Sweet Nothing(3)

I slip the dress over my head and unzip my makeup bag. Swish with mouthwash, dust a shimmery peach blush on the apples of my cheeks, add an extra layer of mascara beneath my new lenses, and slick my lips with nude gloss. Then I tousle my hair with my fingers and spritz the ends with the shine serum I find in the top drawer. I lean over the sink and blink at my reflection.

Your name is Elle Sloane. You are an economics teacher. You just graduated from NYU. You’re an only child. Your parents are married. In love. Your life so far has been normal. Bland. Average. You are happy.

I tilt my head back and blink away the tears I know will come if I let them. This was not supposed to be my life. I tug on my heels, practice a wide smile in the mirror and head for the door, the words echoing in my mind.

You are happy. You are happy. You are happy.

For a second, I almost believe them.





chapter two



Elle,



By the time you check your Email, you’ll be back from your reception. Remember: you always knew how to be the life of the party without trying. If all else fails, show them how you can tie a cherry stem in a bow using only your tongue. Guaranteed to get you serious admiration. Or a date, at least.



Speaking of party tricks, I think I hear Mom transforming from blacked out drunk to conscious, unbearable nightmare! Better go check on her before cocktail hour.



Love you for infinity,



A





Between the guest house and the main house is a lagoon-style infinity pool. White-cushioned teak chaise lounges line the far edge; matching umbrellas and chairs border the other. Floating candles flash like tiny solitaires in the still water. If Aria were here, she’d be wondering aloud if we’d accidentally tripped booty-first into a J. Lo video.

I stand near the infinity edge, where the pool seems to vanish into the bay without so much as a whispered warning. If only it were that easy.

Across the lawn, the main house is ablaze with light and chatter. Cocktail parties have always made me a little nervous. As a little girl, my parents frequently hosted the Who’s who of New York for cocktails and mini food. They’d call Aria and me downstairs to do a twirl or two—Aren’t they just adorable?— and we’d stand there with toothpaste commercial smiles until we were waved away. I’d always felt like our parents had promised their guests something spectacular for the halftime show, and the stakes were too high to disappoint.

You’re an adult now, Elliot. Act like one. I move past the pool and onto the lawn, my heels making divots in the grass with every step. The crowd sipping cocktails on the stone patio looks almost plastic: slick and tanned and perfect. Something out of a CSI: Miami episode. Any second now, someone’s going to find a dead supermodel in the hot tub.

“White cosmopolitan?” The instant I step onto the patio, a tuxedoed waiter appears, offering me a frosted martini glass filled to the brim. Hovering in the center of the glass is a delicate orchid bloom frozen in an ice cube. “It’s our signature drink for the evening.”

“Oh—I, um—” This couldn’t be normal for a school, could it?

“It’s insane. Try it,” says a woman next to me. She looks close to my age and pretty, in a contrived way. Perfectly straight platinum blonde hair, flawless smoky eyes and a glossy pout. She’s wearing a sleeveless black sheath dress with an asymmetrical neckline. Pearl studs dot her ears.

I hesitate. Maybe a stiff drink at my new employer’s house isn’t the best idea.

“If you don’t take it, I will.” A slight southern accent bubbles beneath the surface of the woman’s voice. Charleston, maybe. Savannah.

“Sure. Thank you.” I accept the drink and take a cautious sip. It’s cold and sweet and will go down too quickly if I’m not careful.

“I’m Waverly, by the way.” She smiles a closed-lip smile. “Waverly Wells. Theatre department.”

“Nice to meet you,” I nod politely. “I’m Elle. The new econ teacher.”

“Elle? Trendy.” Her voice is sweeter than the drink.

I grip the stem of my glass. Did she mean to be a bitch, or am I being overly sensitive? “It’s a family name, actually.”

“Oh!” She flutters her lashes. “I didn’t mean—I just think it’s a cool name.” She drains the last of her chardonnay without leaving a gloss print on the rim of her glass.

“Oh. Thanks.” Too sensitive, definitely. I need to relax. I take another, longer sip, feeling the tingly fog of the alcohol as it settles through me. “So, does Dr. Goodwin throw a party like this every year? This is impressive.”

She nods. “He did last year, at least. That was my first year.” Her eyes flit across the crowd; then return to me.