SAINT FUCKING MARK. Death made him a martyr. I guess that’s one thing he and Tabby had in common. She never minded being a martyr either. I know that better than anyone.
His Instagram account is gone now—the police must have shut it down as part of the investigation—but there were other girls in the pictures he used to post. He’d be at a party when he told Tabby he was studying in his dorm. He’d say he forgot his phone at home when he didn’t respond to her messages, but pictures would magically be posted from his account. And she didn’t believe Mark, but she let him get away with it.
I know they had some sort of fight during homecoming, but she didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t press. A few weeks later, when Mark was back at Princeton, we went to the Stop & Shop to get microwave popcorn, me in my ratty pajama bottoms and Tabby in little terrycloth shorts and the red lipstick she suddenly felt the need to wear everywhere. Mark was changing her in myriad ways. Maybe she didn’t feel him in all the different places he now took up space, but I did. The invisible weight on her shoulders. The reluctance to drink a whole milkshake. The need to straighten her hair, even though she saw him only through a computer screen.
“We should get some vegetables or something,” Tabby said. “Maybe with hummus. Mark says it’s a superfood.”
Mark says. Mark says. Whatever Mark was doing, I doubted he was saying, Tabby says. Tabby says I shouldn’t drink so much. Tabby says I have a girlfriend.
“You get hummus,” I said. “I’m getting ice cream. And chips.” We always got ice cream and chips. She headed into the produce section, and I went into frozen foods with a lump in my throat. I hated the Mark-shaped wedge between us.
When I walked back with my pint of Rocky Road, Tabby was bent over a display of refrigerated goods, her ass practically sticking out of her shorts. Then my eyes flitted over to the checkout lines behind us. Maybe it was instinct, to see who was looking. I like to think it was me being protective of Tabby, but it was probably more me being jealous of her. I always feel as if Tabby is a lot harder to overlook than I am, even though so many people tell us we look like sisters. Maybe it’s true, but even with sisters there’s always a pretty one.
Someone was watching that day. Keegan. The way he stared at Tabby, it was like—he was taking notes, or something. That was when I knew. He was watching her, keeping an eye on her. And he wouldn’t have done that unless somebody asked.
She was his prey, and she had no idea, hinged over reading the label on a container of hummus, probably making sure there weren’t too many carbs. He was staring so intently that he had no idea I was there, so intently that I stopped being jealous of Tabby and actually felt scared for her. She was in something with Mark, something bad, and she had no idea. As much as she pretended everything was fine between them, it wasn’t fine at all. She didn’t trust Mark and it was making her paranoid. Mark didn’t trust her and instead of letting it make him paranoid, too, he sent in Keegan to do what he couldn’t. Watch her, and make sure she didn’t step out of line. I was sure he would report back to Mark later: She looked like a slut. If that’s how she dresses when she’s out buying food, can you imagine what she dresses like at school? At parties? Dude, you’re in trouble here.
As I stared, he pulled out his phone. Started typing something. I held my breath. He wasn’t reporting back to Mark later, he was doing it now.
I jogged over to Tabby, my flip-flops smacking the ground. “Did you find what you’re looking for? Because my ice cream’s melting.”
She stood up and tossed her hair over one shoulder, put her phone in her purse. “Yeah. This stuff’s premade. Turns out it’s a hassle trying to make it yourself. I was just googling it. You need tahini, whatever that is. I’m just gonna take the easy way out. Now I need to get some cucumber to dip in it, because otherwise I’ll pig out on chips.”
We went through Keegan’s checkout line. He acted distant, like he was some guy who barely knew us at all, not someone who had drank and played video games with us. “Hey,” he said as he bagged our groceries.
“Hi,” Tabby said. When he put the hummus in the bag, she added, “I’m trying to eat healthy.” As if he cared. As if eating healthy was going to tell Mark to call off his watchdog. I bored holes into his head with my eyes, not even offering a smile as I gave him my debit card.
“You guys up to anything tonight?” he asked as we waited for the transaction to be approved.
“Girls’ night in,” Tabby said at the exact same time I said “You never know what we’ll get up to.”
He didn’t flinch. Just gave me my receipt. I didn’t look back when we left the store, but I knew he was still watching us. Watching her.
“He’s so weird.” The words tumbled out when we were safely outside. “He was, like, staring at you. Like he was planning something.”
She looked at the ground. There were fossilized wads of gum embedded in the cement like some kind of ugly mosaic. “I just don’t think he likes me,” she finally said. “He thinks Mark can do better.”
Instead of being jealous, I felt sorry for her in that moment. Mark, with his perpetual buzz cut and broad shoulders, the possessive way he grabbed her hand in a crowd, like he wanted everyone to know she belonged to him. She had decided that his affection was the benchmark for her worth.
“You’re the one who can do better,” I said.
Tabby wrapped her arm around my waist, then started laughing. “I don’t think so. Have you seen any other contenders?” I laughed, too, but it wasn’t funny at all.