Only If You’re Lucky

It takes a few hours for me to finally fall asleep, my childhood bed feeling more foreign than my room back at Rutledge. Nestled between bursts of deep dreams that always startle me back awake—scared and sweaty, eyes darting madly around the room like my own body can’t remember where I am—I come to realize that my mother is right. She’s right about all of it.

The reason I haven’t been back is that I’m avoiding them, her. Here. The last conversation that took place in this very room.

I knew it the second Eliza started seeing him again. It was like an intuition, barely there, my eyes picking up on the subtle way she would smile when her phone chimed at night or how she’d started getting dressed up again any time we ventured out onto the dock. She had kept her distance for a while, the break-in spooking her just enough, but it didn’t last long, the pull of his attention stronger than anything I could say to convince her to stay away. And I’ll admit it: I liked the fact that I had been right. All along, I had been right about Levi. I had been right to be wary of him and it was always so tempting to remind her of that, the ever-present urge to pick at the crust of a scab before it could fully heal. I don’t know why I did it. I was boasting, I guess, reminding her in my own little way that I was useful, necessary.

I had seen something she hadn’t—but Eliza, she hated it. She resented me for picking up on what she didn’t.

“How can you just forget about him breaking into your house?” I asked one night, hands on my hips, the anger surging out of me as she tapped away at her phone. Even though graduation was approaching, only a handful of days left before we were set to walk across the stage, I had to ask her about it. I had to know. I knew it would only be temporary—only one more summer spent with Levi lingering and then we would both, finally, be free—but I couldn’t handle the thought of her keeping something from me, something secret. Something as big as this. “Eliza, that is such a violation. We should have called the cops.”

I realized, too late, that I was mirroring the way my mother sometimes stood when she was berating me about a mediocre test score, her judgment like a physical thing between us, sucking the very air out of the room. Even my tone was the same, harsh and grating, so I dropped my hands to my sides, suddenly unsure where to put them.

She looked up at me, a beat of silence before she dropped her phone onto my bed.

“He said he didn’t do it.”

“What do you mean—” I started, then stopped, my eyes growing wide as understanding dawned. “You asked him about it?”

“Yes,” she said. “I asked if he came into the house while we were gone.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he would never do that. That there had to be some other explanation.”

“Well, yeah, of course he’s gonna deny it—”

“I could have misplaced the picture, Margot. Maybe my mom took it to use in the yearbook or something. We never even told my parents it was missing.”

“That’s stupid,” I said. “You didn’t misplace it.”

“Levi also suggested that maybe you took it.”

I stared at her, a wave of disbelief washing over me, trying to process what she just said.

“What?” I asked, although I heard her fine. I just wanted her to repeat it. I wanted to give her a second to reconsider what she just said; the opportunity to apologize, take it back. “He said that?”

“He suggested it.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said it made sense.”

I blinked—two, three times—a substantial silence settling over us. It had been almost an entire year of Levi trying to weasel his way between us, break us apart like a splinter in dried wood, but that was the very first time he had been so deliberate about it. Like instead of just sitting back and waiting for the crack to travel, growing slowly, naturally, until the fissure was complete, he decided to take a sledgehammer to it. Smashing us to smithereens.

“You’ve done it before,” she said, averting her eyes, like she was suddenly embarrassed for me.

“What do you mean?”

“You collect things. I’ve seen you take stuff out of my room before … ticket stubs, receipts—”

“That’s different,” I said, my cheeks burning at the knowledge that she had seen. At all the little mementos that were stashed away in that very room, at that very moment. “I would never steal something of yours.”

“You wouldn’t?” she asked, infuriatingly calm.

“No, I wouldn’t. Besides, why would I steal a picture and blame it on Levi?”

“Because you hate him, Margot. You’ve always hated him.”

“I don’t hate him—”

“Yes, you do!” she yelled, finally getting angry. “Just admit it. Why wouldn’t you try to turn me against him?”

“I just have a bad feeling about him, okay?” I yelled back, throwing my arms in the air. “I’m trying to protect you!”

“I don’t need you to protect me. You’re not my mother.”

“Yeah, but I’m your friend,” I said, trying to calm down. I walked toward the bed and took a seat on the edge, resting my hand between us. “There’s just something about him that bothers me, Eliza. Something that doesn’t feel right.”

“You’re being dramatic,” she said.

“I’m not being dramatic.”

“Okay, then you’re being jealous,” she snapped, standing up and stalking across the room. “Christ, Margot, what is it with you? Am I not allowed to have other friends now? A boyfriend?”

“Yes, of course you can have other friends,” I said. “It’s just … he’s too…”

“Too what?” she asked, hands stuck to her hips. “Too cute? Nice? Interested?”

“Clingy!” I yelled again, too frustrated to keep my voice down. “He’s obsessed with you, Eliza. It’s not healthy. It’s weird.”

“Well, I guess that makes two of you.”

I froze, her words hitting me like a slap to the face. I stared at her as the silence mounted and I could tell she regretted it instantly. I could tell, the second she said it, that she wanted to reel it back in, swallow it back down, but no matter how she apologized, no matter how she backtracked, it was out in the open now. The way she really felt.

“I didn’t mean that—” she started, but I held my hand up, shook my head.

“Clearly you did.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t. It’s just … I have a lot going on right now, okay? And I really like him, and you’ve been trying so hard to break us apart—”

“Get out,” I said, standing up myself and pointing to the door. I had to look to the side then, lip quivering, trying not to show the mounting tears crawling up my throat. The cry threatening to spring free with a single glance in her direction. “I tried to warn you.”

“Margot—”

“I tried to keep you safe,” I said, finally turning to face her, surprised to find that she was crying, too. “I’m not breaking you apart, Eliza. He’s breaking us apart. He’s manipulating you.”

“Just sit back down,” she said, gesturing to the bed. “We can talk about it.”

“I already tried that,” I interrupted, my voice cold as I grabbed her wrist and ushered her out of my bedroom. It wasn’t the first time we had tried to hurt each other like that, our words more painful than any physical act of violence; our tongues sharper than any freshly whetted blade. We knew each other’s weaknesses better than we knew our own—we had touched every single soft spot, pushed on them like purple bruises just because we could—but until that moment, I never stopped to wonder what would happen if we went for the kill. Never even considered the possibility of one fatal blow that had the power to end it all.

“I tried to talk but you wouldn’t listen,” I continued. “You’re choosing him over me.”

“That’s not true,” she said, whimpering in the hall.

“Congratulations, you fell for it.”

“Margot, stop—”

“He’s gonna hurt you, Eliza. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“And whenever it happens,” I said, staring at her in the hallway, those bright pink eyes and tear-streaked cheeks begging me not to say it, “don’t call me.”