Page 68 of We Fell Apart
“Matilda Klein. In my hot tub.”
Standing at the break in the hedge is Holland Terhune.
“Sorry,” says Tatum, pausing his swim. “We’re totally trespassing.” He heaves himself out of the pool and goes over to his towel.
“This isyourhouse?” I say.
“Did you not know?” Holland says.
“No idea. We, um, borrow functioning pools. Various places on the island.”
“My functioning pool is your functioning pool,” says Holland. “Stay. Hang out.” Then, to Tatum: “Seriously, you don’t have to leave.” And to Meer: “Are you Meer? You have to be Meer.”
He nods, grinning. “How do you know Matilda already?”
“Oh god, long story, but basically I stalked her,” says Holland. “After she puked very cutely at the airport and almost needed a medic and then we rescued her with wintergreen gum and advice. Wait.” She squints at Brock, who is with me in the Jacuzzi. “Is that Sammy?”
“Men and Other Critters.Yeah,” says Brock. “Paul-David Brock.”
“No, from the Kingsley Cello painting,” says Holland. “With the burning donkey skin.”
“You’ve seen it?”
Holland shrugs. “My family owns it,” she says. “They’re big art collectors. You’re better looking in real life.” She winks at Brock and then looks at her phone and sends a text. “The others are on their way out. You’re going to love these sluts, I promise you.”
In a matter of minutes, five girls appear through the gap in the hedge, all in bathing suits. Winnie I’ve met already, and there’s also Olive and Jia, Agnes and Amma. They bring with them two bottlesof rum, a pile of gray and white beach towels, a cooler of soft drinks, and some speakers that push music out into the night air.
The rest of the night is a blur.
Tatum talks to Amma for too long, sitting on the edge of the pool while she stands in the water.
He lets Winnie climb on his shoulders in the pool. He helps her back up when she falls. His hands wrap around her legs to keep her stable.
Agnes makes a rum and Coke and hands it to Tatum in a red plastic cup. He bends down to hear what she has to say, above the sound of the music.
I hate that I notice every single thing he does. I don’t want to be thinking about him. Or talking to him. I don’t care what he thinks, because he’s manipulative and controlling and strange and friendless and a moody weasel on top of all that.
But I clock every gesture, every smile, every time his eyes glance my way.
It makes my sternum hurt.
I lose track of how many drinks I’ve had.
44
Next morning, aroundeleven.
The boys and I are hungover. Except Brock, who abstains.
Not for the first time, I wish there was coffee at Hidden Beach.
We stand around a loaf of home-baked white bread that June left us in the night. We saw her briefly when we came in fromHolland’s. She wore an indigo apron with her sleeves rolled up. She didn’t ask where we’d been.
“My head hurts,” says Brock. “I didn’t even drink.” He looks seriously underslept.
“I’ll make you a thing,” says Tatum, staggering to the fridge. His hair is sticking up. He has skipped his morning swim and wears pajama bottoms and his favorite cable-knit sweater. Bare feet.
“Oh, me too,” says Meer. “Because I did drink.” He seems to have slept in his swimsuit.
