Excerpt: Before The War

Cait's skirt is riding up on her thighs, flashing a hint of pink; she smoothes the white denim down and adjusts the fly-eye sunglasses on her head and settles back in her seat, the white leather creaking softly against the pressure of her slender frame.

"This is like book club," she says, crossing her legs at the knee on Nathaniel's mom's couch, "only with more alcohol." Her nails are pink and smooth and manicured; she reaches for the martini on the end-table (stirred, not shaken) and takes a sip, eyes behind the sunglasses giving nothing away.

Stephen stifles a laugh--it would be inappropriate, now; and hysterical and it's not so good to be crying this early in the game. There's vodka in his glass, over beautifully-cut shards of ice. He presses his thumb against the glass, takes it off and stares at the print he's made. You sure, he thinks; that's not what Desperate Housewives taught me.

His glasses are falling down his nose. He pushes them up absently; gets a fingerprint on one of the lenses.

They're supposed to be having a party. That's why Nate's mom left them the house and went out to shop, like drowning herself in expensive dresses and shoes and alcohol would make her numb, make her grow up. None of them are in a partying sort of mood but they just need to get drunk. Very, very drunk, which is not a particular habit of any of theirs (except maybe Cait; who knows about Cait? She's always been more popular than them, anyway) but they've kind of been building up to this all week and however not-useful drinking actually is, the placebo effect will confer enough catharsis so that they can sleep.

Nate's wearing a blue silk shirt. It has a penguin stitched on the left cuff and his tumbler just has Coke in it; he thinks they should talk. Probably the therapy he's been in practically since he was born talking. His body language, knees tucked up to his chest, chin on top of them and arms wrapped tight around the mess of him, tells a different story.

Nate says, predictably, "We should talk."

Cait says, "Definitely like book club." Her right hand is gripping the leather arm so hard there are creases.

Stephen's eyes stray out the full-wall window, over the sea-views and the albatrosses circling. He licks his lips and swallows; the vodka scorches down his throat and it doesn't feel like catharsis.

Nate says, "Stephen?"

Stephen closes his eyes, images seared on his retinas, flashing like fireworks in his mind's eye.

"Yeah," he says, "Yeah. Let's just get drunk, okay, Nate?"

-/-

Cait says, "Jesus." She's on her fifth glass of the red wine they found in Nate's mom's dresser; they used up the martini a long time ago. "Thea," choking out the word, and Stephen can hear the tears, burning under her words, and maybe now is the time.

"We didn't even know her, not really," Nate says. He almost sounds desperate; he's also lying through his teeth. The tumbler slips out of his hand, spilling bourbon on the white carpet. Nate's mom is like a liquor store; it's kind of a miracle Nate isn't an alcoholic.

Stephen bites his lip until it bleeds, copper exploding on his tongue, mingling with the whiskey in his mouth. "Yeah, we did," he says, "of course we did, Nate, what the hell."

Nate's green eyes are desperately unhappy; Cait gets up, swaying on her designer heels, falls into his lap, bruises her mouth against his and her arms slide tight around him. Her sunglasses slide off, landing in the pool of glass and amber bourbon. She's crying, saline carving trails into her cheekbones.

Stephen finds, to his surprise, that he's crying too.