He's been here for over an hour, and this is his third visit to my studio this week.

"Now that the kids are out of the house, she has all this time on her hands, so I keep telling her to take a class, or find a part time job, or do something that will interest her. But she refuses. Says she has a right to take a break, after raising our sons and making a home for us all these years."

I let my eyes creep over to the clock. If I leave in the next ten minutes, maybe there won't be a line at 5 Spice and I can bring home my favorite, chicken basil with brown rice. My stomach growls at the thought. "Maybe she just needs some time to figure out her next step."

Phil leans back on his stool and for a moment I'm afraid he's going to topple over. But he regains his balance, looking like an oversized version of the Weeble Wobbles I played with when I was little. "We used to have so much fun together. Now, everything feels so predictable. I bet you and Nick aren't like that, are you?"

I shrug. "No, but we've been together for less than a year."

Phil's bottom lip juts out and the top one curves up, into what could be a sneer but I think is a smile. "Enjoy the honeymoon phase, Robin. It may seem like it will never end, but believe me, it will."

Sort of by accident my gaze meets Phil's, and I'm bombarded by his desperation. I press my sketchbook to my chest and try to give him an honest yet reassuring reply. "I don't think of it that way—Honeymoons are great, but for the long haul, I'd rather have an enduring love."

"Sure. Love is the big prize, but not if it turns into a flat, platonic version of what you used to have." He sighs, his thick neck bulging. "Daphne and I only have sex once every couple months. It used to be all the time." Phil laughs nostalgically while I puzzle over how our conversation has galloped head-first into improper terrain.

"We were like rabbits," he continues. "Now we're like panda bears." The smile falls from his face and his voice drops. "Did you know that pandas are going extinct because they're more interested in eating bamboo and napping than in sex?" He shakes his head ruefully. "Don't ever turn into a panda bear, Robin."

Then, thankfully, he slides off his stool, with more grace than a man of size should have. I'm extremely relieved that he's leaving and that I don't have to respond to his panda bear warning, so I don't notice him coming toward me with his lips puckered. His kiss lands on the nether land between my cheek and chin. Then I stumble back, unsure if he's making a move or just acting European.

Phil grins like he's just grown an inch. "Take care, Robin. I'll see you soon."

# Friday, 10:00 AM

"Robin!"

Mari calls me over, her hand with painted black fingernails making the universal sign for _come here_. I put the purple taffeta cocktail dress I'd been looking at back on the rack, making sure to tuck in all its extra layers of netting. After all, I'm in the "formal wear" section of Sun Thrift Store and I like to adhere to the employees' high standards of spotlessness. I walk over to Mari, who is standing behind the jewelry counter.

"What's up?" I'm such a regular here that Mari, who works at Sun Thrift to help pay grad school tuition, feels like a co-worker.

"I have to show you this," she says. "I set it aside so you could have first dibs."

She bows her head, which is full of piercings and topped with purple hair, to find a ring that she places in my hand.

"They look like real diamonds," Mari says. "What do you think?"

I'm no expert, but the radiant cut of the two stones, which are right on top of each other, screams 1980s engagement ring. "I don't know, they could be diamonds. Or possibly white sapphires?"

"There's an inscription too," Mari says.

I inspect it, squinting to see the tiny lettering inside: _B.R + B.K '84. Love Always_

"Love always, huh?" I think of Phil and Daphne. "I wonder why, thirty years later, this ring wound up at a thrift store."

Mari raises an eyebrow, which is pierced with a slim silver rod. "Maybe they died?" she asks hopefully.

"And premature death is preferable to divorce?"

Mari grins. "No, but, well, whatever. If I had an extra $100 lying around, I'd buy it myself and sell it on eBay. But there are two stones and I thought you could make them into earrings, which would look great with your blond hair. Or..." Mari gives me a devilish smile, "you could just leave it out, you know, as a subtle hint for Nick."

"Subtle?" I laugh. "Mari, you're the best, but no thank you. If Nick proposes, I want it to be his own idea, and not with an engagement ring from a failed marriage."

I hand the ring back to Mari and she takes it. "Fine," she concedes, flicking her purple bangs out of her eyes. "But don't say I never look out for you."

"I never would say that." I lean forward, checking to see if there's anyone around within earshot. "Actually, I need your opinion on something."

"Okay..." Mari is studying to be a psychologist, so I've been using her for some free therapy sessions. She says she appreciates the practice, and I always buy her Starbucks in return.

"You know how Nick's boss hired me to help with his anniversary party?"

She nods.

"Well," I continue, "he's been coming by my studio a lot, like way more than necessary and staying a long time. Then, yesterday he started telling me all this stuff about his marriage and their sex life, and before he left, he tried to kiss me."

Mari rubs her nose with the side of her hand, looking contemplative. "What kind of a kiss?"

"I don't know. I think he was aiming for the mouth, but it wound up here." I point to the spot on my face where Phil's kiss had landed and I cringe, like I still need to wipe away the saliva. "I haven't said anything to Nick yet."

"And how does keeping this from Nick make you feel?" she asks.

"Kind of guilty?"

Mari rolls her eyes and explains that while I'm not obligated to disclose this story, I do need to own my feelings over Phil's inappropriate behavior, because if I don't, I might later take my anger out on Nick, which could be damaging to our relationship.

"Yeah, but I don't know if I'm actually angry..." My cell phone buzzes. I look at the caller ID and blink, sure that the fluorescent lights are messing with my vision. "Hold on, Mari, I have to take this."

I step away, over to the men's long underwear section (the least crowded part of the store) and answer the call. "Tristan?"

"Oh thank God," she breathes into the phone. "I was worried you'd changed your number."

"It has been a while," I say. "How are you?"

There's another loud exhale. "It's time, Robin. Sorry for the short notice, but I need you to come. I need you to come now."

# Friday, 5:15 PM

"What if I said that I _need_ you to come meet us?" Nick says into the phone.

I'm back at my studio, looking forward to going home and putting my feet up, snug on the couch with a glass of wine and a tray of grocery store sushi. "Explain this need," I reply.

"Phil suggested going out for happy hour and he says he wants you there too. Please, Rocky?"

I always warm to Nick when he uses his special nickname for me. He could say, "Rocky, I have to go home to my wife and children," and my first impulse would be to glow, because he'd said "Rocky" in that throaty, affectionate tone.

Yet I still feel a yank of resentment. So Phil "wants" me there, huh?

"Why do you care so much about happy hour with Phil?" I ask. "Do you even like him?"

"Not particularly."

"Then let's skip it!"

He sighs. "He's my boss. I need to play nice, so he'll get me wealthier clients with bigger commissions."

I think about Mari's advice, that I shouldn't take my resentment over Phil out on Nick. She's right, but I usually prefer the self-destructive path, so I load my next question with vitriol. "Why are you working so hard at a job that makes you miserable?"

Nick responds with a second of tense silence. Then his voice is quiet and controlled. "Because I have to. Misery is part of life."

If that's true, I guess it's time for some boneless chicken wings, a weak margarita, and an extremely awkward situation. "Fine," I say, "I'll meet you at Applebee's."

****

When I pull into the parking a lot, I see a handsome, semi-short, dark haired guy with rolled up shirt sleeves and no jacket, standing outside in the cool autumn evening. Nick's been waiting for me. I find a parking spot, turn off the ignition, and get out. "Why aren't you inside? Where's Phil? I thought you came together."

Nick stares into my eyes as he silently reaches to shut the car door behind me. In the process, he uses his hips and arms to pin me between his body and my automobile. Soft lips parted, Nick goes in for a kiss exactly how Phil went in for a kiss yesterday evening, except that it's nothing like it at all.

First of all, I don't duck away. Second, the feeling of Nick's lips on mine is like breathing again after being underwater. And third, the warmth, the giddiness, the tingling knowledge that I'm in the right place at the right time, is a feeling only Nick can produce inside of me.

When he pulls away, my mouth is still wishing for one more kiss. Nick cradles my cheek in his hand and presses his forehead to mine. "Sorry for how I sounded on the phone. I really appreciate your coming."

"No problem." I reach down and lace my fingers through his. "Let's go have happy hour."

I actually convince myself that this will be good, that once Phil sees how happy Nick and I are together, he'll back off and we'll be able to pretend that his attempted kiss never happened. But as Nick and Phil are talking about annuities and property tax, I feel a hand squeeze my knee. I'm sitting on a stool in between the two of them, but unless Nick has suddenly grown super-long octopus arms, the hand has to belong to Phil.

I practically jump off my stool. Nick looks at me, startled. "Everything okay, Rocky?"

No, everything's not okay. Your boss is putting the moves on me and it makes me feel like the main character in some cheesy HR employee orientation video about sexual harassment. "Yeah. I'm going to the ladies room."

I grab my phone and walk toward the restrooms, though actually, my bladder is fine. I need advice, stat, about what I should say or do, and I'm about to call Mari when my phone vibrates in my hand.

It's Tristan. I told her I'd get back to her after I'd talked to Nick, but I haven't had the chance to discuss anything with him. I pick up after the first ring. "So, can you come?" she asks.

Autumn in New Hampshire. The ocean. Being far away from Nick's lecherous boss. I don't think, I just respond. "Yes. I'll leave as soon as I can."

Only after I've agreed to come does reality sink in. I'm going back. I'm going to see Tristan, who I don't really know anymore. I'm not sure I _want_ to see her, but I know that I have to.

She breathes a sigh of relief. "How about Wednesday?" Tristan asks.

Then I hear him approach. By the heft of his shadow, I know it's Phil even before I turn around. He places his hand on my shoulder and I slide out from under it. "Tristan, I have to go. I'll call you back tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure."

I end the call and pivot toward Phil so that we're facing each other. The space in here is tight, as this little hallway leads not just to the bathrooms but also toward the kitchen. A waitress with a tray of artichoke dip and Long Island iced teas emerges and squeezes past us. Once she's gone, I find the courage to look Phil in the eye.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He smiles. "I was headed to the bathroom and here you are. Lucky coincidence."

Phil steps towards me and I take a step back, into a spot on the wall that was maybe once used to house a pay phone, but now it's just some boards surrounding nothing. Those boards dig into my waist. "Phil, you're making me uncomfortable. I like you as a friend, but we need to keep our relationship professional."

His face falls. "You think I'm hitting on you?" He sounds so betrayed, so devastated. "I'm just a friendly guy, Robin. I like physical contact. Did you know that nursing home patients get seriously depressed because they don't have physical contact with others? It's a _need_ , you know? We all need to be touched from time to time."

"Yes, but—"

I'm stammering, trying to find words, but he doesn't give me the space to do so. Phil just pats me on the head and then he walks into the men's room.

What just happened?

I go back to our table and sit down next to Nick. He reaches for my hand, squeezes it, and glows with a smile. "Phil was just saying that I can take over the Simmons account."

"That's great." I squeeze his hand back, not bothering to ask what the Simmons account is. It's obviously something desirable and lucrative, or Nick wouldn't look all lit up about it.

He cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing. "Are you sure you're alright? Your shoulders are tense."

I could tell him that I think his boss has been hitting on me. But then what? That vein in Nick's forehead would start pulsating, and he'd have this internal struggle over whether to risk his job or defend my honor. If I know Nick, he'd choose defending my honor, but after Phil fired him for overreacting, he'd agonize over our mortgage payments and his tuition bills, because Nick is in school to become a music teacher. I can't do that to him, not over a kiss on the chin, a hand on my knee, and erotic talk of panda bears and nursing home pets.

I make a conscious effort to relax my shoulders. "I'm fine. We'll talk when we get home."

# Friday, 8:15 PM

Nick paces the length of our living room, which is painted in Ballroom Blue. Our house is small, so the living room runs right into the dining room, which is painted in Monet Blue. On overcast afternoons, when the light through the windows makes everything kind of gray, we turn on our flea market floor lamp, Nick plays his piano, and sometimes he sings a song he wrote just for me. "No road is too long if it leads me back to you," he'll croon to a magic combination of chords. And I wonder how I ever got so lucky.

But I don't feel so lucky right now.

"I don't get it," he says. "Why do you have to leave so soon?"

For now, I stick with the simple answer. "My friend needs me to make her a wedding dress."

"But on such short notice? And how do you even know this person? You've never mentioned her before."

I pull out a chair and sit at our table, trying to stay calm, trying to hide my own doubts about seeing Tristan again. "I met her years ago, when we worked at this summer camp. She and I really bonded and I promised her that if she ever really needed me, I'd be there."

"Why?" Nick's voice is a cross between a rasp and a squeak.

I stare at the wall, which looks ocean-blue when sunlight shines through our windows, but right now it's dark. I speak softly. "I don't expect you to understand. Tristan and I went through a lot together, and honestly, I'm sort of scared. That's why I have to go."

Nick's face softens by a centimeter.

"Look," I continue, "if I can't get back in time, I'll hire Mari to deliver the outfits for Phil's prom."

He fumes. "And I'll go to that party without you?"

"You don't have to go at all!"

"Yeah, I do." He punctuates each syllable with indignation.

"Why? It's not like Phil can fire you if you skip it. And who cares if he does? You're not going to be a real estate agent much longer anyway. As soon as you're done with your teaching degree, you're out of there."

Nick lowers his eyelids and his whole body just seems weighted down. "I know you think I'm over-responsible, but you don't always understand adult responsibilities."

I bristle at the allegation that I never grew up. "I'm self-employed. That happens to be a huge responsibility."

"I know." Nick sighs. "But I'm not self-employed and I can't just decide to skip my boss's party or to jet off to New Hampshire on a whim."

"I'm not going on a whim."

He sits down opposite me. "All right." He lays his hands on the table, palms up, waiting for me to say more.

I gaze at Nick, into those dark eyes which I love to see lit up. My least favorite thing in the world is disappointing him, so I force a smile into my voice. "I promise that once I've explained everything, you'll understand."

His crooked grin is a challenge that's better than forgiveness. "Okay. Explain."

All at once I realize this is a story I'd never told, not because I'm hiding anything, but because I had never wanted to relive it.

# Sixteen Years Ago

Life was predictable. Watching 80s teen flicks like _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_ and _The Sure Thing_ convinced me that nothing interesting would ever happen if I continued my rut in Des Moines, so instead of looking for a job at the mall, I decided to try and become a junior counselor at a summer camp on the East Coast. The fourth place I contacted, Camp Grayson, was under new management and looking to shake things up. Its summer program was an offshoot of the elite boarding school, Old Grayson Farms. I promised I could assist with teaching swimming and drama, so, based off a recommendation from my boss at the after-school program where I'd worked, I was hired. I would get room and board, and the $600 they paid would cover my plane ticket out there.

When I got to camp I realized it was actually more like a compound. The junior counselors were lodged in the large dorm room that the scholarship students used during the year. But I wasn't staying with scholarship girls; they would actually have real summer jobs where they could make real money. The girls I stayed with reeked of sophistication. Their dark hair was straightened, like Rachel's on _Friends_. And, like Rachel, they all looked like they'd had nose jobs. They also had country club, androgynous names, like Bradley or Elliot. And they all knew each other, because they were Grayson students, the ones whose fathers only made half a million, so they were stuck "working" at a job that would look good to the college admissions board, rather than attending some elite drama program in London or a soccer camp in Brazil.

On the first night, before the campers arrived, there was a mixer. Tables with bowls of pretzels and M&Ms had been set up in the dance hall, where they blasted the Macarena, but all the attendees were too cool to dance. I stood off to the side, several inches taller than all the girls and ignored by all the guys. It seemed as if they spoke in this secret language, while I just twiddled my thumbs, sure that my blond hair lit me up like a beacon of loneliness and isolation.

I would have left, but I worried this was a required activity and I'd get in trouble for bailing. Then several girls travelled over: a pack of wolves to sniff me out. Where was I from? What was I doing here? Is that my hair's natural color, and if not, who's my stylist?

"Wait, you're from Des Moines?" laughed the queen of the pack, Riley.

"Yeah," I replied, trying not to let my intimidation stink too badly.

"How sweet," she cooed.

"Hi, Riley."

The gravelly voice came from behind me. When I turned I found a girl who looked much like all the others, yet there was a difference I couldn't put my finger on. Maybe she had a bit more natural beauty. Maybe she didn't need a one-hundred-dollar haircut to make those dark layers look so effortless. She definitely looked like she'd been the first girl in middle school to need a bra, and none of the other girls had ever really caught up.

Most importantly, she had this air of confidence that can't be faked, the type that only comes with not caring what everyone else thinks.

"I didn't see you come in, Tristan." Riley dropped her affected tone. "When did you get here?"

"Just now." Tristan extended her hand to me. "Hi, I'm Tristan."

"Robin." We shook hands as I looked her squarely in the eyes. They reminded me of my grandmother's eyes: wise yet jaded. "Do you go to school here too?"

"Yeah, but I live in town." She flicked her head sideways, toward the door. "Come on, I'll give you a tour of the grounds."

I didn't need to be asked twice. Once we were outside, Tristan twisted her mouth, looked me up and down, and gave me a mournful head shake. "Is your t-shirt from Target?" she asked.

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Yeah."

"It's a good thing you're so thin," she replied. "We should still be the same size even though you're tall. I'll loan you some shirts, but you have to lose the scrunchy."

I immediately grabbed at my hair and released its ponytail. As we walked, Tristan gave me the lowdown.

Grayson students looked forward to attending the Ivies, and the coke they used to get through finals was not the kind that comes in a red can. According to Riley, you were a prude if you hadn't lost your virginity by fifteen, and if you'd never gotten laid by your tennis coach, it was because you were fat and you _had_ to go on the newest, trendiest diet: the one that all the size zeros swore by.

"They won't hate you," she said as we traversed a field that, before the party, had been used for croquet. "They'll just ignore you. To them, your Midwest naïveté is amusing. Like when your younger cousin gets drunk off champagne at a family wedding." Tristan nearly snagged her foot on a wicket but she caught herself just in time. "Like when she gets drunk and pukes all over her tacky, taffeta bridesmaid gown."

I kicked at a red-striped ball. "I'm glad I'm off to such a great start."

"Don't worry. I'll have your back."

Was she lonely? I was never sure why Tristan chose to help me, but she kept her promise. Tristan loaned me several eighty-dollar t-shirts and was especially generous with the aloe lotion her dermatologist had prescribed, stuff that would soothe sunburns without causing zits. She sat with me during meals and we signed up for the same duties. If it hadn't been for Tristan, I probably would have quit early and returned to Des Moines by July 4th with my tail between my legs.

Tristan's dry, cynical jokes assuaged me every time I felt the sting of rejection from somebody else in camp. In return, I suppose I gave Tristan an ounce of genuine friendship, which in her world, was about as rare as an ounce of plutonium. She came from the town adjacent to Old Grayson Farms and her family owned the soap factory that was the town's main industry (other than the school, of course). During the school year she lived at home, but at camp, she and I bunked together, lifeguarded together, and slowly revealed our secrets to each other.

"So are you and Conrad a couple?" I asked her one afternoon while we were lifeguarding at the lake. Conrad was a full-fledged counselor, a sophomore at Brown with mad skills in archery. His light brown hair was shaggy, flopping down into his oversized blue eyes. He only ever wore white v-neck Hanes t-shirts, along with ripped cargo shorts and worn-out Converses without socks.

"Nah," she said. "I'm too young for a real boyfriend." Tristan placed her hand over her eyes like a visor and looked towards some noise on the lake. It was just some twelve-year-old boys, goofing around and showing off. One of them stood on another kid's shoulders. "Hey, Tristan!" he shouted. "Check it out!" Then he did a backflip into the water.

"Wow!" she called. "Cool." But to me she shook her head and said softly, "He's going to break his neck if he keeps doing that."

"You're not serious," I said.

"Of course I am. Do you know how shallow that water is? I should warn them."

She prepared to dive in, but I pulled her back by the arm. "No. I meant that you're not serious about sixteen being too young for a boyfriend."

"Of course I am. I don't want some pervy guy's tongue down my throat."

It's wasn't like Tristan flirted with all the guys who looked at her, but she was so confident, always meeting their gaze and sometimes even initiating her own suggestive eye movements. "Haven't you been kissed a lot, though?"

Tristan looked away, off toward the water. "Nope. Never. Not once."

This was as hard to digest as a bowl of popcorn right before bed. Even I had been kissed before. I had a boyfriend back home, though he was leaving for college soon and I didn't know where we stood. "Then why does everyone think you're so experienced?"

Tristan used both hands to cup her ample breasts from underneath, shaking them a little. "When you're built like I am, people assume all sorts of things."

"I guess I wouldn't know." I glanced down at my own relatively flat chest. "Guys don't pay enough attention to me to assume anything."

"Please!" Tristan taunted. "Guys look at you all the time. You've got Hunter interested."

We simultaneously looked over at Hunter, who was teaching canoeing to a group of girls on the other side of the lake. From such a distance his acne wasn't visible, but his long, lanky frame was unmistakable. "What makes you think Hunter likes me?" I asked.

"He's always staring at you."

"Really?" My stomach flipped at the idea. Last night at dinner I'd laughed at one of his jokes and afterwards we walked together on our way to Frisbee golf. I definitely placed Hunter in the friend category, but maybe the same wasn't true for him.

I must have made a weird face, because Tristan laughed. "I think you should go for it. Hunter is kind of cute."

My brain was starting to feel sunburned. "But you just said that you're not interested in dating anyone."

"True. However, Hunter seems like a decent human being. Plus, he's funny and he has really nice arms."

"Okay..."

"Those boys need to stop horsing around." It took me a moment to realize that Tristan was talking about the twelve-year-olds who'd been showing off for her. By the time I had, she'd shimmied down the dock, gotten into the water, and was swimming towards them. I could hear her warning all the way from the dock: don't dive head first into water that's too shallow. But they didn't listen to a word she said, they just stared at her chest, which was bulging out of her bikini top.

Boys never paid attention to what Tristan had to _say_. That was her problem.

# Sunday, 11:00 PM

Each woman on the pages of _Vogue Wedding Gowns_ looks like she got up that morning and threw her dress on because it was the first thing she saw in her closet. Then somehow her hair and makeup effortlessly fell into place while every satin-covered button magically buttoned itself. That's the kind of dress I need to create for Tristan, one that does all the work and lets her natural beauty shine. But right now I'm lying in bed and gravity is propelling me down, saying I should be horizontal instead of vertical, head on pillow, body covered in blankets.

"I can't believe the weekend is already over." Nick stretches next to me, puts down his Educational Psychology textbook and stares at the ceiling. 'It went way too fast."

I yawn. "I don't know what you're talking about. You worked all weekend. We both did."

Nick had an open house this morning and he didn't finish up until late afternoon. Meanwhile, I spent most of Saturday and today at my studio, working on clothes for Phil's party and keeping the door open so passersby could wander in and buy blouses or scarves from my display.

"That's sort of my point."

I turn the page of _Vogue_ to find a barefoot, redheaded bride in an empire waist gown, surrounded by rustic romance. "See, I think you're proving yourself wrong. The weekend couldn't go too fast when, technically, we never really had a weekend..."

Nick plucks the magazine from my grasp, tosses it to the floor, and tickles me.

"Stop," I squeal. "Don't! I did nothing to deserve this treatment!"

He laughs, but his fingers ease up. "You deserve this treatment just by being you."

I shove him in the shoulder, but it's a half-hearted shove. "I resent that."

"Sorry."

We're lying on our sides now, face to face. Staring at his eyes, nose, and mouth makes me want to reach out and touch them, to reassure myself that they compose a living, breathing Nick.

He closes his eyes when my fingers graze his cheek.

"I wouldn't be so depressed about our lack of a weekend if we had another one coming soon." His eyes open back up, brown and blinking. "But you're leaving in a couple of days."

"I know, but I'm coming back."

"Yes, of course." He gives me a soft smile. "It's just... we've both been so busy lately." He stares deep into me and I get this strange feeling that he thinks I'm hiding something.

Maybe I'm just paranoid, but is he fishing? My eyes must have a mind of their own because they avert his gaze. "I never want to be too busy for you," I say.

"Me neither." He scoots in and wraps his arms around me. I use my body weight to propel him into lying on his back, and then I nestle my head against his chest.

"We can't become strangers," he says.

"That's not going to happen." I run my finger down the length of his arm, marveling at his smooth, warm skin. "We talk all the time, and the important thing is that we're honest with each other."

I ignore the burn of shame as I say this. I know how important honesty is to Nick and I try to be an open book, but at the same time, I realize I still have lots of hidden passages that I've yet to share. But is now really the time to go into all that?

Nah. I sit up, straddle Nick, and peer into his eyes as I pull my t-shirt off, over my head. His face melts with desire. "I love you," he whispers. Then he pulls me down and rolls on top of me.

It's a nice way to end our nonexistent weekend.

# Monday, 10:00 AM

"Back so soon?" Mari asks, eyeing my cart full of old prom dresses, flimsy nylon night gowns, and piles of costume jewelry.

"Yeah. I've been working frantically all weekend trying to finish the 80s prom and now I'm desperate for new material. Besides, the other day I was too distracted to buy anything."

Mari spots a silky red blouse that slid from the rack and is lying on the ground. She finds an empty hanger and drapes the blouse over it. "What was with that phone call you got? Did it have to do with Nick's boss?"

I frown and she rests her fingers against my shoulder. "I hope you don't mind me asking," she says.

"No, it's fine." I explain all the events from the last few days, including my need to fly to New Hampshire to make Tristan's wedding gown.

Mari scuffs the bejeweled heel of her high black boot, which she found here at Sun Thrift, against the linoleum floor. The boots make her several inches taller than normal, and I see that our eyes are level. "So you're happy about going?" she asks.

I inspect a black gown with puffy sleeves and a large bow at the waist and then I throw it into my cart. "With everything going on, I don't mind an excuse to leave town. But..." I pause and rummage for the right words while I rummage through the racks at Sun Thrift. "Have you ever been so scared of something that you acted like a coward?"

"Well, there was gym class in eighth grade. I said I was on my period during our entire gymnastics unit because I was terrified of the uneven bars."

I laugh. "I get it, but I meant, have you ever been scared of something that you can't explain?"

"Like ghosts?" Mari asks, cocking her head and using her therapist voice.

"Hold on." I turn, scanning the length of the store. "Are there any new wedding dresses in?"

"Yeah. Come on, I'll show you." Mari starts walking and I follow. "So, anyway, you were saying..."

"Yeah. Right outside of the camp where I used to work there are these cairns scattered throughout the forest, and I still have bad memories of them."

"What's a cairn?"

I inhale through my nose, immune by now to that musty thrift store smell. "Basically, just a huge piles of stones, meant to mark something. Sometimes the rocks are made into secret chambers." I arch my eyebrows and insert suspense into my voice. "People say they were inspired by Stonehenge and have mystical powers."

"Wow." Mari plucks their newest wedding dress donation from the rack and hands it to me. It has a v-shaped waist and double bell lace sleeves. I can work with this, so I put it in my cart.

"That sounds cool," Mari says. "Why the bad memories?"

I think for a second, because there's nothing like taking a moment of self-reflection in the middle of a thrift store. "Well, I'm not proud of the summer I spent out there. And the cairns... they still freak me out.'

Mari widens her eyes and makes that "go on" gesture with her hands.

So I try to explain.

# Sixteen Years Ago

Grayson Farms had a secret society. What self-respecting New England prep school doesn't? But their secret society was as much about the forestland adjacent to the school as it was an excuse for hazing and exclusion. Officially they were called the Dryads, named for the forest nymphs from Greek mythology, but everyone just called them the Ds.

One day, Tristan took me for a walk and showed me the nearby cairn. "It's pronounced like 'kern'" she explained. "They're everywhere around here and nobody knows why." She pointed toward a stone chamber, whose entrance seemed to produce its own source of light. "Come on, you won't believe the inside."

Once we got closer I realized it was built to reflect the sunlight in a way that made it seem illuminated from within. We explored the courtyard, which led to tunnels, chambers, walls, and boulders that somehow stood on end. "Who built this?" I asked.

"Nobody knows. It's one of the world's great mysteries."

"Really?"

Tristan held up three fingers, straight and huddled together: Scout's honor. "Some claim it was nineteenth century settlers, to hold cattle or to hide escaped slaves on their way up to Canada. Or that it was the Celts, that after they left the old world for the new, they built these to perform their rituals in." She climbed up a fairly large rock and sat, looking out. "Grayson girls say these stones have a mystical power and that if you sit here long enough, you can feel it."

"Do you think that's true?"

Tristan shrugged. "I don't know. But there's this story of a girl who lived in one of the cottages close to the ocean. She was a townie who disappeared one night after she ran off to these cairns. My cousin was her boyfriend."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. He told me his version of what happened that night, but I don't know if I believe him." From her perch on the rock, Tristan adopted an expression I'd grown to recognize and I could tell that she'd decided to mess with me. One corner of her mouth curled up and she cocked an eyebrow, making her face lopsided and gleeful.

I climbed up onto my own rock, which was opposite the one that Tristan sat upon. "Okay," I conceded. "Tell me the story."

Her inhale was deep and then she spoke in an octave lower than usual, like a teenage girl version of James Earl Jones. She told me a tale of love, torment, 1980s new wave music, and a German Shepherd.

"Wait," I say, when she's done. "Brian's dog killed Bridget? I thought you said they never found a body."

Tristan's smile is slow and devilish. "Maybe I embellished a little. He says that he ran back for his truck, parked as close to the cairns as possible, and went to get Bridget so he could drive her to the emergency room. But once he'd returned to the cairns, she was gone."

I shifted against the stone. My behind was getting sore. "How is that possible?"

Tristan pointed to one of the stone chambers, its entrance closed off by a boulder. "Some people think he chopped her up and buried her in there."

"Wouldn't the cops have found evidence if he had?"

"Maybe. But he explained away the traces of her blood with the dog bite to her ankle and other than that, well, nothing was found. Either she's an escape artist or he got away with murder."

"What a family history." I was losing sensation in my left butt cheek so I slid down and stretched my legs.

Tristan laughed but her voice stayed serious. "The Ds meet here, you know." She climbed down from her perch and stood near me. "It's very exclusive and you have to be invited, but I guess they bring their Ouija board and try to summon Bridget's ghost."

"Oh well," I say flippantly. "My invitation must have been lost in the mail. But I can't believe that they haven't asked you yet."

"Who says they haven't?"

Suddenly the air felt thick. Tristan was scrutinizing me. I broke the spell by moving away. "So you've been invited to join this secret society?"

"Not exactly, but there have been mumblings."

"Will you join?"

For a moment it seemed as if Tristan wouldn't answer. She skipped over some rocks, holding her hands out for balance, her eyes glued to her feet. "I can't say," she finally stated. "After all, it's a secret."

# Tuesday, 5:30 PM

I should pack. I should make dinner. I should make sure I've covered all the details for Phil's party. Instead, the minute I get home I lie down on the couch.

I have no reason to be exhausted, but exhaustion needs no excuse to loiter, especially on a darkening Tuesday evening. _Just five minutes_ , I think to myself, as I lay my head against the couch cushion and elevate my feet on the armrest.

Sleep, and dreams of the story that Tristan told me about Brian and Bridget so long ago, come quickly.

****

It was cloudy when Bridget looked out their second floor window. Ash-colored waves matching the sky crashed against the black, shiny rocks that lined the beach. Brian approached, walking along the path that led to their house and his German Shepherd, Farrah, yanked him along.

_I should just tell him that I'm unhappy_ , Bridget thought to herself. Why was that so hard to do?

She heard the door open but Brian shouted no greeting. "Hello?" she called. He didn't call back, but instead, loud "new wave" music came on. In high school, Brian had liked Bruce Springsteen and Kenny Rogers, but only when feeling sentimental. Then Brian read _The Stranger_ and his entire outlook changed. He let his hair grow into his eyes, he wore all black, and he talked about Nietzsche and whether or not God exists. Now there was his music: falsely peppy songs with dark and depressing lyrics. As Bridget descended the stairs, the bellowing from the stereo about "promises, promises" set her teeth on edge.

Bridget entered the living room as the walls pulsed in sync to the song. Brian sat on the floor with Farrah in his lap.

"Farrah really likes Naked Eyes," Brian yelled and smiled simultaneously.

Bridget went to the tape player and pressed stop. Immediately Farrah began to growl and bare her teeth. Bridget stepped closer to Farrah, because she knew the dog would snap at her if she did. She wanted Brian to reprimand his German Shepherd.

"Did you see that, Brian? She nearly bit me!"

Maybe that was an overstatement, but Brian only said, "See? She loves that song."

"I need to talk to you," Bridget said. "Before all the people get here."

"What people?"

"Are you kidding? You don't remember about the party?" Bridget clenched her fists, as if fighting the urge to punch him. "My sister is coming, and Donnie and Kirsten, plus the whole cast of _Bye Bye Birdie_. Did you seriously forget?"

Instead of answering, Brian got up, went to the stereo, pressed rewind and then just stood there as the tape deck wheels spun backwards. Bridget had once said that she loved him best when he was focused on something insignificant, blinking his quick, intelligent eyes, and his arms crossed, shielding him like a sweater vest.

Brian pushed a button, and then another button, and turned the volume down slightly once "Promises, Promises" resumed. Farrah immediately ceased her growling.

"Let's go to the kitchen," Brian said. "I'll close the door so you won't hear the song." He led her out.

In the kitchen, Brian opened the refrigerator and inspected its contents. "I was just kidding before. I didn't actually forget about the party. I got a lot of beer and a bucket of wings. We also have some chips...I think." He closed the refrigerator door and peered around until he found a bag of barbeque Ruffles that looked empty. They were on the counter by the new microwave; Brian was the first of all their friends to have bought one.

"Well, I guess the chips are gone, but we can heat up the wings," he said, pointing to the microwave. "They'll taste even better hot."

Bridget had had in mind a different sort of party, one with fancy hors d'oeuvres like mini-quiches and tiny hot dogs baked inside biscuit dough. "No. We need more. Let's drive up to Hannafords so I can get some stuff."

"Why? People mostly want beer. The wings will be fine."

"For the guys maybe, but the girls won't want wings."

"Now you're being sexist."

Months ago, Bridget had talked to Brian at length about the Women's Movement and The Equal Rights Amendment. Brian had pretended to understand and sympathized when the amendment failed, but now? Bridget hated it when he was dense.

"Don't be stupid, Brian. Wings are messy and girls care about that more than guys do.

Why can't we go to the store?"

"We can in a minute. I haven't seen you all day. Did you miss me?" He took her by the wrist and pulled her in close.

"Sure. Of course."

"Really? Lately it seems like you can take me or leave me."

Bridget tucked her face into the nook between Brian's shoulder and his chin. That way, he couldn't see her cheeks burn. She squeezed him, hard, and then raised her head to look him in the eye, but to do so she had to brush his dark bangs from his forehead first. Suddenly she had never stopped loving him. "I don't want to leave you," she said.

Brian's voice was strangled, his emotions producing phlegm. "Then don't."

The mood had turned so suddenly serious that Bridget reeled, drunk from a cocktail of guilt and nostalgia. She let Brian lead her upstairs to their bedroom. She was happy to have him remove her scratchy pleated skirt. When her head was sandwiched between his head and the pillow, she didn't care that her French braid would be irreparably mussed up.

Afterwards, they lay on the bed, curled up together, limbs entwined. "I still want to go to the store," she said, stroking his back. "People will get here soon. Kate said the whole cast is coming."

"You invited all those nutty community theater people?"

"They're my friends."

Brian yawned. "I'm sort of in the mood for a nap. Why don't you just go? The keys to my truck are by the door."

Bridget had a litany of complaints: you abandon me every day; napping is a sign of weakness; I don't love you anymore. The words lingered on her tongue, silent procrastinations of an anger she wouldn't release.

"Fine," Bridget said. "Enjoy your nap."

Three hours later the party was in full swing. Brian stood in the living room, manning the stereo and playing "Promises, Promises" over and over, to keep Farrah from freaking out and barking.

Bridget sat at the dining room table by the tray of appetizers. All her friends were here; they spoke about town gossip and their grand plans to move away, but none of them ever would. She was so bored she thought she could kill someone. Instead, she took a pig-in-a-blanket and popped it into her mouth.

Bridget's sister, Kate approached. "Can you get Brian to change that song? It's driving me crazy."

It was as if Kate had given her permission to go crazy as well. Bridget's eyes bugged and her cheeks flushed red. "Me too." She got up and went straight toward the stereo, grabbed the first tape she could lay her hands on and used it to replace Naked Eyes. Farrah barked wildly as Culture Club sang. _Do you really want to hurt me..._

"Why did you do that?" Brian demanded. "You know she needs to hear that song."

"What about what I need, Brian!" Bridget's shrillness caused everyone to turn. "Do you even care? No! You only care about your stupid, stupid, dog!"

Bridget grabbed her jacket and went outside. The night was dark and clouds blocked the moonlight. She knew the terrain so well it didn't matter. She walked toward her rest and reflection go-to spot with unwavering steps.

It didn't take her long to get to the mysterious stone structure but soon she heard three sets of footsteps, one belonging to Brian and the other two to Farrah.

"Wow," Brian said as he approached. "It's gotten cold. I bet it will snow tonight."

Brian's feet navigated the rocky path until they were standing face to face. "Why did you leave like that?"

All of her boiling anger abruptly eased, like a pot of water after the stove had been turned off. "I don't know. I was hoping there'd be moonlight." She sighed, reached out a hand, and stroked Brian's cheek. "Right now, you look so young, so innocent."

He took her hand and stared into her eyes, taking breaths so deep that his stomach strained against the waistband of his black jeans. The moment should have been beautiful, but Bridget vomited her words out like poison. "Brian, I... I've been thinking that we've been together for a long time. We've both changed a lot since high school. Maybe it's time to move on."

Brian pivoted away, tilting his face toward the sky. He used one hand to grab his long bangs and pull, like his head was on a leash, like his neck might snap.

"Don't leave me," Brian said. "I need you."

"I want to explore the world on my own."

He turned back toward her. "Just like that?"

"Yeah."

Frustrated, Brian threw out his arms. "But I try so hard to make you happy!"

The wind blew in gusts, whipping Bridget's braid into her cheek. She yelled, producing her own current of air. "I need to get out of this town and do something with my life!"

"Life is life, Bridget! You don't do something to it; it does something to you."

"My God! If that's how you feel, then we shouldn't be together!"

Sensing tension, Farah barked and circled the two of them, nipping at Bridget's heels.

"You can't just leave!" Brian's voice was full of broken glass. "You promised to love me forever!"

At that moment, Farrah, crazy from the conflict and from withdrawal of her favorite song, sank her teeth into Bridget's ankle. Bridget reeled back and fell, hitting her head on a rock as she landed.

Farrah bit down further. "Farrah, stop!" Brian cried, but it was no use.

The clouds had suddenly cleared and the stars and the moon swirled before Bridget's eyes. Brian threw himself over Bridget, finally removing Farrah's teeth from Bridget's flesh. With his face above hers, Bridget was able to slur a few final words before passing out.

"Maybe I won't stay with you forever, but I promise you this: I will have that dog put down."

"Now why would you say that? Why would you hurt me like that, Bridget?"

Unconscious now, Bridget couldn't answer. But Brian knew that she didn't love him, at least not how he loved her. Yet when he thought about tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, he saw himself with Farrah. Taking her for walks. Playing fetch. Listening to her favorite song.

"Get her, girl." Brian said.

She was such a smart dog. Somehow Farrah just knew what needed to be done. Brian barely flinched as Farrah sank her teeth into Bridget's throat.

****

"Rocky!"

I startle back to consciousness, open my eyes, and see Nick's face above mine.

'You must have been having a bad dream." His expression is all scrunched up and concerned, like I'm the war casualty and he's my hot nurse. "You were making scared grunting noises."

I sit up, already soothed simply by his presence. "Wow." I rub my forehead, still able to see Bridget's gruesome murder when I close my eyes. "For the first time in like, fifteen years, I had this recurring nightmare from back when I was a teenager. It's about a girl who maybe got killed at the cairns, but nobody knew for sure, so I tried to figure it out in my dreams, you know?"

Nick slowly shakes his head. "Sorry, but you lost me." He tucks a lock of my hair back behind my ear. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I yawn and stretch, willing myself to feel normal. "I think I'm just really hungry. Let's eat, and then I should pack." I get up.

"Wait a second." Nick pulls me close and kisses my forehead. "I love you."

"I love you too. But I'm starving." Nick follows me as I head toward the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and find it empty. "What happened to the chicken salad?"

A guilty smile broadens Nick's cheeks. "I ate it last night?"

"Why are you phrasing that as a question?"

He shrugs. "The upward inflection makes me sound less guilty?"

"Hmpff." I open our cabinets. There's a can of tuna, but we have neither mayonnaise nor bread. "Guess I should have gone to the store."

"I can run out and pick something up. What do you want?"

A resounding "Nothing!" is about to pass from my lips because I want to stay mad. But he is so cute, standing here with his tie loosened and his brown hair ruffled that I relent. "How about a take-and-bake pizza?"

Nick smiles. "Pepperoni?"

"Sure."

He goes toward the entryway, grabs his car keys from the little table we have by the door, but stops before he goes out the door. "Hey? What time does your plane take off tomorrow?"

I had already gone toward our bedroom to start packing, but I pause in the hallway. "Early – at around 7:00 a.m. With the time change, it will be almost noon before my plane gets in. Then I have to rent a car and drive for a couple hours, so it's going to be a long trip."

"Do you want me to take you to the airport?"

"Sure, but we'll have to leave at around 5:00. Is that okay?"

"How else are you going to get there?"

"A taxi, I guess."

The way Nick shifts his weight and grimaces, I can tell I've played this wrong. "What is it?" I ask.

"I just don't understand why you're dropping everything, and going to so much trouble, for a friend you haven't seen in years." He reaches out one hand like he wants to grab something, but settles for scratching the back of his neck instead. "Meanwhile," he says softly, "I would have really liked having you along at Phil's party."

"Sorry." I come toward him, erasing the physical space between us, and give him a hug. It doesn't seem like the most appropriate action at the moment, but I don't know what else to do. He sort of hugs me back.

"Nick, do you believe in ghosts?"

Nick leans back and stares at me with his earnest brown eyes, which only widen in sincerity at my abrupt question. "I don't know. Do you?"

I don't know either. I've lost a boyfriend and my mother; death took each of them much too soon and neither ever tried to get in touch afterwards. Or, if they had, I'd been oblivious to their efforts. But I like to believe in the possibility of life after death, just like I like to believe in the possibility of winning the lottery, even if I never buy a ticket.

"I _doubt_ that ghosts exist," I say, which is the truth. "But I really don't know for sure, and that's part of the reason I have to go."

Nick straightens himself, standing at his full height, and jingles his car keys. "I'm not even going to pretend to understand."

I tug his shoulders so he can't pull away. "There's a story."

He sideways squints. "What's the story?"

"People say that Tristan's cousin killed his girlfriend, back in the 80s. One night she ran off to the cairns, he followed her, but she never returned. It's hard to explain, but when I was at those cairns, I felt like she could be haunting them."

"The cairns?"

"Those stone structures near the camp where I worked?"

Nick nods. "And the girl who haunts them supposedly died in the 80s?"

"Yes."

"Did her ghost wear poofy hair and leg warmers?"

I roll my eyes. "You're joking about murder."

"No, I'm joking about the 80s. If any decade deserves mockery, it's that one."

"Point taken." I smooth out the wrinkles of his blue dress shirt, tickled that I get to stroke his chest in the process.

"You never finished telling me about your summer there," he says. "What exactly happened?"

I take the car keys from his hand and put them back on the little table by our door. "Let's order a pizza instead. This story might take a while."

# Sixteen Years Ago

Tristan pulled me aside one night after dinner, right outside the dining hall. Campers who had just finished their meal ran past us, out onto the rolling hills of the grounds and the lush yard in its perfect, bucolic setting. "Conrad wants me to meet him later. Can you cover for me?"

It was Tristan's and my turn to supervise game night. "I guess, but I thought you weren't interested in him."

She flicked her head to the side, a gesture that was neither a nod nor a shake. "I like to keep my options open."

"What do you mean? What options?"

Her gaze was apprehensive, focused on a patch of dirt in an otherwise perfect green lawn. "I said I'd meet him to get Riley off my back. She won't stop talking about how great Conrad and I would be together." Tristan turned away, as if the conversation was closed. I walked with her, but a sense of isolation settled over me. She was my only friend at Grayson, and she understood this world and was a part of its mysteries in a way that I never, ever would. But I couldn't reveal my desperate fear that she might abandon me to hang out with Riley, so I kept my voice light.

"Why? What did she say?"

"Nothing – just that I have to go. That I'm lucky, and all the girls will hate me for blowing an opportunity that they would kill for." Tristan ran her hand through her dark hair, which was curling in the humidity. "She made it sound like I wouldn't just be rejecting Conrad; I'd also be rejecting her. And I don't want Riley mad at me."

We were outside the arts building by now, and rehearsal for the variety show was just beginning. The sound of campers doing their vocal warm ups and the ping of a piano wafted out, but otherwise, Tristan and I stood in relative privacy. The late afternoon sun was tame while a gentle breeze brushed the back of my neck. "Since when do you care what Riley thinks?"

Tristan's eyes were fixed on the flagpole in the center of the courtyard. Somehow she managed to chew her lip and speak at the same time. "It's not just her; it's all of them. But she's the ringleader and if she sets everyone against you, you're as good as dead. That's why I've been protecting you, so you won't be her next target."

Her words felt like swallowing a golf ball. I sort of coughed out my response. "You think they'd target me?"

Suddenly Tristan's eyes met mine and I felt the zing of her intensity. "You have no idea what they're capable of," she said. "They can ruin your life if they want to."

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" I laughed, trying to relieve the awkwardness pressing between us but Tristan didn't smile in return.

"No, I'm not."

She launched into this story about last semester at school. A pretty exchange student from Venezuela had caught the eye of the boy Riley was dating, so Riley led a campaign to ruin her. She threw a party in her honor and fed her brownies laced with acid.

"This girl was _tripping out_ and Riley put her in her dorm room and got three different guys from the lacrosse team to go in, and you know, take a turn with her?"

I swallowed hard. "They raped her?"

"Yeah, and it gets worse. Riley filmed the whole thing and played it on the TVs in the student lounge. The girl went back to Venezuela the very next day and Riley had effectively eliminated her competition."

"That's the worst thing I've ever heard," I said. "I can't believe Riley got away with it."

Tristan stepped away. "I know."

That gentle summer breeze experienced a sudden growth spurt, and with a gust, tore down a poster advertising the variety show that hung from the notice board outside. I reached to pick it up. "Do you think tonight has anything to do with you joining the Ds.?"

Tristan twisted her face and rolled her eyes. "No!" Her voice was suddenly loud in its boisterous protestation, competing with the wind. "I'm the last person they'd want to initiate. I don't know what it's about, but I have to find out. So will you cover for me? Please?"

I couldn't say no, even though the word was ready to jump off my tongue. "Yeah, of course," I managed.

"Thank you!" Tristan gave me a tight hug. "I won't be out late. But if it's after 11:00 and I'm still not back, you can send out a search party."

****

I led the campers through Pictionary and Trivial Pursuit Junior on my own. Then I walked back to the bunkhouse, also on my own, slightly spooked by how quiet it was. I was even more spooked by the quiet once I went to bed, tossing and turning but not finding sleep. By 12:30 Tristan still wasn't back. Though I told myself I was just going for a walk to clear my head, I knew that in reality I was looking for Tristan.

It was so dark, even with my flashlight. I traipsed over the path Tristan and I had taken to the cairns several days ago. The night was cloudy and the wind hadn't let up, but there were no storms. Still – every time I heard a branch creak or the wind rustling the leaves, I wondered if it was Bridget's ghostly cry.

Finally I reached the cairns, and this time the light that escaped from inside was unmistakable. It was faint, like there were lanterns lining the courtyard, and I could hear chants. I walked on, scared but consumed with curiosity. Once I was close enough to witness the goings on, I stood behind a large stone and peered around.

Girls were dressed in sheets, wearing clear masks that blurred their faces into a disturbing nothingness. They stood in a circle, holding hands like they were playing ring-around-the-rosy. Tristan was in the middle, wearing a toga, a blindfold, a wreath of leaves and twigs on her head, and a rope around her neck. Conrad stood behind her, with a dirty, torn sheet tied around his waist, looking very _Last of the Mohicans_. He held the other end of the noose that had been draped over Tristan's shoulders, and he seemed poised, ready to pull it.

Abruptly, someone clapped, and that was the signal for all the girls, except Tristan, to run and dance, wildly and energetically, toward a pile of sticks off by the stone chamber. The girls gathered the sticks, came back to the circle, and threw them at Tristan. Nobody seemed to notice or care that she was wincing and crying each time a stick hit her. Someone pressed the play button on a boom box. That song from the 80s, _(You Made Me) Promises, Promises_ began to play.

When they ran out of sticks the head-girl spoke and I recognized Riley's voice. She talked over the music.

"Pledge, you have violated nature's design. Woman is created to soothe, to support, to nurture growth. Our selfish desires cannot compete, and because you battle against this truth you will pay the price and fulfill your original promise"

She spoke to Conrad. "Sir, it is time to claim your offering."

Then Riley began a new chant and the others joined. _Pay the price. Fulfill the promise. Pay the price. Fulfill the promise. Pay the price..._ Amid their cries, Conrad yanked on Tristan's noose and she fell to the ground. Then he got on top of her.

I was sure I'd puke, but when I opened my mouth a scream came out instead. "Stop!!!"

They did stop. The music was turned off. The chanting ceased. Conrad rolled off Tristan and she sat up.

"Robin?" she called, unsure. "What are you doing here?"

I stepped out from behind my rock. "He was about to rape you."

Even in the relative darkness I could see Riley's nostrils flare. "Who invited the rube?"

"I didn't invite her!" Tristan's voice was high-pitched and frantic. "I had no idea she'd come."

I was nearly hyperventilating and getting my words out was a challenge. "You said... that if you weren't back by 11:00...to call out a search party!"

"That was a joke. I didn't mean it."

My face burned as I realized that a dozen or so of the most intimidating Grayson girls were staring at me with embers for eyes. "What was I supposed to do? He was about to rape you."

"I wasn't raping her!" Conrad sounded like I'd deeply offended him. Oh, and during the ritual he'd ripped off his loincloth, so now he was naked. "I'm just playing a part."

"It sure looked like you were raping her." I turned to Tristan. "Come on, let's go."

Tristan bit her lip and creased her forehead. She was trying to be diplomatic, but why?

"I'm sorry I worried you Robin. I didn't realize it earlier, but tonight is my initiation into the Ds. We were doing the ceremony with the reenactment of Bridget Samuel's murder."

"I don't understand."

Riley's tone was unmistakably angry. "She plays dead, he claims her, but since he can't actually kill her, he has sex with her instead. Get it?"

"No, I don't 'get' it. Your initiation ritual is sick." I speak to Tristan. "You _wanted_ your first time to be like this?"

Riley laughs. "Tristan told you she's a virgin, and you _believed_ her? You're even more gullible than I thought!"

"But..." I stammered. "Tristan, come on. Don't do this. We should go."

Riley stepped between us. "You're half right. You should go. You should never have been here in the first place. And unless you want us to hurt you, you need to leave right now and forget about everything you've seen and heard."

Tristan's voice was husky. "Sorry, Robin, but you do need to go, now. And you can't tell anyone."

What could I possibly say? Okay, there was a ton I could say, but I was too shocked and scared to form the words _this is a huge mistake_. I felt like all the stones in the cairns were chained to my ankles, but I turned away from the craziness and from the one friend I'd thought I'd made at Grayson Farms.

Once I was around fifty feet away, I heard the ceremonies resume. Riley's voice rang out. "Enter the conjugal chamber."

There was the sound of stone scraping against stone. I imagined Conrad and Tristan entering a small cave made from hundreds of large rocks piled on top of each other, which was normally closed off with a boulder. _They keep it closed off because they don't want anyone in there,_ Tristan had told me. _They say Bridget's remains lie beneath it._

I couldn't abandon my friend. I snuck back, careful not to step on twigs or to make any noise.

The chamber had been opened and Tristan and Conrad were going in to play a super-twisted version of seven minutes in heaven. This was like a highway accident that I couldn't look away from.

All the other girls sat in a circle, as if they were meditating. At first Conrad's and Tristan's cries were soft, and the girls laughed, sure that they were grunts of pleasure. But it didn't take long for the soft cries to turn to petrified screaming, and then the terror was unmistakable.

I rushed from my hiding spot up to the stone chamber.

"Hey!" Riley shouted at me. "You were supposed to go!"

I burst through their circle and pushed at the boulder that trapped Conrad and Tristan inside. Their cries caused a visceral reaction in me worse than nails on the chalkboard. "We need to get them out!"

"You're messing up the initiation!" said Riley.

"I don't care! Can't you hear how scared they are?"

Two of the girls had a heart, because they helped me move the boulder aside to set Tristan and Conrad free. Tristan emerged, white-faced and wide eyed, and I quickly found a discarded sheet and covered her up.

"What happened?" I asked.

Her lips stayed glued together. I turned to Conrad, trying to look only at his face and not at his nakedness. "What made you guys scream?"

He curled his mouth, but his enlarged pupils and quick, shallow breaths told a different story than the one he spewed out. "I wasn't scared. It was her. She freaked out on me, and I only yelled because she's such a cock-tease."

"You're all Goddamn morons," Riley cried. "You all fucked it up. I mean, seriously, is anyone here capable of being an adult, of not screaming like a Goddamn pussy?" She closed her eyes, wincing like she had a headache. "Turn the Goddamn music off!"

It was only then that I realized it. _Promises, Promises_ had been turned back on. One of Riley's lackeys got up and went to turn it off. But no matter how many times she pressed the "stop" button, the music kept playing.

****

Tristan was silent on the walk back to camp, save a low moan vibrating from the back of her throat, sort of like radio static because her mind couldn't seem to settle on a station. I had to help her step around trees and over rocks because she was shaking. As soon as we were on Grayson's grounds, I took her straight to the medical center and rang for the nurse, waking her up at 2:00 a.m..

"I think she's in shock," I said.

The nurse asked her what happened, and in a daze, Tristan told her everything. "There was something in there with us, inside that tomb," Tristan said in a trance-like voice. 'It was angry."

Nobody believed, or cared, about that part. She'd offered concrete descriptions of the secret society that Grayson Farms had been trying for decades to abolish. She gave names. Thus, Grayson's secret society was no longer a secret, and Riley, Conrad, and the rest of their crew would suffer the consequences.

But that would be nothing compared to the consequences that Riley and Conrad had planned for Tristan.

# Wednesday, 5:00 PM

It takes me all day to get to the coastal town where Tristan lives. I fly into Boston, rent a car, travel up to the cottage, and try to enjoy the drive by taking in the fall foliage and New England charm. Though it seems different than I remember, I expect that I've changed more than New England has.

Eventually I reach my destination. I drive through the downtown, which is filled with salt-water-taffy shops, hunting and fishing stores, and a community theater. Its billboard reads "Performances this weekend! Don't miss _Godspell!_ "

Finally, there's a winding road, full of vacation cottages along the shore. I hang a left into 4528 Ambrose Lane and pull into the gravel driveway. I turn off the ignition, unbuckle my seatbelt, and then I just sit there. All day long I've been willing the journey to take longer. I'm just not sure if I'm ready for this.

I see movement around the edges of my line of vision. I turn my head and realize that Tristan has come through the cottage's front door. She's walking down the front steps to greet me.

I get out of the car and hug my old friend.

"Hey, you," I say as I lock her in an embrace. She's sort of short and I'm pretty tall, so I kiss the top of her head. After a moment she pulls away.

"My God, Robin. It is _so_ good to see you." She gives me the once over. "The years have treated you well! You're gorgeous!"

I never know how to respond to compliments, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. "Thanks, you too!" It sounds empty but it's not. Maybe she's had Botox; I really can't be sure, but her face is as youthful as it was when we were sixteen. Only now, it's on the body of a woman who obviously takes spin class, who must get her dark hair styled at the best salon in town, and knows how to accentuate her hazel eyes with the highest quality eyeliner and mascara.

"You must be tired after such a long trip," says Tristan.

"Not really," I reply. "I've been sitting all day and the fresh air feels great. Before you show me the cottage, how about we walk down to the shore?"

"Yeah, of course." She extends her hands out toward the beach, which is also sort of her backyard. "Right this way."

We walk up the path that runs sideways to her house, open the gate that's attached to the white picket fence, and travel the short distance over her lawn, which quickly turns to rocks and water. The clouds and the sky are both gray, making the line between shore and sky hard to distinguish.

"Wow, Tristan. This is quite the location. What's it like living so close to the ocean? Do you take it for granted?"

The wind is whipping her hair into her face and she brushes it away. "I suppose, but I must love it, or I wouldn't stay."

"So you're not planning to sell?"

She shakes her head no. "When my cousin Brian left me both the cottage and the factory, my first thought was unloading them both. I didn't think I could stay here, not when people are bound to talk. But then I moved in, and I guess it just felt right. Like I'm meant to settle an old score." Her eyes meet mine and I see that she really hasn't changed: same wise expression, same unlined face, save a few laugh lines here and there. Or are the lines from frowning?

"I think you need to follow your gut."

"Hah!" Tristan tilts her face toward the sky, letting the wind fan her hair into something like a veil. "Following my gut has always gotten me into trouble. That's why I need you; you can do the thinking for me."

I look out at the waves, feeling small in the presence of such power. "I'm not that great at rational decisions, you know." I step in close and give her shoulder a squeeze. "But I'll do my best." I examine her, trying to figure out her dimensions with my eyes rather than a tape measure. "So I brought a couple of wedding gowns that we can look at tomorrow, and I'll redesign them into the perfect dress for you. You're so tiny that there will be more than enough fabric."

Tristan glances down at her chest, which is as ample as ever. "Will there be enough fabric to cover these?"

"Why cover them? Let's show them off!"

She laughs uneasily. "We wanted everything to be modest, including my dress."

"Why?"

Tristan scowls. "We really love each other, so it shouldn't matter what everyone says, but it's just..." she shakes her head like she's shaking off a thought. "You'll understand soon enough. I made dinner reservations for tonight. I was thinking you could tell him everything then."

I return the smile Tristan is giving me, a smile I only just now realized I've missed. "Okay, but before we tell him the story, let's go over the details one more time. I don't want to get anything wrong."

Yes, I think she's had Botox. Tristan's eyes obscure with gloom, yet as her grin fades, her forehead doesn't move at all. "Okay. Let's go inside."

# Sixteen Years Ago

Conrad and Riley knew how to hold a grudge and they seethed at the injustice of being put on probation, which meant they had to check in with a supervisor twice a night for an entire week. Also, there came a mandate that any future involvement in a secret society would result in removal from Old Grayson Farms. "It's the principle of the thing," Riley kept saying. "Years and years of tradition have been destroyed."

That said, I was barely worth their time. Sure, they blamed me for messing up their initiation ritual, but the worst I had to endure were giggles and whispers as I sat in the dining hall, or finding that my clothes had "accidentally" been tossed in the lake during swimming practice. Minor league stuff.

This wasn't the case with Tristan. Technically, she was the one who told, so she was the one to blame.

Any romance that had been going on between Conrad and Tristan was over. "My dick was in her mouth," he told a group one night around the fire pit, "and she started yelling and seizing. I thought she was going to bite it off." Everyone laughed and congratulated him on his safe escape.

"Conrad says your pussy smells like putrid salmon," Riley taunted one day as Tristan was changing in the shower room. "You might want to use some extra soap down there."

Tristan gained a nickname. Everyone called her Twisted. Guys would clear a path whenever she walked by, as if she might lash out and castrate them with her teeth. Girls were worse. They would talk about her as if she wasn't in the room, as if she couldn't hear them call her a deranged white trash slut.

But the worst was when Riley said she'd found graffiti by the girl's shower room, graffiti I was sure she'd written herself. It read, _Tuesday will be my judgment day. I will go and I will take all of you with me_. Riley insisted that she'd seen Tristan write it, that Tristan was planning a mass-shooting of the entire camp, and she was persuasive enough to get Tristan questioned by the guidance counselor on site. Nobody could prove anything, but Tristan was required to get seventy-five hours of mental health services.

"You should set the record straight," I told her. "Tell them what actually happened."

We were in the bunkhouse during dinnertime because neither of us could stomach another meal with those people. Tristan gnawed at a Twizzler from a pack she had bought the other day in town. "I have. I've told anyone who'd listen about the evil presence I felt that night. But otherwise, I don't even know what happened."

"What about the stuff nobody can deny?" I counted off on my fingers. "One: you changed your mind about having sex with Conrad. Two: you tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn't until you started yelling. Three: it was hard to breathe inside the cairns, which made your head hurt and Conrad started yelling too. I'll tell everyone myself."

Tristan threw her Twizzler to the side and collapsed on her bunk, staring up at the ceiling. "Nobody cares about what you have to say," she said. "I'm not trying to be mean, but you're almost as big an outcast as me."

I silently contemplated how badly everyone sucked. Then I reached for the pack of Twizzlers, separated a rope from the rubbery red block, and took a vicious bite. Part of me wished I could do the same thing to Conrad and finish the job Tristan had supposedly started. "There's a party tonight. I think we should go, and I can at least try to tell your side of things."

Tristan didn't respond; she just stared at the ceiling. I was about to repeat myself when finally she said, "Do you think Hunter will be there?"

She hadn't mentioned him since that time she'd said he was interested in me. "I'm not sure." Would his presence at the party make her more or less likely to attend? "Probably he'll be there."

Tristan let out a long, wistful breath. "Fine."

"Really? So you'll go?"

She sat up. "Sure. We're going to be miserable either way, so what's the point of hiding?"

The party was like all the other parties at camp. There was a bonfire and people stood around, drinking beer, passing around spliffs, and keeping one eye open for any adult supervisors who might happen by.

Nobody made rude comments when Tristan and I arrived. But she immediately spotted Hunter and he offered us beer and a hit of his joint. I drank lukewarm Miller from a red plastic cup, trying to convince myself that it didn't taste awful. Tristan gulped hers down and she also smoked, taking deep drags and holding them in.

Conrad and Riley stood together, arms draped over each other. They may as well have been alone; they kept laughing, whispering in each other's ears, and kissing. Meanwhile, Hunter was going on about the haunted legends of the cairns. "Did you know that people travel from all over to see them?" he asked me. Then he turned to Tristan. "But you've never had to travel to the cairns. I bet you wish that they were further away."

"What makes you say that?" Tristan asked.

Hunter shrugged, nonchalant. "I hear rumors." Kindness flickered across his face "But I think Riley and Conrad are liars."

Tristan took a long swig from her beer, so when she spoke, her voice sounded husky. "Oh yeah? Why?"

"Because they can't prove anything." The smile he gave her was nearly malignant. " Hey. How about we go to the cairns and confront whatever it was that scared you in the chamber?"

Tristan went sort of pale. "I dunno."

"Wouldn't you feel better if you did? Maybe your nightmares would stop."

She stared, unblinking, into his eyes. "What makes you think I'm having nightmares?" She pressed her index finger into the center of his chest. "Have you been watching me sleep?"

"Um..." Hunter could barely respond. "No, of course not. I'm not a stalker."

Tristan looked away, as if suddenly ashamed. She spoke to Hunter without looking at him. "Let's go." She took Hunter's hand and started pulling.

"Really? Like, right now?" Hunter's voice trembled with surprise.

"No time like the present."

"I'll come too!" I said, maybe a little too loud, a little too boisterous.

Hunter shot me a dirty look that Tristan didn't notice. "That's okay, Robin," she said, "we might be really late."

Truth was, I would have rather have been in bed, reading my paperback copy of _Rebecca_ by flashlight. Still, I couldn't just let Tristan self-destruct. "It's awfully dark and I think it's supposed to storm. Maybe we should all just rain-check it."

"I don't believe in rain checks," Tristan said. "I'll be right back, Hunter. I'm going to get my flashlight and umbrella. Meet you at the turn-off?"

Before he could answer, she ran off. Hunter started walking toward the path that led to the turn-off, toward the forest and toward the cairns. I followed him. "This is a bad idea," I said. "Don't go."

"No way. I've been waiting all summer for something interesting to happen. It's obviously not going to be with you, but Tristan is even better."

"She thinks you're a decent human being." I stood in front of him, hands on my hips. "So if you're just hoping for a funny story to tell tomorrow morning..."

"She thinks I'm decent?" Hunter's mouth fell open slightly, like I'd just paid him the highest of compliments. "I can't believe she even thinks about me at all."

I felt like snapping my fingers in front of his face, to break him from his daze. "Hey! This is still a bad idea." But one look at Hunter's hopeful eyes and I knew my cause was lost. "At least be careful," I said.

"Here I am!" Tristan was practically skipping towards us, waving a flashlight in one hand and an umbrella in the other. "Ready?" she said to Hunter.

"Definitely," he replied.

I couldn't let Tristan go back to the cairns without my protection; the mere idea gave me goosebumps. "Tristan, please. At least let me come too." I hated how I sounded, so whiny and clingy, like I needed this.

She scowled and then whispered fiercely into my ear. "Don't ruin this for me!"

I stepped back and let her go, though my heart sank to my stomach. I watched them walk off; Tristan giggled and made jokes and Hunter put his hand on the small of her back. Yet I'll also admit that I was relieved to turn around and walk to the bunkhouse, where I read until I was sleepy. Then I went to bed. Again I was alone, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, while everyone else was partying and having a good time.

I don't know how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been very long. I had drifted off and Tristan was shaking me awake, her hands clutching my shoulder with an urgency I'd never felt. "Robin!" Her whisper was powerful. "Robin, wake up!"

I opened my eyes, shocked at how white Tristan's face was in the dark. "What's wrong?"

She bit her lower lip and silent tears fell. "Hunter is hurt."

I bolted up. "What? How?"

"When we got to the cairns I heard something, something scary, so I swung around and accidently hit Hunter in the face with my umbrella. Then he fell and hit his head against the rocks." She hiccupped, crying. "I tried to rouse him, but he just laid there. He's too heavy for me to drag back on my own."

"We need to call 911!" I didn't have a cell phone, but Tristan did. I hopped down from my bed. "Where's your phone?"

"No!" she cried. "We have to go back."

"What? Why?"

"To see if he's okay. If he isn't, we can carry him."

"Tristan, that's crazy. We need to call for help."

She spoke in a stormy, urgent hush, her eyes like two big Frisbees ready for liftoff. "Nobody can know, okay? I can't be blamed for one more bad thing."

"But Tristan..."

"Please, Robin!" She grabbed both of my arms, digging her nails into my skin. "I need you to help me fix this. If you're truly my friend, then you will."

We heard distant voices: drunken, giggly voices that could easily turn vicious if they smelled nearby prey.

"Okay," I told her. I still couldn't see her logic but there was no reasoning with Tristan in this moment. We slipped out the back of the bunkhouse, so Riley and the others wouldn't catch us. There was the low rumble of thunder as we trekked in the dark, back to where Tristan had taken Hunter.

Twigs crunched beneath my feet, and I kept tripping over tree branches and rocks. Soon fat raindrops fell, plastering my hair to my forehead and clinging to my eyelashes. Tristan walked ahead of me, and once we were far enough away from camp, she took out her flashlight to guide us.

She said nothing. She just walked, zombie-like, her gaze unmoving, and the arm that didn't hold her flashlight was limp by her side. Once we were back at the cairns, I braced myself to see my first dead body. Or worse, to see my first ghost.

"Where is he?" I asked. "It's too dark to see."

"I think he's over here," Tristan replied, shining her flashlight towards the stone chamber that she'd been in with Conrad.

All I saw was a bunch of rocks.

She found her umbrella, wedged between two large, flat, semi-round stones. But no matter how many times Tristan traced the landscape with the ray of her flashlight, Hunter was nowhere to be found.

Tristan was practically in a trance. I had to tug on her arms and pull her back to camp. "What should we do?" she kept repeating. "What should we say?"

"Let's just go back," I said. "Then I'll sneak over to his bunkhouse and make sure he's alright."

Tristan and I parted ways once we made it back to Grayson, her to the girl's bunkhouse, and me to the boys. All was quiet, and I realized that I was a terrible spy that had no plan. The rain had lifted but I was still soaking wet, peeking into a window, trying to identify which bed was Hunter's and whether or not he was in it. Then somebody tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I turned and found myself face to face with Conrad.

"Why are you always snooping in places where you don't belong?" he asked.

I tried to take on an air of camaraderie. He and I were in this together. "To be fair, I'm not _always_ doing that. There have only been two times but you just happened to witness them both."

"What do you want?" He thrust his broad chest right in front of my face. It was hard not to think about seeing him naked, and then I hoped it was dark enough that he couldn't see me blush.

I couldn't come up with a good lie so I resorted to hinting at the truth. "Is Hunter in there?"

"Why? Are you into him? I saw you two leaving the party at the same time."

"What difference does it make? I just want to know if he's in there." I almost finished my statement with _and if he's okay_ , but I bit my lower lip and gulped down any more incriminating words.

Conrad flicked his grungy blond bangs out of his eyes. "Yeah, he's in there, but he's passed out. You must have gotten him pretty wasted."

"Yeah..." I stopped shifting my weight and squared my shoulders. "Look, I'm kind of worried about him. We were at the cairns and he fell and hit his head. He should probably get it looked at."

"You were at the cairns with Hunter?" Conrad glowered. "After what happened there the last time, why would you mess with him like that?"

"What do you mean? I thought you said nothing happened, that Tristan was just freaking out."

Conrad's eyes narrowed into two little slits. "I'll tell Hunter you're worried about him."

He started to walk away.

"No! Wait! I'm serious. We need to get Hunter examined for a head injury."

He pivoted back and leered at me. " _We_ don't need to do anything. If Hunter was able to walk back here on his own, then he's fine. Leave him alone and let him sleep it off."

"Don't you realize that he could slip into a coma..."

Conrad whistled through his teeth. "You're just as crazy as your friend. Where is Twisted, anyway?"

"She's asleep in the bunkhouse."

"I'm surprised you're brave enough to go out without her. I thought you two were tied at the hip."

From the corner of my eye I saw something dark scuttling across the ground, near my feet. Maybe it was a rat, or perhaps a snake? I started, distracted and spooked, which gave Conrad time enough to walk away. I spoke to his back. "If anything bad happens to Hunter, it's on you."

Conrad gave me a backwards wave, clearly a dismissal.

I should have pursued it. I should have insisted on seeing Hunter, but I longed for my bed. I longed to fall into what I was sure would be a restless sleep. I longed to wake up to daylight, to morning, to a new day that wasn't still this night.

Well, morning came, but with a cost. "What if he's not at breakfast?" Tristan said as we walked to the dining hall. "Or even worse, what if he is?"

The only answer I could offer provided no comfort. "I don't know."

We stood in line for bacon and French toast, peering around, trying to be subtle while looking for Hunter. Yet there was no tall frame, no sloped shoulders, no head of slick brown hair tilted down, his eyes on his bowl of oatmeal. "This is ridiculous," I decided. "I'm just going to ask Conrad."

I found Conrad at his usual table, making dirty jokes and pouring mini bag after mini bag of Frosted Flakes into his mouth. When I sat down next to him he choked in surprise, and a sugar-coated corn flake flew from his mouth and landed on my shoulder. I flicked it away. "How's Hunter?" I asked.

"Man, you really have a thing for him, don't you?"

"Is he still in bed? Is he awake?"

Conrad rolled his eyes. "Go see for yourself. Last I saw, he was headed for the lake. Said he wanted a morning swim."

I got up without saying anything, found Tristan, and led her out of the dining hall. "This is our chance to talk to Hunter alone," I said. "We can clear up any misunderstanding and apologize."

Tristan followed, silent and obedient, as I made huge, brisk steps towards Grayson beach. The morning sun wasn't overbearing; instead it lit the dew drops and made the lake glitter with promise. Hunter stood on the dock, his back to the light, and it hurt to look at him. But I couldn't look away.

"He's not going to dive in there, is he?" said Tristan. "The water is way too low."

"No. He couldn't. He knows better."

But he prepared his body, tilting back and lurching forward, and it became clear that diving was exactly what he planned to do. "Hunter, stop!" Tristan yelled.

Either he was too far away to hear us or it was too late. Hunter dove head first into the shallow lake, and somehow the lack of water swallowed him whole. Tristan and I ran, and then we did the crawl stroke, towards the spot where Hunter would be. Tristan submerged her face first, but it wasn't hard for either of us to see him: sinking toward the bottom, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, his neck arched into a jagged V.

After Tristan and I dragged him from the water, Tristan performed mouth to mouth while I ran to call an ambulance. Hunter was rushed to the hospital and his parents were called immediately. While they waited to find out their son's fate, they kept asking: "How could this happen?"

The only person bold enough to answer was Conrad. He put the pieces of the story together, and soon his version was accepted as truth.

If I hadn't led Hunter on, hit him in the head and left him to die in the haunted cairns, he wouldn't have been so disoriented the next morning. That's why he dove into shallow water and it's also why he'd be spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

"I'll tell everyone it was me who took him to the cairns," Tristan promised on the day of his fateful dive.

"When?" I demanded.

"I don't know, but soon."

The next morning I was summoned to the camp's main office, where I was met by two policemen. "We need to ask you a few questions," they said. "We'll drive you down to the station."

I thought they were going to arrest me. I pictured myself in juvie, a disappointment to my dad, a tale of a good girl gone bad. The moment they sat me down at the interrogation room, I disintegrated. "I never took Hunter to the cairns," I told them. "It was Tristan. Hunter fell, hit his head against the rocks, and Tristan didn't know how to help him. I swear—that's all I know."

I felt terrible for throwing her under the bus and even worse for what I did next. I called my father and told him everything. I said that I was miserable and I begged him to let me come home. He bought me a ticket for the next day.

"You're abandoning me?" Tristan didn't even sound mad as she watched me pack. Somehow that was worse than if she'd screamed out her recriminations.

I shoved all my Target t-shirts into my suitcase, making sure to give back the ones Tristan had lent me. "I'm sorry. I have to go home."

She sat on the edge of her bed without moving her head. "You're lucky. This _is_ my home. I can't escape like you can."

"But they won't charge you with anything, right?"

"Maybe they should." She let out a strangled sob. "It's my own stupid fault for taking him there in the first place. Now he's paralyzed and everyone thinks I'm a murderous tease, even worse than my cousin who supposedly killed his girlfriend." Her laugh was a joyless funeral song.

"I don't know what to say."

I looked out through the window and spied the luxuriant Grayson grounds that I'd soon be trading back in for the red-brick public high school where I'd spent most of the last three years. My world was swim practice in chlorinated pools, shopping at Fashion Bug, and Friday night movies with friends. Maybe I'd watch films about rich kids and their dangerous lives, but that's as close as I'd get to living like them.

Tristan flicked away a tear. "Take me with you."

"I wish I could." I bit my trembling lip. "But if you ever need me to come back and tell your side of what happened this summer, all you have to do is call. Just call. I promise that I'll come."

# Wednesday, 8:00 PM

There are three restaurants in the town where Tristan lives: one's Italian, one serves burgers and wings, and one specializes in seafood. We're at the seafood one.

"I wish he had let me pick him up," Tristan says. "All the ice in his martini is melting."

I take a sip of merlot, hoping that it will alleviate my nerves, but it's going to take more than a couple of glasses of wine to do that. I see some movement outside the window and feel guilt and disappoint all at once. I was hoping he just wouldn't show.

"I think your fiancé has arrived," I say to Tristan.

She bolts up and goes to open the door. Hunter enters, using his fully mobile arms to push the wheels of his wheelchair. I wave, but as his hands are occupied, he doesn't wave back.

No matter. They reach the table soon enough, despite having to navigate the fairly tight space between diners and tables.

"Hello, Hunter. It's good to see you."

"Hi, Robin. You look the same."

I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult so I don't say thanks. Hunter immediately takes a healthy swig of the martini Tristan had ordered for him, and in mere seconds his glass is half empty. Tristan says that Hunter, through no real fault of his own, has been a glass-half-empty sort of guy for years.

"So, Robin," Hunter says, his voice already sounding loose and surly with liquor. "It's funny to see you again after all this time. I mean, Tristan never mentioned you once, _ever_ , until the other day, when she said she'd invited you up here for the weekend. What's that about?"

I feel like I'm in an interrogation room, fluorescent lights beating down on me while I wilt under the detective's stare. "I guess we lost touch over the years. But I could never forget Tristan. Camp Grayson was intense and she was my only friend."

" _Intense_ ," repeats Hunter. "Now that's an interesting word."

Tristan rubs Hunter's shoulder in a downward motion that stops at his elbow. "Hon, lighten up. Robin only just got here." She turns her face toward me and it's masked in a conciliatory glaze. "You should tell us all about everything: your dress business, that reality show you were on, and your boyfriend."

"You have a boyfriend?' Hunter asks. "Why didn't you bring him?"

"He had to work."

Hunter twists his face, which is pocked with acne scars. "Too bad. Perhaps things would be less awkward if he was here."

My jaw drops at his blatant rudeness. Luckily, the waitress arrives with our food. I had wanted the lobster, but feared that cracking open the shell and dipping it in butter would look too primitive in front of this couple who, after all this time, are all but strangers. So I ordered the marlin instead.

The waitress puts down a plate of trout in front of Hunter and the same for Tristan. "I hope that's okay," Tristan said. "I remembered you liked it last time."

"I'm totally not in the mood for trout." Hunter's large shoulders rise then fall. "How about we trade, Robin?"

"Umm..."

"Let's consider the facts." His face and voice communicate an unbreakable resolve as if he's been saving up these words for years. "You let me sleep that night, years ago, rather than waking me to make sure I was okay. If you'd only stood up to Conrad, maybe I wouldn't have woken up so disoriented. Maybe I wouldn't have decided to dive into shallow water."

Okay, I guess I can't argue with that. He lost use of his legs; I'm losing a plate of marlin. Silently, I pick up my plate and extend it towards him. He gives me the trout. "And can you bring me another martini?" he asks the waitress. "Make it a double."

# Wednesday, 11:30 PM

"I don't even know what to think!" I clutch my cell phone and speak to Nick in a fierce whisper. "Except that he's _awful_."

"Maybe he was having a bad night," Nick says. "Wasn't he drunk most of the time?"

"My point exactly!"

Nick sighs and I hear the bedsprings squeak underneath his weight. I wish I was in bed next to him, safe and cuddled up underneath our fleece blanket.

"Tristan obviously sees something in him, and isn't the point of this whole trip to support her?"

"Yeah, I suppose." I look around the guest bedroom, which I have to say, is pretty charming. There's a sliding door, which opens up to a deck that looks out onto the ocean. Inside it's cheerfully decorated with red-polka-dotted linens and white-painted wooden furniture. True, the bear rug on the floor is a little creepy, but I'll try to ignore it. "I just don't know why she's with him."

"She must love him."

"Or she feels guilty."

"About what? His accident wasn't her fault, was it?"

I press my fingers to my temple. "I never thought so, but that doesn't mean Tristan believes it. People distort the past all the time."

"Well, I hope tomorrow goes better. But if it doesn't, just come home."

I hold back an exasperated groan. "I can't. I'm making Tristan's wedding dress, remember? They set the date for next week."

"Why so rushed?"

"I don't know. I'll try to get Tristan talking tomorrow."

He sighs. "I guess I'll be going to Phil's party on my own."

I busy myself by brushing the lint off my velvet leggings, resisting the guilt that threatens me. I finished all the outfits for Phil's party before I left, and I'm paying Mari to deliver them and set up the decorations. Everything is in place, except Phil might wonder why I've disappeared and I worry that in a burst of remorse, he'll confess his inappropriateness to Nick's unassuming ears. That would be messy.

"I still say you shouldn't go to his party if you're dreading it so much."

His breathing is soft yet I can still hear the gentle inhale and exhale. "I'll be fine. Except if you're not there, who will I dance with when they play _The Promise_?"

"Huh?"

"You know, by When in Rome?" He waits for my reply but doesn't receive one. "The song that came on at the end of _Napoleon Dynamite_?" He sings a refrain about being sorry and promising to travel the world to make me fall for him.

"Yeah, I guess that sounds familiar. Why are you worried about that song in particular?"

"It's my favorite 80s song."

"Wow. Every day, I learn something new about you." I'd been sitting in the rocking chair but I get up and go to the bed. The chair rocks back and forth with the release of my weight.

"So is it beautiful there?" he asks. "How's the ocean?"

"It's great. Tristan's backyard is the beach. I want to go for a walk along the shore tomorrow and maybe do some sketching. I'd love to come up with new dress ideas."

"What about the cairns? Are you going to visit them too?"

At the mention of the cairns I feel a chill, like an icy finger on my spine. Then I look up and I'm struck dumb. "What?" Nick asks, sensitive to my silence.

"The chair."

"What chair?"

"The rocking chair. It's been rocking on its own for way too long." I watch it rock back and forth, independently, like someone is sitting in it, though obviously nobody is. I get up, go to the chair, and put my hands against the armrests, making it still.

When I step away, I realize I'd been holding my breath.

"Weird," I say to Nick. "It must be some freak thing. Anyway, it's stopped now."

"That's good." There's a pause, where we're both expecting the other to talk next. "Well," he concedes, "it's late and I have work tomorrow. I should go to bed."

"Good night," I tell him. "I love you."

"I love you too. Get some sleep."

I tell him that I will, but I keep expecting the chair to start rocking again, like I'm in some creepy horror movie and next the red polka-dots linens will be oozing out blood. But nothing happens. Still, in the middle of the night when I have to pee, I stay in bed and hold it in.

I'm too scared to walk past that chair again.

# Thursday, 7:30 AM

I wake early, because the need to use the bathroom and dreams of Bridget and the cairns force me up. Tristan sleeps in, so I take my sketch pad and go for a walk. I find a coffee shop with a patio right along the beach. I order a scone and a cappuccino, feeling snug in my fisherman knit cardigan and like a character in a Nancy Meyers film. I'm sketching Tristan's wedding dress, with crisscross straps across the back and a cowl neckline, and I'm trying to figure out how I'll drape it, when a petite young woman with brown hair in a pixie cut comes up behind me. She's been bussing tables and cleaning up, but now she just stands and stares at my work.

I pivot toward her in my seat, feeling awkward. "What do you think?" I ask. "Would you wear a gown like this?"

She smirks. "I would, if I was getting married. Nobody's proposed lately, though."

"You're from here?"

"Yeah. My mom owns this place and I've lived here all my life." She comes around and brazenly sits in the chair opposite me at my table. The dish towel she'd been holding flops down, becoming a limp centerpiece that sits between us. "You're obviously a tourist."

"Yes; I'm just here for a few days." She stares at me with large, dark eyes, and I cross and uncross my legs, trying to figure out how to respond to her intensity. I place down my sketch pad and flip over the cover, so my drawing will be protected. "I'm Robin, by the way."

"Joan." She holds out her hand, which is still damp from holding the dish towel, but otherwise her handshake is firm. "Which cottage are you staying at?"

"Um, it's down Ambrose Lane, right by a boat dock."

Joan smiles in slow motion, the muscles in her face working together to form an expression so satisfied, it borders on sinister. "I had a feeling that's what you'd say. She points toward my sketch pad "Is that going to be Tristan's dress? I hear she and Hunter are engaged."

"How'd you hear that?"

She shrugs. "Small town, news travels fast, and besides, following Tristan's soap opera life is a popular pastime around here."

I trace the rim of my coffee cup with my finger, stalling to find a suitable response. Should I be indignant on my friend's behalf, or should I think of this as a reconnaissance mission?

Reconnaissance. "Why are people so interested in Tristan?"

Joan blows her bangs off her forehead. "One, her cousin was a murderer. Two, that cottage where you're staying is haunted. Three—"

"Wait. Explain the first two to me."

Joan grabs her dish towel and starts folding it into smaller and smaller squares, like origami. "My aunt Bridget lived in that cottage with Tristan's cousin, Brian. It was before I was born, but something really bad happened."

Even though I know the story, I say, "Oh yeah? What?"

Joan is gleeful as she leans forward with wide eyes and launches in, telling the tale of Brian and Bridget, which is similar to the version I'd heard before from Tristan.

However, there are also some striking differences, including a new ghost and some stuff about the family soap factory. When Joan finishes, she leans back, deeply satisfied. I try to take it all in, but I may as well be chewing a piece of dry pot roast. It just won't go down.

"Okay, there's no way you could know all that," I say.

Joan's nostrils instantly flare. "Yes, I could."

"How? You're talking about stuff that happened to Bridget when nobody else was around. You don't know what she was thinking, or what happened between her and Brian before she disappeared."

Joan grabs her towel with both hands and twists it, like she's trying to wring out water. "I know more than you do. I know that Tristan's cousin killed at least two people in that soap factory, and I know that house is haunted. There have been all sorts of stories over the years, just like with the cairns."

I had started to gather up my stuff, but I stop, my fingers relaxing their grip on my sketch pad. "What else do you know about the cairns?"

Her eyes sparkle and her lips are eager to push out another story. "Well, several years ago there was this college couple. On an autumn night, right after Homecoming, they went for a walk to the cairns..."

I sit back down. It's impossible not to listen to another horrific tale. But it can't be true. If this actually happened, how could Tristan possibly ask me to come back?

# Thursday, 8:45 AM

When I return from breakfast, Tristan is up, waiting for me. She'd been watching through the front window and came out as soon as she saw me approach. "I was wondering where you were. Did you go for coffee?"

"How'd you guess?" I hand her the to-go cup I'd bought on my way out, along with a white paper bag. "That coffee shop has delicious lemon white chocolate scones."

"Thanks for bringing me one," Tristan says.

The sun is out, and rather than going inside, we sit on the front steps and lift our faces heavenward, soaking up the last, fledging rays before winter settles in.

"Did you meet Joan?" Tristan asks.

"I did. And she told me some stories."

Tristan laughs, her hazel eyes dancing as she gives me a conspiratorial sideways glance. It reminds me of why we became friends in the first place. "Yeah, Joan loves the sound of her own voice. Did she tell you that her aunt..."

"...was Bridget, your cousin's Brian's girlfriend? And that they lived in this very cottage that you now live in? And how Brian killed Bridget _and_ his grandmother? Yeah, she filled me in." I don't mention the other story, the one about the college couple. Maybe I'm wondering if Tristan will bring it up herself, or maybe I'm just willing it not to be true.

Tristan takes a sip of coffee and the smile falls from her face. "Joan's been spreading these rumors for years. I guess I'm so used to people believing the worst about me that I hardly think about it anymore. But I need Hunter to know the truth before we get married. That's why I hope you'll tell him your version of what happened that summer."

"He can't remember on his own?"

She shakes her head. "Traumatic memory loss. But he's been piecing things together, mostly based off rumors."

I try to cushion my words, but still, they fall from my lips like a brick from a second floor window. "I'm surprised then, that you two are together."

There's a moment of tense silence before she responds. "I think Hunter is lonely," she answers. "He puts up a brave front, but underneath, he's scared of being abandoned."

"Okay." A cold breeze whips past us, promising that winter's on its way. I shiver and wrap my arms tightly over my chest. "I have to ask: why not just get out of here?"

"Because I have to be practical. Before Brian died of stomach cancer, he left me this house and the soap factory, and they're both worth a lot of money. And Hunter has a lot of debt, due to medical bills..." She lets her voice trail and she stares off into the distance, though what she sees, I can hardly imagine. "We've only been living here a few weeks, and he's already heard things. Last weekend he threatened to leave. I need you to change his mind, before he blames me for everything."

"I'll do my best. But Tristan, you and Hunter _could_ just pack up and leave your past behind."

Tristan stares at me with wide, unblinking eyes. "You don't really believe that, do you?" She breaks her gaze and looks down at her Ugg boots, which she uses as slippers. "There's no way of leaving your past behind, Robin. And if you don't confront it, it will murder you in your sleep."

"That's pretty dramatic, don't you think?"

She tilts her head to the side and her dark hair shines reddish as the sun bounces off it. "I promise you that I don't."

# Thursday, 9:00 PM

The electricity has gone out, rain is pouring down in sheets, and the walls of the house rattle in the wind. In the living room, Hunter, bent over in his wheelchair, tries to build a fire that keeps going out.

My fingers are sore from a solid day of cutting and sewing Tristan's wedding dress. Now I sit on the couch, which is the stiff, uninviting kind that I'd never own myself.

"I had a flame a minute ago," Hunter says. "Stupid wood must be damp."

My desire for warmth is greater than my fear of insulting Hunter by stepping in. "It's not the wood," I burst out. "You need to layer it differently. Put the paper and sticks on the bottom and the heavier stuff on top, angled up."

"Right!" Tristan sounds happy. "That's exactly how they taught us to do it in Girl Scouts!"

"You were a Girl Scout?" Hunter scoffs. "That's hard to believe."

"Why?' she says.

"You're not exactly the roughing-it type." His laugh is good-natured as he rearranges the logs and the paper, so the logs are now on top.

I rub my palms together, partly because they're cold, partly because they're itching to build that fire. "Would you like me to try and get it going?"

Hunter says nothing, but lights a match and holds it to the newspaper. The flame grows and we all hold our breath, hoping that this time it will stick.

It doesn't.

The living room remains cold and dark, and as the last flicker of lit paper dies, Tristan lets out a groan. "Robin, _I_ want you to try. Hunter, get out of the way so Robin can build us a decent fire."

Hunter wheels himself over to the spot that's furthest away from where Tristan is sitting. I stand and shuffle over to the fireplace. I take the wood and rearrange it so it forms a sort of tee-pee, with the paper and some twigs in the middle. "That's the Girl Scout way," says Tristan. "I remember that."

"And it's how we did it at Old Grayson Farms" I remark, right as I light the match. The paper and twigs catch quickly, and my chest feels tight as I wait to see if the logs will catch too.

"Hey, I think it might be working," Tristan says. "Good job, Robin."

I'm about to pass it off as luck, to say it was nothing (because that's what a woman must do when a man has just failed) but a noise distracts me. Despite the flame that's now warming the room, my skin goes cold.

"Did anyone just hear that creaking?" I ask. "It sounds like someone is upstairs."

Hunter chuckles. "So you believe the stories?" He leans back in his chair, proud that he can laugh while I cower. "It's an old house, Robin. They make strange noises all the time."

There's another creek, this one louder than the one before, and it's followed by a persistent squeaking, like a floorboard being stepped on again and again, in rhythm.

"I'll go upstairs and check it out," says Tristan. "It's probably nothing."

Hunter doesn't tell her to be careful, doesn't seem at all worried that there might be an intruder up there, ready to jump out and hurt her. "Tristan," I nearly shout. "I'll come with you."

"No, stay down here with Hunter," she says. "I'll be right back." And then she's gone.

The silence she leaves behind is earsplitting. Hunter inhales and the words he releases seem like little bits of paper from a shredding machine. "I know you're here to set the record straight, but it's not necessary. I'm starting to remember what happened that summer."

"And what is that?"

"Tristan lured me to the cairns, hit me in the head, and left me to die."

My blood pressure spikes. "She didn't lure you anywhere. Your fall was an accident, and she came back for you. She was frantic when you weren't there." He remains stone-faced, so I lean forward and speak with fervor. "We tried to stop you from diving into shallow water the next morning, but you couldn't hear us. Then she pulled you from the lake and saved your life."

"But her first instinct was to leave me, just like her cousin left his girlfriend."

I nudge back my growing anger, determined to stay calm. "Then why are you with her in the first place?"

Hunter throws out his arms, gesturing to his wheelchair. "Look at me! What woman is going to want me?"

"Hunter..."

"She sought me out. Called me up, said she wanted to reconnect. I was alone, had never had a girlfriend, and there she was: beautiful, smart, and wealthy, offering to take me away from my shitty little life and pay off all my debt. Of course I said yes."

The flames send out rays of light, which hit Hunter from the side, illuminating his face and giving it a devilish glow. Ironically, this is the least menacing he's seemed since I got here. "But now you want to leave?"

"That girl in the coffee shop told me what happened here, all those years ago," Hunter says. "It makes me scared."

"Scared of ghosts?"

"No," says Hunter flatly. "Scared of Tristan."

Right as I realize that Tristan has been gone for too long, there are footsteps on the stairs. Nobody says anything as she approaches, like we're holding our breath, waiting for the scary part of the movie to happen. Tristan strolls into the living room, toward the fireplace, and reaches out her hands to warm them. She stares at the flames as if hypnotized.

"Well?" I ask. "What was up there?"

"Nothing." She turns away from the fire. "I want a drink, something stronger than wine. Anyone want to join me? Hunter?"

Maybe last night Hunter was a big drinker but tonight he seems to be sticking to soda water. "No thanks," he says.

"Robin?" Tristan asks.

"I'm still working on my glass of wine."

"I poured that for you half an hour ago." She sighs, put out, and heads toward the kitchen. "I guess I'll be drinking alone."

Once she's out of earshot, I turn to Hunter, speaking quickly. "Why are you afraid of Tristan?"

"Because I think she has something to prove, to this town and to everyone who speaks against her, by being with me."

From the other room, there's the clink of ice cubes falling into a cocktail glass. If we can hear that, could she hear us? I resume speaking in a whisper. "That's silly. Tristan doesn't care what people think."

"Yes, she does. She just pretends not to." Hunter leans forward and now his face is in shadows. "Just like she's only pretending to care about me. I don't know what her game is, but I don't want to stay to find out."

Tristan walks back into the room, vodka tonic in hand. "What are you guys talking about?" she asks.

"Nothing," I say. "We were just wondering about that noise upstairs. How did you get it to stop?"

"It was just the rocking chair," says Tristan. "There must have been a draft, but as soon as I touched the chair, the rocking stopped."

"That chair was rocking by itself last night too," I say, feeling like someone just breathed down my neck.

"Do you think it's the ghost of Nana Krum, come to tell us she was turned to soap?" Tristan laughs and speaks to Hunter. "Robin met Joan this morning, and she told her some stories."

Hunter's loud cough is clearly a challenge. "Robin, when are you going to tell me _your_ story? I understand there's something Tristan wants me to know."

So we're pretending our little conversation didn't just happen? I guess I can play along.

"Okay," I say. "I'll tell you everything."

"Or we could just skip to the end," says Hunter. "Is my fiancé a murderer?"

My mouth drops open and the only sound in the room is the crackle of twig and flame. "I don't understand how you can even ask me that," I say. "Tristan is a good person."

Hunter holds out his hands in mock surrender. "Don't get so testy. I never said she wasn't a good person. I just think she might be a murderer."

Tristan's shoulders are shaking, so she crosses her arms, her fingers digging into the skin beneath her sweater. "If that's how you feel Hunter, then you should go."

Nobody says anything and for a moment we just listen to the hissing of the fire, which needs more wood. I get up to add a log.

Hunter speaks to me. "Did you hear about what happened to Riley and Conrad?"

My heart is heavy and it's closing its ears, scared of what's coming next. "What happened to them?"

"They died," Hunter says.

"No." Tristan states her protest with her palm out, like a crossing guard. "Their bodies were never found."

Hunter glares at her. "Their blood was found at the cairns and they were never seen again! I think that's pretty definitive."

"Fine!" cries Tristan. "You're right. It was all me."

"I never said that."

"You don't have to, Hunter. It's what you think; it's what everyone thinks!" She speaks to me in a scary calm voice. "They were here several years ago for Homecoming. After the game there was a party, and they hooked up and went for a walk to the cairns. Nobody ever saw them again, but traces of their blood was found in the same spot where we had our initiation to the Ds, so everyone says I killed them, took their bodies to the soap factory and dissolved them in the potash solution, just like my cousin Brian supposedly did with Bridget."

I feel a wave of nausea mixed with dread. "So Riley and Conrad are the college couple that Joan told me about today?"

"Yes." Tristan crosses her arms over her chest, indignant. "Did she mention that I was in Boston when they went missing and that the police interviewed me and found nothing?"

"No," I squeak. Words are escaping me now, probably because this situation is beyond awkward.

Tristan gets up, goes to the window, and looks out. "I doubt the rain will stop tonight. The power probably won't come on until morning either. I'm going to bed." She turns to Hunter. "Are you coming?"

He swallows so hard that I can see his Adam's apple move up and down. Then, silently, he wheels himself towards the first floor bedroom. Tristan follows.

Neither of them says good night.

I wait until the fire has died down, and then I go upstairs, to the room that used to be Bridget's. Before that it belonged to Brian's grandmother, Nana Krum. I wash up and get into bed, knowing that the prior occupants of this room will haunt my dreams tonight. I just hope their ghosts go easy on me.

But as my eyes grow heavy, I let the visions come.

****

Bridget didn't care for the bedroom she shared with Brian. The fireplace was cold and empty and the rocking chair rocked on its own as if possessed, and that stupid bear rug, with its body spread out flat as a pancake and its head elevated and its mouth open like it might bite you... Bridget hated that rug. So did Brian, but he refused to get rid of it. Nana Krum had hunted that bear herself, he said.

She got up from her nap, stepped over the dead bear and walked to the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face. Then she reached for one of the lobster-shaped soaps that Brian had made at his factory.

Touching it was like being tased. Her hand jerked back, stinging, on fire. In the reflection of the bathroom mirror she saw two faces. One was young, unlined, with large brown eyes and a terrified and pained expression; that face belonged to Bridget. The other face belonged to a stooped-shouldered old lady, wearing a bright orange blouse with lapels so large that they stuck out past her shoulders.

"Nana Krum?" Bridget uttered. She hadn't seen her in months, not since Nana Krum had abruptly left town without saying goodbye.

Nana had white hair that curled in soft wisps, framing her wrinkled face and sagging neck. Her eyes were mostly eyelids: heavy, tired, begging to be shut. And her smile wasn't happy; it was more like she was trying to show off how yellow her teeth had become.

Bridget didn't turn around. Somehow she knew that the only way she'd be able to see Nana was in the mirror. "I thought you were wintering in Georgia," said Bridget.

Nana Krum simply shook her head no.

"Oh, well...how are you?" Bridget asked.

"Don't ask me that," Nana snapped. "Ask me what I am."

"Okay..." Bridget cleared her throat. "What are you?"

Nana stuck out a trembling, arthritic finger and pointed to the lobster soap. "I'm that. I'm the soap. And it's Brian's fault."

"I don't understand. Are you saying that Brian murdered you and turned you into soap?"

Nana replied like a politician by giving a non-answer. "It's time to act. It's time to go."

Bridget turned, feeling the need to grasp Nana's bony shoulders and hold her close. Yet her first instinct had been right. Once Bridget took her eyes off Nana's reflection, she was gone.

Was it true? Was Brian a murderer?

She didn't get the chance to talk to him about it that afternoon, because she had to shop for snacks for the _Bye, Bye Birdie_ cast party, and then all the guests had arrived. Brian stood in the living room, manning the stereo and playing the song, "Promises, Promises" over and over again. He insisted that his dog, Farrah, needed to hear it.

Bridget sat at the dining room table by the tray of appetizers. She took a pig-in-a-blanket and popped it into her mouth. Gene, one of her cast mates, sat across from her, eating a chicken wing, getting bright orange dots of buffalo sauce at the corners of his lips.

"Do you think you'll audition for _The Man Who Came to Dinner_?" Gene asked.

"I don't know," she replied.

Gene raised his eyebrows in hyperbolic shock. "Oh, you have to!"

Kate, Bridget's sister, came up to them. "Can you get Brian to change that song? It's driving me crazy."

Suddenly everything was just too much. "Me too." Bridget went straight toward the stereo, pressed stop, and turned on Culture Club instead. That made Farrah bark like she was rabid.

"Why did you do that?" Brian demanded. "You know she needs to hear that song."

Bridget screamed at him. "If I have to hear it again my head will explode!"

Then she stormed off, out through the front door and towards the cairns. Once she got there, it was only a couple of minutes before Brian arrived with Farrah by his side.

"Why did you leave like that?" he asked.

"I don't know. I was hoping there'd be moonlight."

It was the first moment they'd had alone all day. She took a deep, steadying breath. Bridget knew her question would change everything, no matter what his response. "Brian, did you kill Nana Krum and turn her into soap?"

Brian didn't flinch. "Why do you ask?"

"Because she was there...in the bathroom, pointing at the soap and saying it was your fault."

Brian raised his eyebrows. "You saw her today?"

Bridget's mouth was so dry that it was hard to answer. "Yeah."

"Huh. I guess that's good. At least I'm not crazy."

"You've seen her too?"

"All the time. She won't leave me alone." Brian let out a long, labored sigh. "Nana had stomach cancer. She only had a few months to live. But she'd never have given in until she used up all her money on treatment and I watched my dad die a slow, painful death from the same thing. It's the worst way to go. So one night when she was sleeping I took a pillow, and well..."

"You smothered her?"

He nodded.

"So she never actually went to stay at her vacation house in Georgia?"

"Well, not this year," Brian said. "But other years she has."

Bridget hated that it was true; she wished to be crazy, to be wrong about everything. "Did you kill her so you could inherit the house and the soap factory?"

Brian's face and voice turned wounded. "How could you ask me that?"

"Because you were worried that Nana would change her will again, so you killed her before she had the chance!"

"No!"

"Then why did you turn her into soap?!"

Brian's voice came out as a growl. "I didn't turn her into soap! I mean, okay, sure – I did dump her body into the potash solution. And yes, I turned the steam pressure all the way up, so that the liquid boiled and her body dissolved. But that's it."

The wind blew so hard that it nearly pushed Bridget over. "Did you clean out the vat that you dissolved her in, before you made your next batch?"

Brian looked down and studied the scuffed toe of his leather shoe.

"You didn't, did you?" Bridget demanded.

"You have no idea how difficult those vats are to clean!"

"My God, Brian! That's so evil, and well... so gross!"

Sensing tension, Farah barked and circled the two of them, nipping at Bridget's heels.

"You can't tell anyone!" Brian demanded.

"Of course I can! You should go to jail!"

"How can you say that?' Brian's voice fractured with disillusionment. "You promised to love me forever!"

"Well, I guess some promises are meant to be broken!"

Farrah grew tense as their yelling increased. Suddenly she sank her teeth into Bridget's ankle and pulled her to the ground, making Bridget hit her head against the stones in the process.

Bridget was barely able to speak before she passed out. "Maybe I won't tell about Nana, but I promise you one thing: I will have that dog put down."

Brian looked from Bridget to Farrah and back again. It actually wasn't much of a choice. He scooped an unconscious Bridget into his arms. "Come on, girl," he called to Farrah, and together they went towards his truck.

The drive to the soap factory wasn't far.

# Friday, 7:30 AM

I wake slowly but still with a sense of urgency. My cell phone is charging on my nightstand. I pick it up and call Nick.

"Rocky?"

"Did I wake you?"

"It's 6:30 my time."

"So that's a yes? Don't you have to be at work soon anyway?"

He grunts, still half asleep. "Why are you calling so early?"

"It's too weird here, Nick. I want to come home."

I picture him rubbing his eyes, trying to acclimate to wakefulness. "Great," he says with a yawn. "Just tell me when, and I'll pick you up at the airport."

"Okay. Good." I wait for the relief to come. Now that I've made the decision to leave, it should be washing over me like my morning shower. But all I feel is a flat sense of personal disappointment. _Don't be stupid_ , my inner critic chides. _You did your best. Just go home_.

"All right. I'll find a flight and call you later."

"Love you," he says.

"Me too."

We hang up. I rise from the bed. Is it the same bed that Brian and Bridget once shared? Whatever: I'm determined to pack and break the news of my early departure to Tristan.

I throw stuff into my suitcase and then I get dressed in my Levi 501s, which are a genuine relic from the 80s. Wearing them seems fitting, given the circumstances. But I don't totally adhere to 80s fashion rules, because my top is black, not neon, and it has neither shoulder pads nor Madonna style lace. That would be too much.

I go downstairs, ready to set the stage for my early exit from this drama. I'm halfway down to the landing when I look to my side and see Tristan and Hunter, sitting together in the living room, unaware of my gaze. Hunter is in his wheelchair and Tristan is in his lap, stroking his hair away from his forehead. "I don't care," I hear him murmur. "None of that matters."

"It might, some day." She sniffs and I realize she's crying. "You shouldn't marry me if you think I'm a bad person."

"I don't think you're a bad person."

"But if you're having doubts, if you really believe I'm capable of murder..."

"I'm telling you that it doesn't matter." He clutches the handles of his wheelchair, tightening his grip. "It's all in the past. Just promise that you actually love me and that's all I need."

"I promise that I actually love you."

He responds by holding her, by giving her a kiss. At first she seems to resist, but after a second she lets her arms settle around his shoulders. Then they're enveloped in each other.

There's no way I can interrupt this tender moment, so I quietly creep back upstairs, praying that the floorboards won't creek beneath my feet.

Then I unpack again.

# Friday 6:30 PM

We're in Tristan's bedroom, standing before a full length mirror framed in oak. I'm fitting Tristan into her gown, which is mostly done, but the skirt needs shortening and the waist needs tightening.

Tristan studies her reflection. "I can't believe you created something so beautiful, so fast."

"I was lucky to find those thrift store gowns," I reply. "My job was easy, since I was able to keep a lot of their original design and combine the best parts of both."

"Funny," she responds. "That's sort of like marriage itself, right? Combining the best parts of two people to form something new?"

I tug on the slim satin skirt, trying to make it hang evenly. "I suppose, but shouldn't marriage be about accepting the bad parts too?"

Tristan's eyebrows furrow and she presses her lips together before answering. "My point is that when two people are right together, they bring out the best in each other."

I'm thinking about this when my cell phone rings. It's Nick.

"Hold on, Tristan. I need to take this."

I pick up my phone and wander into the living room. Hunter is out, so Nick and I can talk without an audience. "Hey," I say into the phone.

"I thought you were calling me back with your flight info."

"Yeah, about that." I fill my lungs with air, hoping to calm my nerves. "I changed my mind. I should stay and finish what I started."

Nick takes in a sharp, quick breath and when he speaks, he barely contains his ire. "Finish what you started? Really? Why start now?"

I sit on the edge of the couch and stare at the fireplace, which, after last night, is covered in soot. "That's unfair," I say. "I finished everything for Phil's party. I'm being totally professional."

"He thinks it's weird, Robin. 'Why'd she take off like that' he keeps asking me. 'Isn't she coming to the party?' What am I supposed to say?"

"That I have another commitment?"

"But you don't!" Nick is loud enough that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. "Or you didn't, not before you had the commitment with Phil first. And taking off makes us both look bad!"

I close my eyes and rub my temples. I don't know which idea of marriage is right, mine or Tristan's, but I do know that Nick isn't being very accepting right now and I'm definitely not bringing out the best in him.

"Sorry if I'm an embarrassment," I say. "But I fulfilled my obligations for the job Phil hired me to do. After that, I really don't give a crap."

"Robin..."

"No," I say, although I'm not sure what it is I'm denying. "Go to Phil's on your own, be miserable, and blame it all on me; I can't imagine you doing anything else."

"Maybe I'll go and have a great time!" he says, defiant.

"Great! And if they play _The Promise_ , consider yourself free to dance with whoever's around."

"Fine," he barks. "I guess I'll see you when I see you."

"Bye."

I wait a moment before hanging up, hopeful he'll apologize and somehow delete all the hurtful things we just said. Instead, my phone goes dead.

I hear something in the doorway, and look up to see Tristan standing there, dressed in jeans and a jacket.

"The rain finally stopped," she says. "That's good, because you and I have plans."

My stomach sinks "We do?"

"Yeah. Put on some sturdy shoes. We're going for a walk."

"We are? To where?"

Tristan cocks her head and gives me a rueful smile. "Come on; you know to where. Where else? We're going to the cairns."

# Friday, 7:30 PM

"So, will I return from the cairns tonight, or will I mysteriously disappear like everyone else does?

Tristan's answer is prickly, like she dropped her sense of humor in the thorny bushes along the path we took to get here. "If you're worried about it, why did you come with me?"

"Why are you answering a question with a question?" I lean back against the stone chamber and momentarily close my eyes. Good thing I'm not claustrophobic, because space is tight in this legendary spot where Tristan almost lost her virginity to Conrad, in this space where she swore evil spirits had attacked her.

"I'm trying to come clean," says Tristan. "You're the one who's evading." She makes a squeaking noise, like a nervous burp. "This is only the third time I've been here after what happened with Hunter. The first two times, I came alone and sat in this spot for as long as I could stand it."

"Why?"

"So I could prove to myself that there's nothing to be afraid of." She grips her flashlight, which had been lying on the ground between us. Then she turns it off and we're bathed in total blackness.

I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. "This is what I imagine being buried alive is like," I say. "When can we get out?"

"You can leave any time, Robin."

I shift, trying to get comfortable, but quickly decide that's just not possible. "Tristan, you know I've always been on your side. And if I thought there was any chance that you murdered Riley and Conrad, or that evil spirits would attack us now, I wouldn't be here. But I do need to know: what's the point of this?"

"So I can tell you what really happened," says Tristan.

"Okay..."

She pauses and I wait for the bomb to go off. "That night, with Conrad, I started yelling because I'd changed my mind about having sex with him. I was scared and he wasn't stopping, so I bit him, you know, where it would hurt."

I resist the urge to laugh. "He was telling the truth about that?"

"Yeah," says Tristan. "But I said all the stuff about ghosts because I thought Riley and the other Ds might be more likely to forgive me if they bought that story. Of course, that plan was an epic fail. So then I thought, bring Hunter here, and do something to scare him, so he'll think there were ghosts and that would take the attention off me. I tried to scare him by acting possessed, waving my arms around, and, well....another epic fail. Hitting him and making him fall really was an accident."

"I see." I think for a moment, trying to choose my words carefully. "But what about Brian and Bridget, and Riley and Conrad?"

"What about them? Nobody knows; nobody can explain."

"And you can leave it at that?"

I feel her fingers on my knee, a light, gentle touch. "I have to. Maybe Brian killed Bridget and dissolved her body into soap. Maybe Conrad went crazy and killed Riley. My theory is he attacked her here, but then he killed her and himself by drowning in the ocean." She shrugs casually. "But we'll probably never know."

I almost sound like I'm joking. "How do I know it wasn't you? The drive from Boston isn't that far. You could have done it."

"Yeah, I could have. But I didn't."

The space in here seems to be shrinking and so is my capacity to think. "Why are you with Hunter now? Is it guilt or is it about your reputation?"

"At first it was both, but I've grown to love him. He's brave, and funny, and when he isn't scared and angry, he's very, very kind."

Okay. I have to ask. "Yeah, but what about sex?" I almost think she's going to tell me that after nearly being raped by Conrad, sex isn't a priority. But no.

Her smirk is visible even though I can't see it. "Don't worry; the man is resourceful and he has skills. Besides, if we're really determined...well, let's just say that he's capable of getting me pregnant."

I raise my eyebrows, though in this dark, I don't know why. "Okay. I'm glad that's settled."

She sniffs, loud enough that I wonder if she's crying. "Nothing is settled. Hunter thinks I'm capable of murder."

"Then he's the one you should have brought here. You should be saying this stuff to him."

"I would, but the cairns aren't exactly wheelchair accessible."

I reach for the flashlight and turn it on. Looking into her watery eyes, I speak in my most sincere tone. "I will tell him everything you just told me, and I'll tell him that I believe you. But after that, it's up to you to talk to him. You have to find a way."

She nods. "I know."

# Saturday, 5:00 AM

I yawn and take a sip of coffee, forcing my eyes to stay open.

Hunter, Tristan, and I stayed up all night. I told Hunter every detail I could remember about our summer at Camp Grayson and also about our recent cairns-confessions while I finished Tristan's wedding dress. I think my testimonial mattered less than the satin I draped her in, because more than once I caught Hunter eyeing her, his features soft, looking at Tristan in the same way that Nick often looks at me.

Hopefully we'll recover from our fight and Nick will look at me like that again.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to sleep?" asks Hunter. He seems awfully sleepy himself, yet with his day-old beard, dark-rimmed eyes, and relaxed jaw, he's more handsome now than I've ever seen him. I'm starting to understand why Tristan and Hunter feel such an urgent need to get married; they're afraid of losing each other. Occasionally when she speaks, his hand reaches for hers, and I can see their connection, can imagine private, silent moments of love and understanding passing between them.

"I'm sure," I say. I glance over at Tristan, who has fallen asleep on the couch. "Do you think she'll be okay?"

"I hope so." He runs his hand through his hair, making it stand up a bit. "I'm surprised she's not already gone, after I accused her of murder."

"She loves you."

Hunter thinks for a moment, clearly too tired to process anything quickly. "That's really hard for me to believe, even though I want to believe it—so much." The corners of his mouth pull down. "I have nothing to offer her but a lifetime of inconvenience and a boatload of debt." He rolls his eyes before staring into mine. "I can't even afford to buy her an engagement ring."

"I doubt she cares."

"Maybe not, but I wish I understood what she does care about. I wish I understood _her_."

Hunter stares at Tristan as she sleeps, as if he could see into the corners of her mind and decipher all her secrets. I start to feel like I'm encroaching, that I ought to leave and let them be together and alone.

"Hunter?"

He slowly switches his gaze from Tristan to me. "Yeah?"

"Do you know for sure that Tristan was in Boston when Riley and Conrad went missing?"

"No." He chews on the bottom corner of his lip. "I mean, we weren't together at the time. And really, do any of us know anything for sure?"

I ponder this. "No, I guess we don't. In the end, the best we can do is just try to understand."

# Saturday, 6:45 PM

"Hello?" I cry. There's no answer but I hear the sound of running water. He's in the shower. I go to the bathroom and open the door. "Nick?"

He yells his surprise, and I see his silhouette behind the shower curtain almost fall, but he regains his balance just in time. "Rocky?" He pokes his head out, dripping and so wonderfully familiar. "You startled me. What are you doing here?"

I come close, not caring if I get wet as I lean to give him a hello kiss. "I came back for Phil's party. After all, I'd have to be crazy to set a cute guy like you free around single female real estate agents. I hear they can be fierce."

"Oh." His smile is warm, gooey caramel, just salty enough for me. "Does that mean our fight is over?"

"That depends. Are you going to apologize for being an ass?"

He nods. "Sure. I'm sorry."

"And do you understand when it was that you were an ass?"

He rolls his eyes. "That time I accused you of being unprofessional?"

"What about when you implied that I was an embarrassment?"

"That too. I'm sorry."

"It's okay." I know I should hold out a little longer, pretend to be mad and receive a more thorough apology, but I'm distracted by how wet and how naked Nick is.

"Get in here," he says, tugging on my sweatshirt.

I quickly pull off all my clothes and do as he requested. "Hi," I say, as we wrap ourselves around each other.

"Hi." He gives me another hello kiss, a proper one, as delightful as the hot water coursing down my back. "How are you?"

"Very, very tired. I was up all night, and then I left super-early to get to the airport, where I was lucky to catch a flight. I slept a little on the plane, but that's it. So I'm warning you, at 10:00 p.m. no matter how funny Phil's jokes are, I'm done."

Nick kisses my forehead and then my neck. "I think I feel a cold coming on," he murmurs, then fakes a cough. "We should probably just stay in."

"I thought you said you had to go, that misery is a part of life."

He blinks away beads of water that rest against his thick, dark eyelashes. "Misery _is_ a part of life, but it's not the only part." Nick cradles my cheek in his hand. "There also happens to be a lot of room for joy."

I close my eyes and press my forehead to his. I don't understand his sudden reversal in thought and position, but that's okay. He probably doesn't understand mine either.

"Are you sure you're okay with not going? We won't get to dance to your favorite song."

"Sure we will." Nick holds me, and together we sway to the words he sings, softly in my ear. " _I promise you, I promise you..._ "

# Monday, 10:00 AM

"Mari!"

She is standing behind the jewelry counter, reading, but she snaps her head up from her psychology textbook and smiles when she sees me. "Hey, Robin. How was your weekend?"

"Very, very eventful. I heard the party went off great. I can't thank you enough." I hand her an envelope of cash, which is my more tangible way of saying thank you.

"It was actually sort of fun," she says. "But I have to say, I'm a little offended that Phil didn't hit on me too." She points to her head. "Do you think it's the purple hair?"

"Who knows? Maybe he just came to his senses and decided to hit on his own wife."

"Well, they seemed pretty happy together Saturday night. And Daphne looked great in that dress you made." She yawns. "Did you ever tell Nick about Phil?"

I shake my head. "I'm still trying to decide whether or not I should. I mean, honesty is important, but knowing would only drive him crazy. Is that fair?"

"Search me." She scratches her neck and tugs at the itchy angora sweater that I spotted on Sun Thrift's new arrival shelf last week. "I have a break coming up. Do you want to grab a coffee?"

"Sure. I owe you more than one latte. But first, do you still have that ring?"

Mari's pierced eyebrows knit together. "The engagement ring? Yeah. Why?"

"I decided I want it."

"Okay." She reaches behind the counter, picks up the ring, and hands it to me.

I look again at the inscription. _B.R + B.K, '84. Love always_.

I don't know what Brian and Bridget's last initials were, but this ring could have belonged to them. I mean, of course it didn't. Why would it have wound up in Iowa? Still, there's something cosmic, something appealing about the idea of Hunter and Tristan gripping their history with a relic that might have belonged to their ghosts. Maybe he won't want it, but I'm going to send it to Hunter nonetheless.

"What made you change your mind?" Mari asks.

"I guess I realized that the only way to face the future is by embracing the past."

# Some Years Ago...

Her head crashed against stone. Blood oozing, brain swelling, everything clarified as the lights go dark.

Rough hands were killing her, but she didn't feel she was being murdered by a man as much as by a tradition. _Is that my dying thought_? She wondered. _How philosophical of me_.

"You made me miserable!" He cried. "You ruined my life!"

Sure, she had some culpability. So did he. But there was a force at play, ages and ages of misery built up like tartar on teeth that could not easily be brushed away. She'd felt it here before. And now she knew that others would feel it too.

She would stay, and make sure that they did.

That was a promise.

# Monday, 6:15 PM

Tonight for dinner I make fillet of sole stuffed with spinach and ricotta. I'm serving it with whole grain dinner rolls and a salad with blue cheese dressing.

"This seems awfully decadent for a Monday," Nick smiles in anticipation as he digs his fork into the fish and severs off a bite.

"Well," I say, "you only live once." I smooth my napkin out on my lap. "I mean, as far as we know, you only live once."

"Yum. Delicious," Nick remarks as he chews.

"I'm glad you like it." I stare at my plate, knowing I should start eating, yet not inclined to do so.

"Everything okay, Rocky?"

I look at him, knowing there's no going back from my recent revelations. "Nick, I want to be honest with you. I want to embrace my past."

He frowns. "That doesn't sound good."

"No, it is good. Or, at least, I don't think it's bad." I inhale and let out a whoosh of air. "I've decided that you should know everything about me—all my secrets—the good, the bad, and the ugly."

His eyebrows come together but he doesn't look away. "You have secrets?"

"Yes. Some of them aren't my fault and others are things that I'm not proud of. But I want to tell you about all of it. We can't build a future together haunted by ghosts."

His laugh breaks the tension. "Sorry." He shakes his head, looks away, but meets my eyes again, still chuckling. "You're just so serious. What did you do that was so awful?" He leans forward and speaks in an exaggerated whisper. "Did you kill a man?"

"No."

"Espionage?"

I surrender a smile. "No."

"Overdue library books?"

"A few." I pick up my knife and fork and dig into my fish. "But after dinner, if you can stop being a smart ass, I'll tell you everything."

Nick's smile falters for a moment. I catch the glint of nervousness in his eyes. It's exactly the same as the one I'm trying to hide.

"I can hardly wait," he says.

"Good. I'll share all my secrets, and you'll share yours. Deal?"

Nick nods, but his swallow is rough before he peeps out his response. "Deal." He stares at his water glass, runs his finger down the side, and from my angle it appears distorted and huge. "But there's no point unless we're going to be totally honest. Do you promise to be totally honest?"

"I do." I take a deep breath, knowing that this moment is a turning point. My resolve is deep and I mean what I say, one hundred percent.

"I promise."

####

**For more of Robin's story, please read on for a special preview of** _The Standout_ _._

#  Preview of _The Standout_

# Part 1: Robin
# Chapter 1

I wanted to jump but I didn't have the guts.

It was one of those moments that I knew would never leave me. I was clinging to the trunk of a solid elm, praying that the rickety old tree house underneath my feet wouldn't collapse. "You whore!" Clara screamed, her face as red as her hair. I looked to Robert, fruitlessly hoping he might help, but all I saw was his backside, just a pair of khaki shorts and a blue Polo jersey retreating through the freshly mowed back yard. I was paralyzed in equal parts by fear and guilt, wishing I could take it all back, wishing I could be someone else, wishing I could jump.

It started innocently enough. I met Clara in a fashion design class at a community college, which was like a strip mall with classrooms. The arts building was big and stretched out, with lots of lounges and study areas, and there was a coffee shop at the north end that had a fireplace against a picture window.

On the first day I was early, so I stopped to buy a latte, and I noticed a guy noticing me. You know the type: tall, dark hair, sparkling eyes, well-built. I couldn't even a find a slight, personality-defining imperfection, like a crooked nose or a chipped tooth, to give his face an endearing dose of uniqueness.

I gave him a half-smile, secured a cardboard sleeve around my coffee cup, and went on my way to class.

Before the second class, I stopped for coffee again, and Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome sat in the same spot as before. This time he had an architecture textbook and a sketch pad, and every few seconds he would absently draw something. Then he looked up, met my eyes, and grinned like he knew me.

I smiled back. With a flick of his head he gestured me over and I responded.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Robin."

"Really? That's so funny. My name is Robert. It's like we're the same."

That was the beginning. Before every class I would get coffee, and Robert would always be there, studying architecture, and we would always say hello. One night he asked me out and I said yes. There was no ring on his finger, after all. He seemed put-together, driven, and interesting. I'd thought I hit the jackpot.

And for a while, it was like I had.

He didn't ask much of me. His schedule was busy and mine was too. He had roommates, he said, so he always came to my place, but he never stayed the night. I enjoyed the reprieve from loneliness, but I wasn't in love, so I didn't question it.

And then there was Clara. She was the star pupil in our little fashion design class but she should have been the teacher. I didn't even know people with her sense of style existed in Des Moines. And with her lovely hair and slim frame, her clothes look fabulous on her. At first I was intimidated, jealous even. She'd come up with these incredible, couture-worthy designs, and I wanted to pick her brain. Perhaps, just by osmosis, I could absorb some of her brilliance.

Yet she always left before class got out. "Sorry," she said to the instructor the first time this happened. "My husband is waiting." They took class at the same time but his got out sooner than hers did, so to accommodate him, she always left early.

I talked to her every chance I got. "I really like what you did with the last assignment," I said one time. "The collar is amazing. How you'd learn to create lines like that?"

She blushed in pleasure, and told me how she'd learned from her grandmother, who used to work with Diane Von Furstenberg and who also owned a whole closet-full of wrap dresses.

"God, I'd love to see them."

"You should!" She cried. "My husband is out of town this weekend. We should have a girl's night. Come over and see my gramma's dresses. It's not just stuff by Diane Von Furstenberg. She was quite the fashion plate."

I brought two bottles of wine and a box of chocolates, and Clara's gramma told us stories about living and designing in 1970's NYC. Meanwhile we tried on dresses by Tomas Maier, Kenzo, and Halston. By the end of the evening we were giddy and tipsy. Clara's gramma had gone to bed, Clara was lying on the floor and I was on the couch.

The room was spinning so I spoke to the ceiling. "When I grow up, I want to be your gramma." If I could sit up and focus, I'd have looked again at all her photos: women with large sunglasses, holding cigarettes and emanating chic. Nothing in her apartment seemed post-1980, except for me and Clara.

"She's had quite the life," Clara responded. "Lots of lovers, lots of adventure, and she was always well dressed."

"How did she end up in Des Moines?"

"She met my grandfather. He convinced her to marry him and he brought her out here for work. Then he screwed everything in sight while she grew bored and depressed."

My buzz started to dissipate. "Why didn't she leave him?"

Clara let out a loud sigh. "It's harder than you think, to leave your husband when he's cheating on you."

I turned my head towards her. Her neck was arched, her hair was fanned out, and she looked like Sleeping Beauty. What prince wouldn't value her? "What are you saying?" I asked.

"Nothing. Just a feeling, I suppose."

And we left it at that. Eventually, she got up and slept in the bed with her gramma while I slept on the couch, blissfully drunk and unable to think too hard.

Because I could have put two and two together. Instead, I remained willfully oblivious while my friendship with Clara grew strong and my fling with Robert grew stale. Then, Easter came and Clara invited me to eat with her family. The day was lovely and warm. Clara's gramma was napping, her mother didn't need help in the kitchen, and Clara's husband was yet to arrive to the celebration.

"Come outside," said Clara. We went out onto the porch. I thought we would sit on the patio chairs and absorb the sun's rays, but Clara was too squirrely to be still. "Look!" she pointed to her tree house. "My dad built that for me when I was seven. When Bobby and I have kids, I want him to build one. Tree houses are, like, a requirement for childhood, don't you think?"

"Sure," I replied, though I'd never had a tree house and I'd never actually wanted one.

"Let's climb it right now!" Clara, who seemed to operate at extremes, ran towards the trunk with its rickety steps. "Come on," she cried, and I followed even though I could already taste fear on my tongue.

I wouldn't say that I'm afraid of heights. Sure, I feel nauseous and dizzy whenever I'm up high without a barrier to prevent me from falling to my death, but who doesn't get that way sometimes? So I climbed the half-rotted wooden steps of Clara's tree house that was built in the early nineties, and I silently repeated the mantra, "You're safe, you're safe, you're safe," while we sat up among the branches.

Then we heard him call. "Clara? Babe, are you up there?"

And Clara answered, "Hey Bobby! Here we are!"

I didn't want to look down but I had to. There he was, freshly showered after his tennis match, looking up while his face fell. Robert was Clara's husband, and the horrible knowledge of our situation pulsed like a living thing between us.

"Robert?" I uttered, before I could censor myself, before I thought better of admitting to knowing him.

Robert was mute. He stood below, his mouth gaping wide and his cheeks flaming red. Clara looked back and forth between us. "What's going on?" She demanded. "Do you two know each other?"

Neither of us answered, but Clara was not okay with silence. "Bobby! Is she the reason you've been so busy lately?"

I should have put Clara's feelings first. I should have stayed silent. But the betrayal was too fresh.

"You lied to me the entire time?" I said to Robert. "How could you do that?"

Robert muttered something about not wanting to hurt anyone.

"No!" Clara cried. "Bobby! Tell me you didn't fuck her."

Instead of answering he just walked off, and Clara turned to me with tears in her eyes.

"It didn't mean anything," I said. "He doesn't have real feelings for me. Maybe you can talk this through..."

"You whore!" she cried, her face changing from wounded doe to angry wolf. She grabbed the planks of the tree house and started shaking them.

"Clara, please stop." I pictured falling, landing in a heap of broken wood, my head hitting the ground, my body as fractured as the tree house would be.

"You bitch! You man-stealing slut! You pretend to be my friend while you're screwing my husband!"

She continued to shake the tree house and I wrapped my arms around the trunk, certain that I'd tumble down, lose my breath and die. Nobody would think I didn't deserve it.

"I'm sorry Clara, I didn't know. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I could barely get the words out; they were little more than whispered pleas. Clara kept on shaking the tree house and calling me names, yelling accusations, and instead of jumping to safety, I screamed so loud that her father came out and told her to stop.

"And I'd never felt worse about myself," I tell Nick now. He's on the couch with his feet in my lap, listening to my awful tale.

"You didn't even know he was married," Nick answers. His voice is low and gravelly, and he barely flinches as I recount all the details.

"But I should have known." I tug on his big toe, which is safely ensconced in a hole-free sock. "So yeah, that's the worst thing I've ever done."

"Seriously?" His voice squeaks in question. "That's all you've got?"

I scan my brain over a litany of parking tickets, overdue library books, and botched Secret-Santa gift exchanges. None of it compares to the shemozzle I just described. "I'm afraid so."

Nick sits up and kisses my cheek. "I can totally live with that." His smile is big and I feel myself smiling back. "Okay," he says, "my turn. I was fourteen, at summer camp for the first time..."

Happily, I settle in and listen to his tale of lies, deceit, and stolen arts & crafts. Now he knows the worst of me. This intimacy thing isn't so bad, after all.

****

For more about _The Standout_ and how to get your copy, go to Laurel Osterkamp's webpage, http://www.laurelosterkamp.com.

Other books by Laurel Osterkamp:

_The Holdout_ (a Robin Bricker novel)

_The Standout_ (a Robin Bricker novel)

_American Angst_ (Robin Bricker/Lucy Bricker series)

_November Surprise_ (A Lucy Bricker novel)

_Blue State_ (A Lucy Bricker story)

_Campaign Promises_ (A Lucy Bricker novella)

Starring in the Movie of My Life

Following My Toes

For a FREE COPY of _American Angst_ , which is a set of stories about Robin and Lucy, please sign up for my newsletter at www.LaurelOsterkamp.com.

