“Another?” Cyrus asks, holding out the bottle.
I thrust my cup toward him, remembering what Adair said about her mother. Drinking is to escape. I’ll drink to that, because I’ve never wanted out more in my life.
We make short work of the bottle. Cyrus provides the entertainment, telling me about every ridiculous birthday party he’s been to at Windfall. He’s just wrapping up the story of the year an interactive haunted house went terribly wrong as we polish off the last of the whiskey.
“You two have known each other a long time.” I like the way my head feels, fuzzy like the old television set Francie kept in the kitchen—so old it used a shitty antenna to pick up the local news.
“We’ve known each other the longest, since like diapers. Most of our friends moved here later, but we’ve always been here.” He tries to pour himself more and frowns when a single drop plops into his glass. “We’re out.”
“Let’s get more.” There appears to be no shortage of booze at Windfall.
“I hated her,” Cyrus says as we trip down the hall, the sound of the party growing louder with each step. “When we were kids, I mean. She was a snot.”
“Ha! Was!” I clap a hand over my mouth, realizing I let this escape.
Cyrus only laughs. “She’s better than a lot of them.”
“Not as nice as Poppy,” I remind him.
“You sure you don’t want to date Poppy?” He raises two eyebrows. Or maybe it’s only one. Or maybe there’s two of him. It’s hard to decide, because things are getting a little blurry around me.
“I belong to Adair MacLaine,” I tell him, “for now.”
“What?” he asks.
I wave him off. “Nothing.”
Before he can press me for more details, we step inside the atrium to discover everyone is still crowded in a semi-circle around Adair. She’s smiling widely and holding something in the air. A purse, maybe? It’s hard to make-out.
“She’s still unwrapping presents?”
“A lot of guests. The girls always have to open every present and fall all over whoever gave it,” he explains.
“And you don’t?”
“No, fuck that.” His answering grin is sly. “Course, we usually just get booze. We’re lucky if anything makes it until morning. We tend to drink it all. Speaking of…” Cyrus points to the bar. “Be right back.”
I study Adair while he grabs more liquor. Her smile is plastered on, dulling at the edges and nowhere near her eyes. There’s a crease between them where she’s worn a line from worry. Or is it anxiety? Frustration? Who the fuck knows? I don’t get her. She claims to want nothing to do with all this, but she steps right up and takes all these gifts, laughs off fifty-dollar party favors, and gulps champagne.
I’m beginning to understand her problem. She wants to believe she doesn’t fit in with this crowd, but it’s just an indulgent fantasy, like the rest of her life. She’s the heroine of her own story, choosing to see herself as a victim waiting to be rescued. But from what? The happy ending that comes along with a padded bank account? Already having everything handed to her?
Yeah, her life is so fucking hard.
“Here.” Cyrus returns and thrusts a new cup in my hand, filled to the brim with whiskey. “The bartender is being a bitch about me swiping another bottle. Apparently, he’s never heard not to bite the hand that feeds him.”
I swallow the drink along with the words crowding in my throat. Of course, he sees it that way. Everything belongs to these people. The world exists for them to take.
“Ahh, this will be her big present.” Cyrus elbows me and I turn my attention back to Adair. Poppy is tying a blindfold over her eyes. Adair looks fucking thrilled about it.
“Her big present?” Because half a department store’s worth of shit isn’t enough?
“From her parents. I mean, her dad,” Cyrus corrects himself quickly.
I frown. “Her dad isn’t here.”
“Yeah, but he left a present.” He looks at me like I’m from another planet.
Maybe I am. Maybe I’m from a planet where dads don’t remember birthdays, so they can’t leave town on them, where there aren’t any presents or cake or music. There’s booze, though, and plenty of it. It’s just not for celebrating or escaping. It’s just a fact of life.
As if I need proof this is the case, the next thing I hear is heavy foot falls, falling like claps of thunder on the marble floor. My head swivels towards the sound to find a jet black horse being led towards Adair.
“Is that a fucking horse?” I’m not sure why I need confirmation. Even with half a bottle of whiskey coursing through my blood, I think I still know what a horse looks like.
“Another one.” He shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing Angus knows she likes. I think it’s like” —he counts on his fingers— “the third one he’s given her as a present. Maybe the fourth. She got one for graduation.”
“Does he know you can only ride one horse at a time?” My mouth is dry. I take another drink to wet it.
“You can only drive one car. That doesn’t mean you only own one.”
That’s pretty much exactly what it means. I keep this to myself, though.
Poppy tugs off Adair’s blindfold, and she gasps, jumping up and down. But there’s something hollow in her actions. I half expect to look up and find puppet strings dangling over her head. She doesn’t need them, though. She knows how all the steps, and how the beats work—she can put on her performance for memory.
God, I hope the horse shits in the foyer.
The man leading the horse takes it away, presumably to the stables, but I don’t know. Maybe she sleeps with them. I no longer hold these people to any measure of sanity I’m familiar with.
“I think they want us,” Cyrus says, nudging my arm with his.
I turn back to Adair, and she’s waving us over.
I resign myself to joining her, but I can’t stop thinking about what she said earlier. She’d told me I was all she wanted for her birthday. Now I know that probably meant on a silver platter, wrapped with a bow, and delivered to her with minimal effort. I’m just another toy—another object, like the presents scattered across the table. Something shiny. Something new. She’ll play with me until she gets bored. If I’m lucky, she’ll pass me off like a hand-me-down or donate me to a bitch less fortunate than herself. Standing in Windfall, I can safely assume even the richest girls here fall in that category.
Why did I ever let myself believe we had a single thing in common?
“Did you see?” Poppy’s glowing with excitement. “An Arabian.”
“A what?”
“An Arabian,” she repeats. “Adair’s always wanted one, and her dad got her one.”
“Lucky girl,” I say pointedly.
Adair’s eyes flash, but she manages a tight smile. “I wanted one when I was like six, Poppy.” She rolls her eyes as if this can offset the extravagant tribute made to birth tonight. “Like I needed another horse.”
“Can you have too many?” I pass it off as a joke, but her forehead wrinkles as she laughs. Some part of her heard it for what it really was: a gentle reminder that she’s being an ungrateful bitch. As usual.