Six Months Later
August 19, 2023
6:04 p.m.
The drink was in front of me, glistening, the deep burgundy color of the liquid, the peel of an orange slice floating across the surface, a large hunk of ice clinking around in the perfect lowball glass.
I took out my phone, snapped a photo, felt the strong urge to post it. But then I slipped my phone back into my pocket. The caption I’d composed in my head—celebrating six months of sobriety with a Phony Negroni!—seemed suddenly unnecessary. I didn’t need to announce it to the world. It was enough to know it for myself.
I took a sip, savoring it. Knowing there would be no hangover the next day. No bad decisions that night.
“You made it.”
I turned to see Siobhan, resplendent in a sparkle-blue halter dress, a glass of bubbly in her hand.
“I did. Thanks for inviting me.” I nodded to the drink. “And this is fake, by the way. Don’t worry.”
She smiled softly. “I wasn’t. I heard through the grapevine that you were sober. I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then I gestured around the room. “And I’m happy for you. I can’t believe you pulled all of this together so fast—I mean, you did it. You really did it.”
Siobhan sighed, and a bit of moisture crept into her eyes that she managed to brush away without messing up her makeup. “Allison deserves it, you know.”
“Of course she does.” I took a sip of my drink, then let my eyes rest on hers. “I really am sorry, Siobhan. For everything.”
“I know you are,” she said.
She was tapped on the shoulder by a man in all black, who whispered in her ear.
“I have to go,” she said. “They want me to say a little something to open.”
“Of course,” I said. “Go.”
I watched as she was whisked away, out of the bar, through the doors into the auditorium where we’d all be headed in a few minutes.
I hadn’t seen Siobhan since that horrible night in February. Since we were piled into a police van, our hands clasped the entire time, until we were taken to a small-town station where we separated and both gave our statements. Frank had come to get me, and I didn’t know who had gotten Siobhan—maybe Charlie—but we didn’t see each other after that.
I’d heard that she was working on a movie—but not, apparently, the one that I’d seen elements of in her notebooks and on her laptop. It was a documentary about Allison, about what had happened to the two of them that night and in the days after, the way life had mimicked art to take Allison away way too soon. When Siobhan had reached out, asking for an interview, I had instantly agreed, hoping for a chance to see her, to reconnect, only to be disappointed when Siobhan didn’t show for the interview, had her video assistant feed me the questions instead. So when I received the email that an early cut of the film was complete, that there would be a big launch party before it hit the festival circuit, of course I jumped at the chance to come.
And now, here I was, in a room of strangers—people who’d known Allison, people from Siobhan’s former ad agency, a couple of friends I’d seen at parties, others who’d read about it in New York magazine—but had barely exchanged more than a few words with Siobhan.
I took a sip of the drink in my hand and positioned myself at the edge of the room, wishing I’d asked someone to come with me, feeling suddenly out of place. I was thankful when I heard a voice booming over the speaker: “Please proceed to the auditorium.”
Just outside the entrance to the auditorium, a girl was handing out programs in front of a poster featuring red text on a dark blue background, a neon motel sign in one corner, an old-school motel key in the other.
Wild and Precious
A film by Siobhan Jones
I nearly gasped when my eyes caught the girl’s.
“McKenzie?” I asked, dumbfounded. She looked so different, in a chic black dress, her hair in glossy waves that came just to her shoulders, her skin clear. “From the motel?”
McKenzie laughed. “I haven’t seen you since you tried to tell me a killer was going to get me if I went outside. I continue to maintain that avoiding cops is always the best policy.”
Her voice had a confidence now, one that wasn’t youthful bravado but something a bit more real.
“I was worried about you,” I said. “I didn’t want you—”
“I know, I know,” she said, handing out programs as more people shuffled through. “You meant well. Everyone did.” She glanced around. “Everyone does.”
“What are you doing here?”
McKenzie grinned. “Siobhan interviewed me for the project, and then I guess we kind of kept in touch. She invited me to come stay with her for a weekend in Brooklyn, and I loved it so much I just…haven’t gone back.”
“You’re living with Siobhan?”
She laughed again. “No, no. I mean, I was for a week, yeah. But then I got a job at Trader Joe’s, and I found a cheap enough room on Craigslist—Siobhan fronted me the money for the security deposit—and she gets me random production assistant gigs at her old agency sometimes. I’m going to school here in the fall.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Yep,” she said. “No more motel-room crashing for me. And there isn’t a damn thing my parents can do to stop me.”
“That’s…amazing,” I said. “Good for you.”
She passed out programs to a few more stragglers, then seized up.
“Wow,” she said. “I didn’t expect him to show. Since he had to know I was going to be here, too.”
I turned to where she was looking, spotted Jeremy in the corner, sipping on red wine. His eyes connected briefly with mine, and he smirked ever so slightly, then looked down, like he hadn’t even seen me. Examined his phone.
“Did Siobhan invite him?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” she said. “She and I talked a bit about Jeremy, and she helped me realize it maybe wasn’t the best thing for me at the time—she said it probably wasn’t the best thing for her, either; we had this big long discussion about consent and stuff, like she was my mom—except what am I saying, my mom would never talk about anything like that.” McKenzie laughed. “Anyway, Siobhan did interview him; she interviewed everyone who was there the night Allison died—well, except Tyler, of course. Shocking, really. I always thought he was so nice.” Her eyes went back to Jeremy. “I suppose Jeremy can’t resist the chance to see himself on the big screen. And look”—she pointed to the other side of the room—“there’s Maisy.”
I followed McKenzie’s gaze to a woman in all black sipping on something bubbly, talking to a group that had surrounded her.
“It can’t be good press for the Twilite,” I said.
McKenzie’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you kidding? My parents said she’s raking it in. People, man. Bunch of morbid assholes. Tripping over themselves to take selfies where a woman was murdered.”
“Wow,” I said. I thought of that binder full of profiles, the way Maisy had sussed us all up, deciding what was best for business. I hated both the games she played and the way she seemed to always win them, even when tragedy struck. “Do you know—did she end up getting her way with the property lines?”
McKenzie shook her head. “She and Jeremy are still battling it out, and Denise put her land up for Tyler’s bail, so who knows what’s going on there. I guess Maisy can fight with the state of New York now.” She shrugged. “But anyway, I better get inside,” McKenzie said. “I don’t want to miss Siobhan’s little speech.”
“Me, either,” I said.
McKenzie hesitated at the door. “Siobhan was really hoping you’d come,” she said. “She misses you, you know.”
“Oh,” I said. “I got the sense she’d like me to kind of keep my distance.”
The girl tugged at a loose thread of her dress. “She’s still working through…what you did…with her ex.”
I felt my face flush scarlet.
“But, I mean, she knows that you were really fucked up when it happened.” She glanced to the glass in my hand.
“It’s a mocktail,” I said. “I’m not drinking anymore.” I glanced around. “He’s not here, is he? Siobhan’s ex?”
“Oh, he’s here,” she said. “He’s already inside. Got a front-row seat.”
“What?”
McKenzie rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, they’re a hundred percent done. But he’s an executive producer. I guess he put up a bunch of money for it?”
Twenty-five thousand dollars. So he did let her keep it after all.
McKenzie smiled. “I’m going to find a seat. You should, too.”
The film was perfect—and Siobhan was, too. A tribute to what happened to all of us up there, to the intersection between art and life, to the fleeting nature of it all, and to Allison, who had always tried to make the most of the time she had. It was forty-five minutes, but I got the sense that if it got picked up by a streamer, it could easily become a limited series. There was plenty more to unpack—Tyler’s and his uncle’s trials hadn’t even started yet.
As we piled out of the auditorium and back into the lobby-slash-bar, I kept my eyes peeled, hoping to catch a glimpse of Siobhan again, to congratulate her, to ask if she wanted to get coffee one day, McKenzie’s words making me hopeful for the first time that maybe our friendship could be restored.
“Did you like the film?”
A voice behind me, and I turned to see Charlie. My shoulders jolted, and I struggled to find words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…I mean, I haven’t…”
Charlie smirked. “Where’s your drink?” He nodded to the empty glass I was still holding. “Rare to see you without one.”
I realized then what it must look like. To Charlie, I was still the woman I’d been for so long before. The woman who knew how to party, who knew how to escape. The woman who fucked guys in bathrooms.
“I don’t drink,” I said.
Charlie laughed.
“I’m serious.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you say, Kerry.”
Siobhan appeared then, and her eyes passed between us, and though Charlie was already turning away, was already moving toward the bar, ordering himself another drink, although our brief interaction was over, I could see it still, so strong, so clear. The hurt in her eyes. A reminder of things that had happened, things that couldn’t be undone. Things I’d taken from her.
I wanted to say I was sorry, to speak it over and over and over and over again until she knew how much I felt it, but I could only offer up a small smile. “It was a perfect movie.”
“Thanks, Kerry.” Siobhan turned away, swallowed up by the crowd, by congratulations, by friends, by people who hadn’t betrayed her, who had been there for her, who would be there for her, maybe in a way now I never could.
I looked down at my empty glass, shame burning so hot it felt I might melt the lowball right there in my hands. For a second, I imagined it, how good it would feel to let it all go, to not try to be good anymore, to pound drinks at the bar until I didn’t have to feel my self-hatred anymore. To numb numb numb.
I still hadn’t finished my book, even if I had made enough progress to keep my publisher satiated for now. I was no closer to being a mother, and I was having to accept more and more that it was very likely I never would be. And worse than all of that, I’d hurt the people I loved the most. Frank and Siobhan.
And when the guilt really crept up, it made me want to reach for all my old vices. Booze. Endless scrolling. Posting about my life in a way that would make others jealous, would make them believe I had my shit together when I didn’t.
It would be so easy, I thought. No one would even have to know. I could order a Negroni, pretend it was another fake one. I could have just one, just to take away some of the pain.
I stepped up to the bar, felt my breath catch. A bartender in a white button-down approached. “Help you?”
My heart raced, and I felt the adrenaline pulsing through my fingers.
I set the glass on the bar. “Just wanted to give this back. Have a great night.”
He bussed the glass away. “You, too.”
I turned and walked out, not looking back, then made my way over to the Bowery, passing three bars on the way, until I saw the gleaming lights of a southbound cab. I lifted my arm, waited for car to stop.
“Brooklyn,” I said, before giving the address.
Then I pulled out my phone, texted Frank.
Film was amazing, headed back now. xoxo
It still boggled my mind that after everything I’d done, I hadn’t lost Frank. He’d gone up to the motel, intending to rescue me, and even if that hadn’t been how things had played out, with Officer Madison stepping in instead, he’d been there at the police station to whisk me away, take me out of the Catskills, bring me back home.
Well, almost home. We’d stayed at his brother’s in Jersey until the subletters were out, and then we’d returned to our place, cautious yet hopeful.
Things weren’t perfect, of course. We were working through so much, nearly all of it my fault, but we were in couples therapy, and I was in personal therapy, and slowly, we were finding our way back to each other. We had agreed not to even talk about doing IVF again until I was a year sober, and given that I’d be forty by the time that anniversary hit, I knew that there was a chance that my actions would make us miss our shot at parenthood.
But still, the two of us had decided that the life we’d built together was worth it.
That it was worth trying to save us.
After a moment, my phone buzzed with a text from him.
I’ll wait up for you.
I smiled. Frank had gotten good at waiting for me.
To get sober, to get better. To finish my damn book.
The point was, he was still waiting.
And I was waiting, too.
Hoping that in the end, I would manage to surprise us both.
Because in a lot of ways, I already had.