Chapter 33

After lunch, Mom and Dadtake the boat out and we head down to the dock. Chelsea spreads her towel down, takes out a book, and begins to read. Her swimsuit is purely for tanning purposes. She has a bizarre fear of water that she's never fully articulated. I'm pretty sure she can swim. She insists she can't, and at Chase's house in the Hamptons she just lounges around the shallow end on a raft. But one time his little brother flipped her playing Marco Polo with his friends, and she freaked out and shot across the pool, dolphin-dove under, and resurfaced on the other end in record time precisely at the ladder. She knew what she was doing. I've always wondered where that fear comes from. If there's any possibility Chelsea has seen the dripping man, has sensed him. If deep down, she knows.

I love this house to the core of my being, the earth it sits on, the lake that frames it, but I have an uneasy relationship with the lake because of the dripping man. My earliest memory of the quiet people wasn't in the house. It was on the boat. It's such a blurry memory I could easily mistake it for a dream, except that it aligns so easily with later memories of the dripping man. It was the day of my first sail. I was around three, and my parents took me out on the boat dressed in a cute Ralph Lauren navy dress and leather Mary Janes. It was the Fourth of July and my grandparents were there, along with a couple of family friends, platters of cheese and crackers, and a bottle or two of wine.

This is where my father's stringent safety rules come from.

Most drownings happen between the ages of one and four in the presence of adults, usually the child's parents. Often at a party or social gathering. Everyone thinks someone else has their eye on the child, and unfortunately, at one point or another, no one does.

My parents did everything right, or almost did. I wore a Red Cross–approved life jacket, appropriately sized. I had adult supervision. The problem, of course, was the same one that strikes in pools and on beaches across the country. I was passed back and forth from parent to grandparent so many times that eventually someone made a mistake.

Everyone did. Even me.

I was standing by the back of the boat, eating a cracker and holding my father's hand.

He had just come from the front of the boat, and his hand was wet. There were all sorts of reasons why this could have been the case. There were the drinks. We were on a boat. Water was plentiful. I didn't question it until he began to squeeze.

It was a hot day, a bright day, the kind where the water is as bright as the sun itself, and I had been staring into it, so it burned my eyes a little, and when I lifted them to look into my father's face, for a moment, I couldn't really see anything. Just the darkness that comes after staring into a very bright light.

But I felt the cold.

And then I felt the life jacket being swiftly taken off me and two hands pushing me into the water.

I don't remember the rest.

I can't say with absolute certainty that it was the dripping man who pushed me. I never saw his face. I do know I was pushed. I do know there was no one on the boat except my family. I know they didn't push me. I know I would be dead if the boat weren't anchored or if the wind had been blowing. I was lucky they heard the splash.

But I got to know the dripping man over the years, in glimpses and flashes. I know he waits for me at the back of the boat. He has always been waiting. He is always angry. And he is never going away.

I've debated with myself for years whether Chelsea's fear of water could be connected to the dripping man, or if it's wishful thinking, desperation on my part to simply not be alone in this. But Chelsea isn't like me. She doesn't keep things to herself, and she doesn't consider the consequences of showing people her hand. The only secret Chelsea keeps is a big, Ryan-shaped one. She's never been afraid to speak her mind. I admire it, but I don't wish I were the same. I couldn't pull it off. We complement each other, but that doesn't mean we have to turn into each other. I know it scares her sometimes. The quiet that I keep. But it's the only way I can bear the things I see.

She arranges herself in the farthest spot from the water, shaded by the trees. Ryan hovers next to her, and my instinct is to swoop underneath him and grab that spot, but I can't. It's more important to place myself centrally. I need to be closer to Emily and Chase, and most vitally, between Chase and Mila. So I suck it up and take Chase's towel and arrange it on the opposite side of the dock, and fluff mine out, smoothing it down next to his. It's important to avoid conflict. I've learned that discord is one thing the quiet people don't tolerate. It draws them like insects to sweet, rotten things, thickening the air with their presence. We don't need that. So as much as I would like to stretch out next to Chelsea in the warm rays of the sun, I have an obligation to my friends to make sure I am situated somewhere between Emily and Mila. To monitor. To watch. To smooth the rough edges of my dear friend's jagged heart. Heartache can bring out the worst in people. It's a tricky beast.

"Chase." I pat his towel. "You're over here."

I sit down and spray my arms with sunscreen. Chase looks at Mila. "It's cool, just sit wherever."

But she looks uncertain and tugs at the bottom of his shirt. "I don't know anyone," she says in a very quiet voice.

Chelsea taps the space in front of her towel with her foot. "Come sit by me!" she invites with a smile. "Where do you go again? Rocky Point?"

"Central Islip."

Chelsea's face brightens. "My cousin goes there. Junior?"

"Sophomore." Mila seems to loosen up a little and lays her blanket out at Chelsea's feet.

It's a complete lie. Chelsea doesn't have cousins at Central Islip. Her entire family is from Ohio. Her lies are so seamless and out of the blue it's almost frightening. Almost. But not really. Because they're benevolent lies. Lies in service to friendship. Like the time she convinced my parents we all had food poisoning when we got drunk the first time they left us alone for the night. I wouldn't have been able to look them in the eye and do it. But she did, straight-faced. In detail. And she saved our asses. The quiet people thought that was hilarious.

Or the time she went out with Ryan for almost half a year and hid it from the rest of us because she knew I still had feelings for her, and that it would hurt Emily. It was a masterful piece of acting. Ryan rose to the occasion too. Chase told me I was paranoid. It was all in my head. Emily denied it up and down. She's convinced she's psychic and has a twin sense on top of it. But I have something better. I have Chelsea's heart. She and I are bonded in a way that not even Ryan and Emily are. And she can lie and lie about the Ryan thing, but I know. I know from the way they looked and deliberately didn't look at each other when we were in a group. The way they'd roll their eyes at the rest of us, make up secret languages, like they were the twins. I knew she was lying about that. And I also knew that the reason Chelsea was able to lie so well was because she forgot she was doing it. So once it was over, in her mind, it probably didn't happen. She told me once that's how you erase pain. Chelsea would know. She was the expert. And finally, I know because since Chelsea and I have been back together, Ryan has begun to slip. He doesn't look away. There is no more secret in his smiles. Or in the barely concealed resentment that shoots my way when Chelsea smiles at me. He's losing his touch.

Emily settles down between Chase and Ryan and angles herself toward Chase. Mila stands uncertainly, and Ryan glances over his shoulder at her. He's not oblivious to Emily's decade-long crush on Chase. That's begun to show too, and Ryan lets out a sharp exhale of frustration and averts his eyes, almost an overt display of disgust.

"Aw." Chelsea sits up, and Ryan leans back on his palms so her chin is almost resting on his shoulder. I stifle a frown. But she glances at me and I reluctantly stretch out on my elbow, our heads clustered together.

"It's so awkward," Ryan whispers. "She's my sister and he's my best friend. Pick literally any other guy under the sun. It's not like it's going to happen. He should tell her the truth instead of letting her hope." Oh, the irony.

"It's so unfortunate," Chelsea whispers. "Emily is so sweet and pretty and fun."

That's probably the problem. Chase is kind of a butterfly chaser. He likes quick and erratic and ephemeral. I was always kind of surprised he and Chelsea never had a fast and furious affair. Instead, she went for Ryan, who's about as exciting as a back issue of Business Insider.

No grudges, honestly.

But really?

He just bugs me.

And I thought when Chelsea and I got together, he would just ffffffffade away. I like to say it like that. Like in that old song by the Who. But apparently, Ryan is around as long as Emily is. And now Chase comes with bonus features too. When did guests get to start inviting guests?

Unacceptable.

Ryan frowns at Emily, who's flirting unabashedly with Chase as Mila hovers uncertainly in the background. Chelsea scrambles up and pulls Mila back to her towel again. I kneel to put sunscreen on my thighs, and to allow Chase and Emily an unobstructed view of each other. "So. Any news?" I glance over to see Chelsea chatting up Mila animatedly.

"Where did Mila come from, you mean," Chase says. He lies down on his back and pulls his T-shirt over his head and sunglasses over his eyes. He refuses to wear sunscreen, and I can see the beginning of a burn underneath his hairline and on his cheeks.

Emily plays with her own sunglasses, cheap plastic frames she painstakingly covered in fragments of mirror. It sounds tacky, but it came out looking glamorous and unique. It matches her silver-and-black handmade bikini and the disco-ball pendant that hangs around her neck in the frame of a globe. "Do tell."

"I met her at a lacrosse game a few weeks ago. We've been keeping things low-key, but it's summer now, and I don't know." He shrugs. "No more games, no more studying. Time to have fun for once."

"I agree," Emily says. She scoots closer on her elbows, and I stand.

"Anyone for a swim? First of the season?" I step to the edge of the dock, but everyone looks up at me lazily. I step forward and take Mila's hands. "You haven't been initiated. First swim is a tradition."

She looks back at Chase with a helpless expression. "Tradition as in we all go together?"

He waves it off. "Lunch coma."

I pull her to the edge firmly and look into her eyes. "Honey. I am not going to let you drown." And with me, she won't. The rules on this are clear. The dripping man came for me when I was small, when I was too young to see the warning signs. The sudden cold. The inexplicable sense of anger. A sense of confusion, a pulsing in the head, time being distorted, a knife in the fabric of a sweet summer sky. I look around for backup. "Right?"

"Trust her!" Chelsea gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Ryan shakes his head back and forth emphatically and mouths, Don't do it.

She glances back at Chase frantically. "I'm not a strong swimmer. I really shouldn't."

Chase starts to stand up, and Emily quickly jumps to her feet and says, "Kennedy!"

Her tone is so sharp it stops me cold. "What?"

"It's not funny." Emily smiles at Mila. "You don't have to do anything you're afraid of, sweetie."

Mila's eyes dart back and forth from Emily to Chase. A breeze ruffles the boat docked nearby and goose bumps rise on my arms, and for a split second, my attention is diverted and my eyes go to the sky. It wasn't a wave of cold—not exactly. The cold from the presence of the dripping man isn't external, like a breeze. It's all-encompassing, systemic, as if your body is fighting it off like a fever. A symptom of a parasite, perhaps. The sun is blinding like it was the day I was dragged under, and I quickly lower my eyes, my heart pounding. The headache strikes fast, too fast to react, but I often get headaches from bright lights and sharp sounds—it's a family trait. I turn my head to warn Mila—it might be coincidence—but I do feel cold now, and even if it's in my head, even if it's fear getting to me, an abundance of caution demands that I stop her. But the pain in my head is so sharp, the spots in my eyes so disorienting, that it takes me a moment to focus on Mila's face. I see her step uncertainly up to the edge of the dock, turn to me, open her mouth to speak—and then abruptly fall headfirst into the water.

A chill spills down my spine, and for a moment, no one does anything. I stare into the lake, waiting for Mila to resurface, willing her back to us, but the water ripples wildly over the spot where she disappeared. Then more gently, and more, until it faded to stillness. Like buttercream slowly being smoothed over to hide an imperfection in the surface of a cake. Burying the mistake. Making it beautiful.

Chase jumps to his feet. "What just happened?" he says, aghast.

"Dripping man," I whisper. I feel numb, immobile. He never comes this close to the house. He's never followed the boat to the dock before. But he's here now. I feel, or maybe imagine, two cold spots on my shoulders, impressions the size of hands, and stumble back from the edge of the dock.

Ryan pulls his shirt over his bony shoulders and pushes us both aside.

Chase, of course, takes this as his cue to jump, lest Ryan rescue his girlfriend and make him look unmanly or something.

Unfortunately, they bounce into each other on the way in and hit the water just as Mila's head finally breaks the surface, knocking her back under.

"What the hell, Ryan?" I shake myself back into action, and when Mila reaches the surface again, I pull her up to the dock with Chelsea's help.

"Nice save, Ry." Chase tosses Ryan a cold look as he pulls himself up out of the water. Ryan follows, glaring.

Mila is shaking and crying, and blood is coming out of her nose. I try to inspect the damage as Chase paces back and forth, knotting his arms together and muttering an incoherent stream of apologies.

"What happened?" Chelsea throws her towel around Mila's shoulders.

Mila presses her hand to her nose, her eyes squeezed shut in pain. "Someone's elbow went into my face."

"Who?" Chelsea's eyes go to Ryan.

Mila shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. It doesn't matter."

Ryan retreats to his towel, and Emily lays a hand on his arm. A weird look passes between them, and I swear just the ghost of a smile passes over her lips. Then in a blur of a moment, he yanks his arm away and marches up to where Chelsea and I are trying to convince Mila to let us look at her nose.

"Give her some space, man." Chase shoves him backward.

"Don't touch me!" Ryan throws the entire weight of his body against him, his face red with fury.

I have to underscore this.

There's been unsettled blood between members of our group before. Not bad. Just turbulent. When Chelsea and Ryan had their little secret. When Emily royally screwed up the no more lake house message to Chelsea and started our own little New World War I. But no one ever. EVER. Threw a punch. Or in this case, a shove.

Mila stops crying and wipes her nose on the back of her hand, smearing blood on her skin and wiping it on her pale pink swimsuit. It hasn't stopped bleeding, and I want to tell her to pinch it, but I don't want to be rude. I want to hand her a cloth, but I don't want to stain any of the linens. I want to run to the house for a first aid kit, but I don't want to miss what comes next.

Most of all, I want to tell them what really just happened. And that it could happen again.

Instead, it's Mila who speaks. "Chase, don't."

But I don't think he hears her. I don't even think it's about her. And I barely see the shock register when Ryan slaps him across the face and storms back toward the house, ending the fight almost as quickly as it started. Because my eyes are on Emily. And she's definitely smiling now.