Page 82 of Nobody in Particular

THIRTY-FOURROSE

“So, I’ve started seeing the school counselor,” Molly says, with the air of someone who’s attempting to drop enormous news as casually as possible to best minimize the reaction. “Also, I’m going to the bathroom.”

Though Florence and Harriet were with us for a while when I first got here, the two of them eventually wandered off, leaving Molly and me together on a couch. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together for any extended period of time since everything, and we’ve lost our rhythm, though we’re both doing our best to regain it through small talk. So far, we’ve covered our homework, the absence of our favorite Ashford boys, the cleaning bill Florence is going to be faced with tomorrow, and now, apparently, our mental health struggles.

“What?” I ask, blindsided, as she gets to her feet. “You’re in therapy?”

“I’m in therapy. And I wanted you to know, but I also don’t want to talk about it yet, so I’m going to the bathroom and then we’re going to change the subject when I get back.”

I stare at her, confused. “Why did you want me to know?”

She looks supremely uncomfortable. “Because I’ve talked about you a little, and she asked me to tell you that her door’s open if you want to try it out, too. And I think you should.”

I can’t help laughing at the absurdity of her delivery. “That’s the most polite way I’ve ever been told to get help.”

“I mean it. We went through a lot last year, and it’s helping me. Plus, it’s free.”

“Well, if it’sfree,” I joke.

Molly is blushing bright red at this point, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere but here. I wave her off. “Fine. Go. I won’t ask you about your therapy sessions.”

“Thank you. Come to therapy.”

“I definitely will not,” I call after her, and she shakes her head as she walks.

Alone, I take the opportunity to drink in my surroundings. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol, of course—even though I do mostly trust the students here, as they’ve never once shared any compromising photos or videos of me over the past several years despite a plethora of opportunities, it’s tempting fate enough to be seen at a party at all. If I was caught with a drink in my hand, I would honestly deserve any headlines that resulted. If it weren’t Florence’s party, I wouldn’t have risked attending at all.

As I scan the room, I notice Eleanor sitting on a nearby couch, drink in hand, talking with Santi. When on earth didthathappen? And who is Danni with, then?

I text Molly to let her know I’ve deserted our post, and I take a circuitous tour of the house, with Theodore following me at a distance. I hope Danni has found someone to speak to. I didn’t expect Eleanor to end up otherwise occupied—and, of course, Eleanor was unaware that she was in charge of keeping Danni company while I can’t. If I’d noticed earlier, I would have sent Molly to accompany Danni, and taken myself off elsewhere.

Danni is nowhere to be found in the living room, or the kitchen. Not the hallway, nor the line for the downstairs bathroom. She’s not in the movie theater room, where a slideshow of Florence’s childhood photos is playing on the projector, and she’s not in the coat room.

I call her, and it goes to voicemail, so I keep looking, as my fists clench tighter and tighter. Did she leave? Surely she would have texted me.

There’s no reason to be concerned, is there?

But she’s not in the front yard, and she’s not in the backyard, and Iambecoming concerned. Each second she’s nowhere, the feeling that something awful might be happening multiplies. I need to locate hernow,before this fear swallows me.

Where on earth is she? Why have I still not found her?

In the backyard, Harriet spies me and approaches at once. “Have you seen Danni?” we ask each other in unison in place of a greeting.

My stomach twists at her words. “Why?” I ask.

Harriet is drunk. Her eyes are red and unfocused, she’s slurring her words, and she smells like beer. It’s really not pleasant interacting with drunk people when you’re not wasted yourself. I finally understand Molly’s constant complaints on the topic. “I’m not sure she’s okay,” she says. “I think you should check on her.”

My blood turns to ice water, scraping against my veins with every pump of my heart. I’ve lived this night before. I already know what comes next, but it’s impossible, because I can’t do this again.

“What did you do to her?” I ask, and the fury and fear in my voice seems to snap Harriet into focus, if only for a moment.

“I… don’t really want to… never mind that. Just check on her, okay?”

I try to tell myself Amsterdam isn’t happening again, but it feels far too familiar, and the fear forces its way past my defenses. I can barely breathe. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Last I saw, she went inside, maybe half an hour ago?”

Her words ring in my ears. She’s been missing for half an hour. It’s like last time, just like last time. Every domino is falling exactly as it already did.

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