“Come with me,” I yelled, grabbing her arm and swinging us both toward the barn door. Catherine and Annie started to follow but I stuck my hand out at them—“Not you, only Ruthie”—and they stayed put.

Outside, she stood there staring at me, thick snowflakes getting stuck in her hair as she waited. “What is wrong with you?”

She took a long sip from her red cup, finishing whatever was left in there, and then tossed it to the floor between us.

“I’m just surprised, I guess,” she finally said.

“Surprised by what?”

She shrugged.

“What’s wrong with you?” I repeated. “I was so excited to tell you about this. You were the one who thought Timothy liked me. You were the one who told me to get him alone. What did you think was going to happen?”

I was right. I knew I was right. I just wanted her to acknowledge it.

“Good for you,” she said, placating me with a smile. “Glad you got over the hump. Hopefully God doesn’t find out.”

She turned away from me again, but I grabbed her by the shoulders, the cup in my hand falling to the ground, spraying our feet with sticky pink liquid. This wasn’t like her. Maybe it was the alcohol—we were certainly drinking more than we normally did at our weekly jaunts in the woods—but it felt like more than that. Like maybe the alcohol was giving her the liquid courage she needed to say how she actually felt. Naive, silly little me did something first. And she hated it.

“You’re jealous,” I realized.

She shrugged my hands off her shoulders. “Don’t be ridiculous. I—”

“You’re jealous that I did it first. I’ve one-upped you and you can’t stand it.”

“I’m not—”

“—you’re mad because someone wanted to have sex with me and no one wants to have sex with you.”

She took a step back, and I did, too. Her face was shadowed, the moon only lighting her forehead and nose, but I could tell she was just as shocked as I was. Her jaw was tight, her eyes slim and harsh. Then her face lowered, looking down at the ground. The snow had accumulated at our feet in thick, uneven clumps, bumpy like the dirt below it.

My necklace was shining on her chest, like it was trying to remind me who I was talking to. It’s Ruthie. You gave her this. You love her. What are you doing?

“I’m sorry, Ruthie. I—”

She turned away before I could finish but I immediately moved to follow her. I didn’t mean it. This was all a mistake.

“Ruthie—” I called after her, but once we were back inside the barn it was no use. The music was too loud; the talking and excited yelling overtook all my attempts to get her attention again.