Chapter Eight:

Other People's Lives

Cupping her hands around her hot chocolate, Ashley tried to breathe evenly. She hated coming to these things almost as much as she loved it, which was a very unsettling feeling. The plastic chair was uncomfortable even with its thin vinyl padding and she shifted, trying to get comfortable. Matt flashed her a comforting smile from across the table and Chris put his hand on her back, rubbing it in a small circle.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Oh yeah. Totally. Totally fine."

He frowned, his forehead creasing. If he wasn't careful, he was going to start getting wrinkles soon. She wanted to tease him about it, but couldn't muster up the energy. "Ash, you know you don't have to be here, right?"

"No! No. I want to be here. I do." She smiled and nodded, then took a sip of her too-hot hot chocolate and sputtered. "Ow."

They were just waiting on Mike and Sam. Emily sat slouched in her seat, her latte untouched on the table in front of her. She was fiddling with her phone. Ashley was fairly certain she was trying to look like she was texting, but from the repetitive motion of her fingers, she was pretty sure Emily was just playing solitaire as a way to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

The bell on the bakery door chimed merrily as Mike shoved it open. He gave them a quick wave and headed to the counter. R&A Bakery had been a big thing in high school. It was within walking distance to the campus, so everyone could get there, even if they didn't have a car, and they were open from 5 a.m. until 10 p.m., which made them ideal for both pre-school and post-practice. Ashley had always had a theory that she could map out a schedule of when each group and clique went if she tried, though she never had. Now, of course, it served a different sort of purpose for them.

It had started accidentally, really. Chris had gone there for a bear claw—his old favorite breakfast for before band—and run into Matt, who'd had a similar urge. They got to talking and were surprised when, an hour later, Em had shown up for her own nostalgic treat. It had spiraled from there, with them returning and bringing the others along. Eventually it became a kind of routine. No one had returned to school yet and Ashley suspected they all were just desperate for a bit of normalcy, a taste of what their lives had been before everything had gone so completely insane.

And, with all of them together, their talks had turned to the subject of the mountain and what had happened. The hardest part, Ashley had said more than once, was how no one believed them. The cops had settled on the idea of it being a wild animal attack paired with a prank that got out of hand. It hurt to think about and was worse to say. She couldn't stomach the lie and was convinced she was developing ulcers at the ripe old age of 18. So they shared their stories and tried to piece together exactly what had happened that night, and the night a year before, when the girls had run out into the woods.

Only Jess and Josh were missing from their informal, unnamed club. Josh was on house arrest, from what Ashley understood. She wasn't entirely sure why there weren't charges being laid against him, but she didn't really want to have to talk about it with any more authorities or doctors. Chris had assured her that he was being looked after and that entire armies of specialists were going to make sure he never did anything like that ever again. The blond was the only one who even saw Josh these days. Sam didn't even like to say his name. She always referred to the man in the mask as 'The Psycho' if she mentioned him at all.

Jess was still too injured to leave her house. Ashley had thought about visiting her, but couldn't work up the nerve to do it. She liked Jess. She was fun to be around and always had some crazy idea up her sleeve. But Ashley had always been slightly afraid she would do the wrong thing and become the focus of Jess's enmity. It might have been an unfair level of paranoia, but she couldn't help it.

Besides, the bulk of the group's conversation centered on the wendigos and how they had moved, what they had been and done. So it made sense to have the people who had most interacted with the monsters. Matt, who hadn't actually seen one, even when he'd been lost in the mine after the fire tower collapsed, was mostly there because he had been there from the beginning. She was glad he was, though. He had a calming presence and was often the voice of reason when things got agitated.

Mike slid into the chair next to her, startling her out of her reverie. "Sorry I'm late."

"Sam's not here yet," Chris said, shrugging. "You're good."

"Well, as long as I'm not the most late." He looked stressed out, his eyes a little unfocused and his smile not as easy as it usually was.

"Hey…" Matt seemed to have noticed too. "You okay, man?"

He sighed and absently rubbed his disfigured hand. "It's nothing. It's—" Sighing again, he popped the lid off his coffee and blew on it. "Jess. She's, well… she's off her stay-at-home restriction—."

"But that's good, isn't it?" Em sounded annoyed.

"—she also broke up with me."

Emily snorted at the same time Matt said: "Oh. Dude, that sucks."

"When?" Ashley asked, sympathetically.

"Few days ago. Have any of you heard from her?"

They all shook their heads. Then Emily cleared her throat pointedly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you want to end it anyway?"

"I never said that!"

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Because you're a very subtle man who never makes things incredibly clear without saying them aloud. God, Mike. It was kind of obvious."

He looked stunned. Ashley toyed with the paper sleeve on her cup and took a small sip. Outside, through the open glass walls of the shop, she saw Sam's car pull into the lot and circle around to a space near the bakery.

"What do you mean?" she heard Mike ask.

No one wanted to look at him. Ashley hadn't realized, but then she remembered the weird way he'd spoken about Jess since they'd come back, the kind of weird detachment he'd displayed when they mentioned her. In retrospect, it did make sense. And if there was one thing she knew about Jess, it was that Jess was pretty good at reading people. That was why the prank on Hannah had been so incredibly effective and devastating.

"You don't want me to answer that question," Emily commented, raising her eyebrows in challenge as she finally picked up her drink and tasted it.

The bell rang again as Sam rushed in, looking harried and out of breath. "Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn't think it would take so long to get here." Ashley smiled at her, feeling that familiar friendly level of jealous she always felt of Sam. Even rushed and sweaty, Sam looked great. She'd obviously been at the gym or something; she was wearing leggings and a tank top, a jacket tied around her waist and a headband holding back the tendrils that had fallen loose from her ponytail. She looked like an athletic ad or something, like she should be jogging up Placerita Canyon with a dog at her side, smiling at the morning sun.

At least it was so far from anything Ashley could ever hope to be that the envy was only a vague, nebulous thing. Besides, it was hard to be mad at Sam. Truthfully, Ash was more than a little awed by her. After everything Josh had done, Ashley felt like she'd just turned into a nervous, gibbering idiot. Sam, by contrast, had turned into an action hero.

Oh well. There were roles for all of them, Ashley thought, drinking more of her hot chocolate. And she'd always known she wasn't the action hero type.

"Oh, it's fine," Emily said, smiling coldly at Mike. "We were just hearing about the totally shocking breakup that happened."

"What?" The blonde dropped into a chair and stared at Mike. "You and Jess?"

Mike groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. "You didn't see it coming? I guess that makes me feel a little better."

"Um… give me a sec and let me grab a water, okay?" She patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, shoved herself to her feet again, and hurried up to the cashier.

Ashley loved these meetings and hated them. She took a small bite of her ham and cheese croissant and settled in for what promised to be an interesting, if stressful, time.

-o-

Matt drummed along to the song on the radio, his fingers tapping the steering wheel with a rhythm he knew was off. He looked through the driver-side window up at the house. All the lights were on and even inside his car with the music running, he could hear the rowdy party happening. People were on the lawn and street, shouting and laughing and throwing up and generally fulfilling every college party stereotype he could imagine.

I'm here.

Green truck.

In case you're too wasted to remember what my car looks like.

He tried to fight his impatience as he waited. It wasn't like he wanted to be here, but he also didn't really have anything better to do, so he supposed it more or less evened out. "Come on," he muttered. Three girls stumbled past his car and shrieked with laughter that seemed alien to him now. Once upon a time, this was what he'd imagined for his college experience.

Someone fumbled with the passenger side door and he leaned over and opened it, raising his eyebrows as Mike all-but fell into the cab. "Graceful."

"Thank you!" Mike said proudly with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. He was slurring slightly, but Matt had seen him worse. "And also thank you for picking me up. Real gentlemanly move, my friend. A-plus friendsmanship. Thumbs up. Like. Poke. Etcetera."

"Do not poke me." Pulling away from the curb, Matt kept the car inching along as slowly as possible, just in case one of the party-goers did something stupid. "I'll make your drunk ass walk."

Shoving himself up in the seat and fumbling with the seatbelt, Mike pouted. "I'm not drunk." It took him four tries to get it buckled and he laughed. "I'm not that drunk. But you try being in there without a drink. It's like… being the hall monitor during a pep rally."

"I have no idea what that means."

"Me neither. It'd probably suck though, right?"

Matt continued to drum his fingers on the wheel as he drove. He had the odd urge to apologize to Mike. He'd had it for a while—ever since they'd gotten back from the mountain. They hardly saw each other now, going to different schools, but they'd been teammates and friends once and he felt… It was irrational. Matt knew that. But he still felt like he'd somehow let down his team by being away from the action. He hadn't even seen the monsters, really, except for little flashes here and there that were gone before he could even figure out what they were.

And while everyone else had suffered so much, he was fine. The only mark on him still was the gash across his palm from the fire tower. Everything else had healed without a mark. Plus, it's not like a cut on the hand was anything to complain about when your friend had lost his fucking fingers. "So…" he said finally. "Have fun?"

Staring out the window, Mike snorted mirthlessly. "Yeah. Was great. I love getting drunk and having people try to force girls on me."

"I have no idea if that's sarcasm or not, because I'm pretty sure that actually is something you like."

His gaze rolled around to Matt and he frowned. "I don't know. Is it? I guess it used to be, theoriti—theorti—whatever. It's my housemates. Dan found out that Jess dumped me so the guys kidnapped me from my Mom's and dragged me out to get me breakup laid or whatever you want to call it. I just should have not told him. 'stead I spent the night drinking shitty beer and shitty liquor and having my eardrums broken by the stereo and being all dumb and awkward while everyone kept trying to introduce me to girls." He groaned and pressed his palms against his eyes. "So dumb."

Matt sighed and shook his head. He'd have to go see Jess soon and ask her about Mike. Not that he blamed her at all. Jess's low tolerance for bullshit wouldn't have dealt well with Mike and his weird overprotectiveness. He remembered back when she'd still danced and she'd hurt herself before a show. The slightest hint of a suggestion that she sit it out had been met with an icy stare that he never wanted to see again. Then she'd danced on her ankle anyway and made it worse, but that was neither here nor there.

"Well I'll get you home, dude. You can sleep off the crappy booze and rethink your life."

"Feels like that's all I'm doing these days." Mike's voice was sleepy and miserable.

A question occurred to him. "Hey, Mike?"

He grunted.

"Why did you text me?"

His friend gave him a slight, sad smile. "Who else would have texted me back at this point?"

-o-

Chris took a deep breath, shoved his glasses up his nose, and knocked on the door. There was a soft sound of movement, the shifting of cloth and paper, and then the door opened. Josh leaned in the frame, appraising Chris casually. He was growing to hate that expression: the lazy smile and slight layer of uncertainty he could feel beneath it.

"Conjugal visit? Dreams really do come true."

"Hardy-har har. You're hilarious." He stepped past Josh and into the bedroom. It might be a prison of sorts, but at least it was huge, Chris thought. He had always been totally jealous of Josh. The guy's room was large and had its own bathroom attached. Big windows looked out over the terrace and backyard. Evidence of Josh's evolving obsessions was everywhere, from the telescope in the corner that hadn't been touched in years to the archery equipment shoved onto a shelf.

He sat on the edge of Josh's neatly made bed, ignoring the clothing scattered across it. Josh was always like that—half disaster, half organized. The strap of Chris's watch cut into his wrist and he messed with it idly, trying to think of something to say. Josh shut the door and crossed to his desk, collapsing into the rolling chair and kicking his legs up to rest on the edge. "So…" his friend said, staring up at the ceiling. "Feeling guilty again?"

"What?" Chris frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I assume you're feeling guilty about me and that's what prompted your visit today, yes? That's been the pattern so far, at least."

"I don't feel guilty."

"You shouldn't, but you do," Josh shot him an amused look and Chris scowled. His friend raised his hands defensively. "Hey man, you do you. If feeling bad makes you feel better, go for it. I, for one, choose to rise above such petty human emotions."

The bottom dropped out of Chris's stomach. It was a very Josh thing to say, but the familiar attitude didn't help. Not when he wanted Josh to feel guilt for what he'd done. Somehow, he still just didn't seem to get it. Chris would have thought that Sam never visiting, the constant doctors and new drugs and serious discussions… something should have gotten through his thick Washington skull, and yet he seemed more relaxed and at ease than ever. In fact, Josh was spinning casually in his desk chair, using his feet to propel him in a slow circle as he smiled up at the ceiling.

And yet, for what felt like the thousandth time, Chris just couldn't come up with the words to try to make Josh see what he'd done. It didn't help that they weren't whispering-secrets friends and never had been. They were get-into-trouble friends. Watching-movies-and-melting-army-guys friends. Not quiet-moments, let's-talk friends. Maybe Sam should be here, but Chris couldn't force her to talk to Josh. He wasn't sure he'd even want to try.

Josh was right, too. Not about guilt being a pointless emotion, but about Chris's guilt existing. If he was being honest with himself, that really was a large part of why he kept coming back to visit. Because it was Chris's fault that Josh was here, locked away.

Sure, it wasn't all Chris's fault, but from what he could see… at best he hadn't helped and at worst he was complicit in what Josh had done. He remembered Josh at the girls' funeral, drunk off his ass and laughing as Bob dragged him out. It was the last time he'd seen Josh in person until he'd seen him outside the lodge. That alone should have clued him in. He should have realized. He should have known something was wrong.

Something was wrong with Josh.

But he hadn't. He hadn't connected the dots—or lack thereof—in his brain. And so he'd wandered straight into his best friend's pit of crazy without ever even pausing to consider why things felt odd. That was his fault. He'd been a shit friend. He knew it.

Of course, if they were judging quality of friends… "Fuck you," he said quietly. "Fuck you, Josh."

Josh froze for a moment, then continued his lazy rotation. "You're not my type."

There must be something broken in his brain too, Chris thought, for continuing to come back here over and over again. Wasn't that the definition of insanity? Trying the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Well, that probably wasn't any kind of actual definition, but it sure was hard to shake. "You're an asshole."

"You knew that when you married me."

"So I'm both not your type and we're also married?"

"It is a sad and sexless marriage, I'm afraid."

It was like talking to a bad sitcom character. There was always some witty rejoinder. The blond man threw his arms in the air and flopped back onto the bed. "Jesus. You're impossible."

Josh laughed, a low, soft chuckle. "Impossibly gorgeous, maybe." He had the tone of quoting something, but Chris couldn't place it or bring himself to care enough to ask.

Something dug painfully into Chris's back and he shoved himself back up again. The dark green comforter was pulled tight and smooth, littered with shirts. Chris ran his hand over the surface of the bed and frowned as his hand hit something hard. Glancing over, he found Josh staring at him, eyes wide. He covered it quickly, his face relaxing back into the perfect, studied relaxed-and-amused expression he'd perfected in high school. "What the hell is that, Josh?"

He shrugged. "A book or something. I wasn't paying attention when I made the bed this morning."

"Bull-fucking-shit." Chris yanked the blankets down and grabbed the laptop. It looked vaguely familiar. It wasn't Josh's computer, obviously, since he knew for a fact that the Washingtons had taken all of Josh's electronics except his old, nearly-broken CD player. "What the fuck is this?" His voice spiked annoyingly as he waved it in the air. "Is this Hannah's? Beth's? Where the hell did you get this?"

Josh rushed towards him, waving his hands. "No-no-no. Dude. Keep your voice down. Please."

"Why? Why the fuck should I? You know you aren't supposed to have this. Why else would you hide it? And it such a shitty spot too. Idiot."

"No, okay, look. It's just… I'm just so bored. I'm so bored. I'm just browsing the web. That's it. Reading NPR articles and looking at colleges I'll never go to. Okay?" Chris hadn't heard Josh sound so anxious in a long time. It a weird way, it calmed his anger.

He raised his eyebrows. "So you do care about being locked up here? You don't just think it's some funny parental foible?"

Josh pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned. "Of course I care. This fucking sucks, bro. I hate this. I hate being locked in this house, in this stupid fucking room. Please, just…" He sighed, dropping his hands. He looked tired, Chris thought, but Josh always looked tired. "Do whatever you want. Tell Dad if you feel like you should. I just… I get so bored."

This was a mistake. This had to be a mistake. A bad idea. An A1 disaster of an idea. Chris looked at the laptop and considered. What could Josh do, locked up here, even if he did have internet access? It wasn't like any of them were talking to him anyway. And if he tried, the others would bust him instantly. It was all too easy to imagine being in Josh's situation, stuck in this house. It might be big, but he could see how the lack of freedom chafed at Josh.

He didn't want Josh to suffer.

That had been the most surprising realization after they'd gotten back from the lodge. He was angry at Josh. A large part of him hated Josh. But he also didn't want Josh to be in pain. He just wanted Josh to understand what he'd done, to feel even the slightest trace of guilt for his actions, and to work to get better.

That was really what it boiled down to: he wanted Josh to get better.

Carefully, Chris set the laptop back on the bed and pulled the covers over it again, smoothing them into place. He shot Josh a wry look and pointed at him. "Don't make me regret this, dipshit. Okay?" Josh's relieved, breathless laugh made Chris feel a little better about his decision. It might only be a small thing, but it made Josh seem slightly more human, slightly more like the cocksure-yet-insecure friend he'd known since childhood. He wagged his finger at Josh and repeated: "Don't make me fucking regret this."

-o-

The vodka burned Sam's throat as she drank and she broke off, coughing. On the couch, Emily raised her eyebrows. "Uh… Are you going to die, Sam? Because that wasn't the plan."

She waved the other girl's comment away and laughed bitterly. "No such luck." Em's eyes narrowed suspiciously and Sam rushed to continue. "I don't mean that. I'm not… I don't… Yeah. I'm good." Smooth, Sam. Smooth. Holding the glass up, she shook it, sending the remaining vodka sloshing up the sides. It looked so innocent—like water—but the smell made it clear that it wasn't.

The silence was more than a bit awkward. Honestly, Sam wasn't even sure why she'd ended up here. Sure, she knew the timeline and course of events that had resulted in her sitting in Emily's den drinking vodka, but the 'why' was a more elusive concept. It had started when she had dozed off in her car and had a nightmare about the Psycho chasing her through the streets of their city. The streets had been empty, but she'd been naked again, clinging to her towel for dear life. She'd woken up still hearing his husky voice. "Here little kitty. Here pussy pussy."

She'd wanted a drink. More than that, she'd wanted a way to forget, if only for a while. Sam had never been too much of a drinker. She'd have a drink at parties sometimes, but it had never really been her thing. It had always seemed too easy to lose control and the few times she'd overindulged and gotten crazy had left her feeling unsettled and anxious the next day.

Now she felt unsettled and anxious all the time, so really… Who gave a fuck?

The biggest problem was that, because she'd never been much for booze, she didn't have the slightest idea how to go about getting some. She didn't have a fake ID and her parents didn't have anything in the house except for the dregs of a bottle of wine from last week. That wasn't good enough. But there were two people in their group of friends who'd always been able to get their hands on alcohol: Josh and Emily.

Obviously only one of those was a viable option.

She took another sip, trying to keep from wincing. Emily snorted. "Wow. Not a vodka person?"

"Not really a drinking person," Sam said, taking another sip.

"And you texted me to drink because…?"

"Because I figured you were the one least likely to interrogate me." She raised her eyebrows pointedly at Em, who rolled her eyes.

"Just because I'm less nosy than Jess doesn't mean I'm not nosy at all. That's like looking at the Niagra Falls and assuming that no other waterfall exists."

"That is a very long, odd analogy. I like it though." Sam was a lightweight. She could already feel a slight humming in her lips and bit them as a test. That was always her surest way to tell how drunk she was getting. Her lips would feel like they were going numb. She scooted forward to drop off the chair and onto the carpet, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Thanks for this."

Emily shrugged. "You're the only one who seems to want to drink with me these days. Matt doesn't drink anymore, Jess—" She broke off, shrugging again. "And the last thing I want to do is hang out with any of my old… friends." Her mouth twisted slightly as she said it and she took a swallow of her own vodka, making it look easy.

"Okay, you need to teach me how to do that."

"What, drink?"

"Not cough every time you take a sip."

The other girl met her gaze evenly, face stony and set. "Drink more. That's how you get better at it. You drink. Like any self-respecting teenager."

"That…" Sam cast around for something to say. She really didn't know Emily that well. Was this the moment for a joke? Or for comfort? She took a small drink to stall for time and settled on: "…is depressing as hell."

Emily raised her glass in a grim salute and drained it. "True. But who am I to argue with the stereotypes well-defined by bad teen movies?" She set the glass down and stretched, arching her back and groaning slightly as she seemed to work through tension. They were sitting in the game room at Emily's house: a downstairs den that house two overstuffed leather sofas, some chairs, a pool table, and a bar. Sam had never been to Emily's house before and couldn't help but compare it to the Washingtons'. Both houses were huge—in fact, they were somewhat near each other—but the Davis house seemed more cleanly designed, even to Sam's untrained eye. It had a long, sloping driveway, a three-car garage, a grand entryway, and lemon trees all over.

Years spent with the Washingtons had helped to inoculate Sam against the intimidation of wealth, but Emily's family was different and it was throwing her off. The house didn't have any movie posters or awards or props placed on display, but she'd already spotted several paintings and she had the feeling that, if they were what she suspected they were, their insurance payments alone were worth more than her life.

That, and between Beth, Hannah, and Josh, the Washingtons' house had always possessed a kind of chaos, with books and clothes and other random stuff strewn here and there. Emily was an only child and moved in the hallways with a type of learned reverence. The rooms seemed arranged but untouched, like a perpetual open house.

Down in the game room, Emily seemed to relax a little, stripping off her sweater and tossing it over the arm of the sofa. She caught Sam's look and misinterpreted it, arching an eyebrow. "What? It's hot."

"Your house is really nice," she offered, taking another sip. As the alcohol did what it was supposed to do, she felt herself calming down a bit, her throat and stomach accepting the booze more easily. "Really, really nice."

Em's forehead creased in a frown and she poured herself more vodka. "I guess."

"No, it really is. I—"

"Sam, I have to ask you something." Emily wasn't looking at her, staring down at the glass in her hands. For a split second, her eyes darted up to Sam's, then away again. "…nevermind."

She laughed, startled, and leaned over to swat lightly at Emily's knee. Alcohol was making her bold, apparently, since Em's usual aura of hostility didn't bug her at all. "No way. Now you have to tell me. You mentioned it, which means it's important, which means that you, just, have to tell me. It's the law."

"No it isn't."

"Yep. Fairly sure. It's a law." Sam's smile faded and she gestured to Emily. "Come on. Seriously. We have to talk about something, right?"

"Do you really think Mike would have shot me?" The moment the words were out, Em closed her eyes, jaw clenching. She took a long drink, still pointedly not looking at Sam.

"Oh." Her stomach clenched painfully and she looked down into her glass, searching for something to say. It hadn't even occurred to her. After the realization about Hannah, the monsters, Josh… She had almost forgotten about the incident in the safe room. How could she have forgotten? Why hadn't she already talked to Emily about this? You're such a good friend, Sam, she scolded herself. "Oh, Emily…" She reached forward to rest her hand on the closest part of Emily she could reach: her shin.

Her leg jerked away, her eyes springing open again. "Don't 'oh Emily' me. Forget I asked." She swirled her drink and tried to look casual, but now that the question had been voiced, Sam could see through Emily's uncaring façade.

She struggled for something to say, something to keep Em from flinching away again. Thinking for a long moment, Sam pursed her rapidly numbing lips. "No," she said finally. "I don't think he would have. Because he couldn't. You saw that."

"He wanted to."

"He did not want to. Em, don't do that to yourself."

Emily's shoulders hunched defensively. "I'm not doing anything. It's—whatever. I know he hates me." Her voice dropped and she took another resigned drink. "Not like he'd be the first."

"Em—" Sam cut herself off before she could drop into the sympathetic tone the other girl hated so much. It wasn't meant to be pitying; it was pure empathy. She was angry at herself. How had she not thought about Emily? The fact that they weren't close friends shouldn't enter into it. She had let herself get so caught up in her own issues that she'd forgotten to check in on everyone else. "He doesn't hate you. Honestly, I think he's intimidated by you. Most of us are," she offered with a slight smile. "Em, he couldn't do it. And from what he's said… I think he hates that he even considered it. He couldn't have shot you any more than I could have shot you or anyone else. He—all of us—were panicking. That's not an excuse. Just an explanation."

"Don't lie."

"I'm not lying!" Sam set her glass on the coffee table and climbed awkwardly onto the couch next to Em. Again, she thanked her low tolerance and the disgusting vodka for letting her set aside her worries about Emily biting her head off. Although, truthfully, she didn't seem that much different than Beth sometimes. Beth had been prickly too. She hadn't liked anyone to see her weaknesses. Sam's never-voiced theory had been that Beth felt guilty showing emotions when her siblings were both such walking disasters already. "We're not that close, right?"

Emily gave a jerking, stubborn shrug instead of answering.

"We're not. So that's why you should believe me. I have nothing to lose by telling you the truth, right? Except possibly access to vodka, which is vile anyway." The other girl's head dropped forward, straight black hair hanging down around her face. Sam bumped Emily lightly with her shoulder. "That was a joke. The vodka part. Well, not that it's vile, since it is, but that I'm just using you for vodka."

"I'm fine," Emily muttered.

"Why?" Sam asked, frowning. "You shouldn't be. You don't have to be."

"Yeah right."

Leaning forward, Sam poured them each more vodka. She continued speaking, voice soft and thoughtful as she considered the situation. "You really don't, though. None of us are. I'm not sure why you'd be the exception. Mike's a mess. I know you haven't been around him much, but it's true. He's trying so hard not to fall to pieces that he's almost fooled himself, but he's not fine. You've seen Ashley. Chris is halfway in denial about everything, including the stuff with… the stuff with the Psycho. And I'm… I'm having nightmares. All the time. Every night. I'm sure the others are too. So you don't have the be 'fine,' Em. None of us would think less of you for talking about it or letting it show."

Rolling the glass between her hands, Em shook her head, hair swinging from side to side. "I don't give a shit what any of you think."

Sam's lips quirked up at that. "Don't lie," she said, aping Emily's earlier words. "You care way more than you want us to think. Don't worry, though. I won't tell everyone that Emily is actually a big ol' softie."

Her voice was flat. "I would kill you."

"You would try," Sam bumped her again and took a swig of vodka. It really wasn't so bad once you were warmed up. "I'm pretty sure I'm faster than you. I climb things too. I'd just zip up a tree and then you'd be screwed."

"Excuse me? I climbed too! I was a fucking boss in the mine. Just because there weren't any witnesses doesn't mean it didn't happen." Emily tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared at Sam. "Actually, I did it in jeans and not in workout gear, which makes it even more impressive."

"Why?"

"Um, have you seen how tight my jeans are?"

Sam felt herself flush. As if anyone with eyes had missed the way that Em's jeans hugged the curve of her… She cleared her throat, her throat suddenly dry, and took another sip. "Good point." She dragged her mind back to their earlier topic. "Seriously, though. It's okay to be upset. You're human. That's a good thing."

After a long moment, Emily once more downed her drink. Sam couldn't tell how the alcohol was hitting the other girl, but there were spots of color high on her cheeks and she seemed looser, more relaxed. "I guess."

"Have you—um—have you had nightmares? About the mine?"

"No," Em said softly. "All my nightmares are about Mike. Or Matt. Or Jess. I get shot or Matt abandons me or Jess never gets found. I don't dream about the monsters. I probably should, huh?"

"Matt abandons you? Jess dies?" Sam prompted, drinking. Her lip was definitely numb now, her hands getting a little clumsy. "What do you mean?"

Rolling her eyes, Emily slumped back into the couch, her empty glass in her hands. "It's stupid. I guess I just knew… when the fire tower collapsed and Matt tried to help me, I just had this moment where… Do you ever have moments where a realization hits you? Hard, and out of the blue? I looked up at him, at his sweet, worried face, and I just thought 'he should ditch me.' I deserved it."

Sam chose not to comment on the last statement. "He didn't though. Matt didn't abandon you. He wouldn't do that. He cares about you."

She snorted, but her voice was fond. "Yeah. Idiot." Em kicked her feet up to rest on the table. Her toes, with their perfect, dark blue pedicure, pointed and flexed for a moment. "We broke up, you know?"

"Oh. No, I didn't."

"Not sure you can call it a break up, really, since it's not like we were really together. Just a plan that backfired." She glanced at Sam and her forehead furrowed, confused. "Why do you keep doing that?"

Sam started. "Doing what?"

"Biting your lip."

She giggled. "Oh, it's just this dumb thing I do to figure out how drunk I am. My lower lip goes numb." Reaching for the bottle, she fumbled grabbing it and her smile grew. "Jeez. Okay. Maybe I should slow down. So… why were you with him then? What was the 'plan'?"

"I don't know. Something about getting back at Jess."

"For stealing Mike?"

Emily burst out laughing. "Oh my god. No. Mike can go fuck himself. She certainly didn't steal him from me. That would imply that I lost something by not dating him anymore." Slowly her laughter calmed and she poured herself and Sam more vodka. "I—god, it's so stupid." Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair and took a sip. Her eyes softened and she looked sadder than Sam could remember ever seeing. "How did you know? With Beth?"

At the mention of Beth's name, Sam went still. It felt like all her muscles were too weak to move. She'd hoped that maybe time or alcohol—or both—might help her stop reacting so painfully every time she even heard the name. It was manageable after a moment; it always was. Taking a steadying breath, she focused on Emily's fumbling question. "How did I know what?"

"Did she make the first move?" Em's voice had no hesitation, but she sounded oddly distant, lost in her own thoughts. "Or did you? Or did it just sort of happen spontaneously at the same time?"

These memories were warm. Thinking back on Beth's nervously fidgeting hands and awkward smile, Sam felt the ache of loss ease slightly. It was nice to focus on the good things, even if that seemed increasingly difficult. "We danced around each other for a while. I was always over, because of Han, and things just got more and more tense. Good tense. But she was my friend first, you know? It wasn't until…" She wasn't sure if she was allowed to talk about the night they'd first kissed. It felt like betraying a confidence. The moment she realized what her hesitation was, though, she quashed it and plowed forward. She didn't owe Josh anything. Not anymore. "The night Josh tried to kill himself. She called me in a panic and I went over to see her. Han wasn't home. Han didn't know until later. But she was so upset that I wanted to comfort her and she—she was a lot like you. You guys are kind of scary. Hard to comfort."

Emily made a grumpy, offended noise and Sam reached out to tap Em's bare toes with her sock-covered ones, smirking. "You are. You know you are, Miss Bitch-Queen. You're not allowed to get offended that someone interprets your behavior exactly the way you want it to be interpreted. Anyway. It just sort of happened. I kissed her and she kissed me back and it went from there. It just felt right." She flashed Emily a self-deprecating smile. "Sorry. That was pretty rambling of me."

"Jess kissed me," Em said abruptly.

"…oh. Um… when?"

"After winter formal." She glanced at Sam, who couldn't read her expression. Taking another drink, she continued, voice still oddly detached. "I kissed her back, but it… I wasn't… I'm not sure if I…"

Sam waited in the silence, studying Emily. Then she asked, as gently as possible: "If you like girls? Or if you like her specifically?"

"Both." A breathless, frustrated laugh burst from Emily as she threw her free hand into the air. "Oh my god. I can't believe I'm talking about this."

"Wait, seriously?" Sam scooted over on the couch, turning and folding her legs under her as she regarded her friend. "You haven't talked about this with anyone? That was ages ago. But then… What was up with your falling out and Mike and Matt and all that—" Sam's eyes widened, her inebriated brain putting the pieces together slowly. "Oh. You turned her down."

A nod confirmed the theory.

"And you were kind of a bitch about it, huh."

"Hey! I didn't mean to. I just freaked out. I don't know. I also never…" She shoved Sam's shoulder lightly and overbalanced, a bit of her drink splashing onto her pants. "Shit! Fuck!"

The level of anger and agitation in her voice seemed far more than what was reasonable for a small amount of clear liquid landing on black pants. Quickly, Sam grabbed her sweatshirt from where it rested on her original chair and pressed it against Emily's leg to soak up what little vodka had spilled. But she wasn't just upset about the spill, Sam knew. It was more than that. She remembered the first crush she'd had on a girl—Jemma with the pretty curls back in fifth grade—and the worries she'd had. Sam had been lucky. She'd had years of self-awareness and a supportive family and great friends and Beth. If Em hadn't even considered this until her best friend had kissed her?

Sam pulled her sweatshirt back into her lap and considered. Ultimately, she settled on being blunt. It was Emily Davis, after all. "Do you like Jess like that?"

Emily flinched, hesitated, then finally gave a gesture that was half shrug and half head-shake. "I don't know. I don't think so. Or at least, not now, with Jess so… I couldn't deal with it if she was hurt even more. Not after everything else." Another irritated groan. "Jesus. I sound so fucking ridiculous. You wanted to get drunk and now you're listening to me babble mindlessly about stupid shit that doesn't matter. It's fine. It's all—"

"Emily?" The girl looked at her and Sam smiled. "Don't do that. At least with me, okay? And I don't just mean when we're drinking. Can you stop pretending like you don't have feelings? It's getting kind of old. Especially now that I know you have an actual heart under there." She reached out unthinkingly and brushed her fingers against the thin white cotton over Emily's chest. If she was worried the gesture might seem overly intimate, Emily didn't seem to think so. Or at least, she didn't seem to mind. "Personally, I like this version of Em. She's much less scary."

"You were never scared of me. You aren't scared of anything."

Sam's smile faded. "I wish that was true. And besides, aren't you the one who isn't scared of anything?" Emily's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining.

There wasn't any more she could say after that. She let her head fall to rest on Em's shoulder. The room smelled like vodka and perfume she realized now was Emily's: jasmine and pear and other flowers she couldn't name. The silence, far from being uncomfortable, was like a blanket wrapping them both up. Em's warm fingers felt like trust, like a small but beautiful gift.