“Things are pretty fuzzy.” An understatement.

Brent’s whole face darkens. He’s almost never so serious, and for a split second, he looks like a different person. “She got it into her head to go swimming. But she was too drunk to make it back to shore. Misha was a hero. She charged straight into the reservoir.”

Annie. Misha. The girl screaming for help. Relief washes over me. I was all wrong—Misha was trying to help Annie, not hurt her.

“Annie needs to quit drinking. But we’ve tried to tell her a thousand times…”

Brent waves me out onto the screened-in patio. There, sitting on the couch in a robe that’s hanging off her shoulder, is Misha Jennings.

“Abby. Hi.” She looks tired, and while she recovers quickly, she seems momentarily annoyed to see me. “How are you hanging in?”

“Better than Annie,” I say.

She sighs. “Brent just drove her home.” Despite the fact that it must be nearly six, she’s wearing a bathrobe, and there’s a towel turbaning her hair. She must know what I’m thinking—Misha and Brent, here together, and both with wet hair—because she unconsciously cinches the bathrobe tighter. “I finally took a shower. I actually feel human again.”

“Take a seat.” Brent doesn’t sit, though, even when I perch awkwardly on one of the armchairs, wishing almost immediately I hadn’t. “You want a soda or something? I’d offer you a drink but if I ever touch alcohol again, shoot me.”

“A tranquilizer, if you have one,” I say. Brent laughs first. Then Misha joins in. I quickly add, “I’m joking.”

“I hope we didn’t scare you away for good.” Misha leans forward and puts a hand on my knee. I clock right away that two of her nails are broken. “I’m glad you came last night. Did you have fun?”

“From what I can remember,” I say carefully, but I don’t know why I still feel uneasy. “I heard your husband is worried because you didn’t go home last night.”

Misha’s eyes flick to Brent. A wordless communication passes between them. I’m surprised that I feel a little jealous. Not of them, exactly, but of the easy intimacy, the way they’re playing house. Like Joe spending a lazy Saturday morning with Raj. It seems as if everyone but me can trip and fall into comfortable relationships.

For the first time it occurs to me that maybe Barrens isn’t rotten. Maybe the problem is me. Maybe the problem has been me all along.

“Peter and I had a fight and, well…I wasn’t exactly sober,” she says carefully. “Brent was nice enough to offer up his couch.” She emphasizes the last word very slightly. “Me and Peter fight like rabid dogs sometimes. It’s probably my fault…”

“It’s not your fault,” Brent says quietly. He takes a seat and puts a hand on her leg. That bothers me; I’m ashamed to feel so little sympathy for her. She looks upset—and much younger without any makeup—but I still feel like she’s faking.