Page 41 of The Unraveling

I don’t hesitate, though I’ve never done it before. My hand is small, but it’s enough. After only a moment of me fisting her, she lets out a deep scream and calls out something in Spanish that I don’t understand. I don’t need to in order to know what it means.

We both catch our breath, her leaning back against the side of the tub.

When we can both breathe, she looks at me and then laughs and splashes me. “What a fucking mess!”

Both of us shampoo and condition, then rinse off and get out. “Don’t worry about the water,” she says, as I step through the one inch of pooled water on the tile. “I’ll clean it up.”

“I’ll get some towels for it,” I say, opening the door, both of us walking out of the steam and into the hallway in fluffy white towels around our heads and bodies.

“I think the steam was really good for that hair mask,” she’s saying, when her face falls. I look where her gaze has landed. It’s Cynthia.

“Oh, fuck,” says Arabella. “Thia, what are you doing here?”

Cynthia starts spewing out angry Spanish, and I feel suddenly very guilty and very weird. I thought it was just a little fun. Just a little distraction from Jordan. But now I have a sinking feeling that I don’t think Jordan would think of it like that, just as I don’t think Cynthia is either. I slip into my bare room and curl up on the air mattress.

What the hell am I doing?

Chapter Thirteen

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

“You can rely on the old man’s money, you can rely on the old man’s money!”

I scream-sang along with the lyrics to the Hall & Oates song “Rich Girl” with my best friend, Sadie. We were both dressed in outfits curated from items in my mom’s closet. She wasn’t home, and usually when it was past seven on a weekend night, she wouldn’t be home all night.

Sadie was sleeping over, and her parents had taken us to the grocery store to pick out some junk food before dropping us off. I may have lied and told them my mom was home.

We picked out Sno-Caps and Sour Patch Kids and this microwavable popcorn with a packet of butter (flavoring) and a two-liter of the Christmas version of Sprite. We had plans to watch Moulin Rouge!, which I was not allowed to watch, but which Sadie had a copy of and said was her favorite movie.

Sadie’s dad used to work in Hollywood, she’d told me, doing music for movies. So where I was used to listening to what was on the radio, Sadie had playlist upon playlist of music I’d never heard of that was so much better and so much fun. Also she was allowed to watch and listen to whatever, because her parents trusted her with “art,” apparently. Anyway, that was what Sadie said.

“You could get along if you try to be strong—” I sang, but then stopped when I heard something mixing in with the deafening music.

I turned on my heel and saw my mom standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and her eyes so angry they were practically red.

I smacked Sadie on the shoulder and silenced the music.

The air filled with the emptiness and I said, “Hi, Mom.”

“What the fuck is going on here?”

I felt slapped by the words, but Sadie didn’t shiver. She was a rated-R-movie and there’s-always-dessert-in-the-house kind of kid. Nothing seemed to freak her out.

“Are those—my bras?” asked my mom, furious.

Sadie and I looked down at the drooping satin fabric on our flat chests.

I looked up and then noticed a man walking up the staircase. My mom turned to him.

“I’m going to head out,” he said.

“What? Roger, no—”

But he was already walking down the steps again. My mom gave me a look filled with hate and then went after him, whoever he was.

Sadie and I looked at each other.

“Holy shit,” said Sadie. “Your mom looked like she was about to go full Kill Bill.”

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