Sherri had laid her evening bag (also gold, also purchased at Bobbles and Lace) on one of the many cocktail tables scattered across the lawn. There were at least five people in the pool, and others hovering around, looking like they wanted to join in. Once the pool extravaganza was under way she slid the phone out of her evening bag and looked at it, and her heart jumped directly into her throat and nearly straight out of her body. The text was from Alexa.
I think you should come back. I’m scared. I’m really sorry but I found out who you are.
Sherri’s response to this text was visceral, immediate, physical. She left her shoes where they were, took her phone, and ran over to the side of the lawn, where she threw up into the bushes, just beyond where the outdoor lights reached. Her entire body was shaking. Her legs could scarcely hold her up.
I’m coming home, she texted back. I’ll be right there.
Could she drive with the alcohol in her system? Should she? No, she shouldn’t, but did she have a choice? Would she be faster running home?
No. She couldn’t run in this outfit, and walking would take too long. She’d have to drive. The fear had sobered her up. She’d be fine.
But when Sherri got out to the driveway she saw that her car was blocked in by all the partygoers who had arrived after her. It would take some serious maneuvering to get it out. She saw Melanie wandering around the driveway too. “I’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Melanie said. “I’m looking for Rebecca’s Acura. But I can’t find it.”
“I’ve got to get out of here too,” said Sherri.