Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,77

crash down on him. And look what happens? Dylan ran away anyway. You can’t control this kind of thing, no matter what kind of grip you have.” Mallory shakes her head suddenly. “Enough. Tired of thinking about it now. Want something to drink? I’m thirsty.”

“Sure.”

She roots around in a paper bag on the counter I hadn’t noticed before. She must have ducked out when I was napping.

She smacks a bottle of Jack on the counter. The sound is like a gunshot.

“No thanks.” My voice comes out funny. Overly high, fake-casual.

“Aw, what’ll it hurt? The girls are asleep, the guys won’t be back for hours. Just a nightcap to shake off this day.”

“I thought you gave it up?”

“Not entirely, one hundred percent. Just . . . mostly. But today,” she says as she twists off the cap, “is an exceptional day.”

There’s nothing I want more than to call Tony right now. Or to see Michael, to hear him tell me that we’re going to get married and pick a date and have a baby.

A baby. I can hold on to that. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine a pink receiving blanket, tiny fists pinwheeling in the air. Toes like little round peas. Can’t have that while drunk. I can’t.

“You okay?” asks Mallory, and because I can’t tell her, I say, “Yep, just really tired.”

But I can’t go to bed, either. I can imagine crawling into bed, and Mallory going to sleep, and then it’s just me and a bottle of Jack in a dark, quiet house.

Mallory pours herself some. “Oh, I’m going to get some Coke.” She turns to the fridge.

Despite the agony it will be to watch her drink and not have some, I’m relieved to see things slipping back into their normal pattern. She was acting so normal and regular I was beginning to think I’d gone through the looking glass.

“So, why don’t you drink, anyway?”

I shrug. “No reason.”

“Yeah, right, come on. There’s always a reason. I don’t care, Casey. I’m just asking.”

She’s not going to let this go. I have to give her something, something plausible, something that won’t indict me.

“Well, my brother. He died, and it involved drinking, so . . . It’s just not the same anymore.”

This is sort of true.

Mallory’s face goes soft. She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. Her fingernails are all ragged, but her touch is gentle. For a moment I wonder how I will explain to Michael that I acknowledged my brother first to his ex-wife, before ever telling him. For a long time I assumed he’d dump me, and I’d never have to talk about Billy. Then he proposed. After that, I could never find a moment when the words would come. How could I tell him that story without telling him what I really was?

Too late now, anyway. Mallory leans forward on her elbows, staring at me. Waiting.

So I start my story, and in doing so it’s like Billy is right there with me in the kitchen, nodding his head along, tipping the chair back on its rear legs, which drove our mom insane. I can even smell that stupid Polo cologne he wore, trying to cover up the cigarette smoke.

It was one of those random, accidental parties, where people just started drifting toward a particular house in town. There was a game on TV. People were playing cards in the kitchen, but mostly everyone was just lying around, draped on each other like housecats.

This was Lisa’s place, and we could still smoke there. A haze hung in the room. The doors and windows were open to the summer outside. It was one of those delicious nights when the evening air is a pleasant kind of cool.

Someone started a bonfire outside. I, myself, was at that stage of drunk where I felt so relaxed I was made of liquid, and walked around smiling at everyone. I wandered from the house out to the bonfire and plopped myself in Pete’s lap, tipping us both over in the aluminum lawn chair he’d been sitting in. We all found this hysterical. We detangled, and I picked leaves out of my hair. This time I sat down with exaggerated care, which we all found hysterical once more.

I’m telling Mallory about the poker game that started it all, but my memory is working on another level, going over scenes I much prefer to linger on, scenes that are too private to share. Pete’s strong arm behind my back