“Or Angel,” I agree.
“He’s not on the list,” Manson reminds me. “Because you’d rather nail his dad.”
They all bust up laughing again while I protest.
“Fine, fine,” he says. “Our assignment is to each fuck at least one of them this semester.”
“Gross,” Annabel Lee says. “Take my uncle off that list.”
“Too late,” he says, waving the phone. “Already sent it.”
This time, I get to join in their laughter. I marvel at how easy things are with them, how good it feels to be part of things when Manson adds me to a group chat. I’ve been lonely for so long, but I hadn’t realized I wasn’t just lonely for a partner and romantic love. I’ve been lonely for my friends, for the Quint, for Eternity. But maybe it’s okay to have other friends, to make friends even though she’s gone. I don’t have to isolate myself to prove I won’t forget her.
I just have to figure out who wants us to.
So, a week later, I find myself walking toward Sinners Tower again, this time with my friends around me.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to show up at their party?” I ask Annabel Lee, adjusting the dress she insisted I wear. “I don’t think the Sinceros like me too much.”
“It’s a party,” she says. “They’ll get over it.”
“My guys will kill me if they find out.”
“I’ve got your back if they try,” she says, waving off my concern. “Just because you’re dating someone, that doesn’t mean he gets to tell you what to do.”
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t be hiding things from him,” I point out. “I mean, I wouldn’t want him going to a party without telling me.”
“You’re making too big a deal of it,” she says. “It’s not like you’re going with another guy. You’re allowed to hang out with your friends and not have your boyfriend breathing down your neck.”
“I don’t know,” I say, still feeling guilty about this. I know the guys wouldn’t want me anywhere near the Sinners’ house. But I also know if I want to find out who took Eternity, and the Disciples are behind it, then this is a good place to look. That’s the real reason I let my friends convince me to come tonight. I don’t care about partying.
“Just think,” Manson says, falling back to walk with us. “If we’d known about this party last semester, you could have just waited to get into the tower, and you wouldn’t have had to suck Asher’s dick.”
“It wasn’t Asher,” Annabel Lee says.
“You’re never going to tell me which one, are you?”
“Nope,” she says, tugging up the top of her black corset, her blood-red lips turning up at the corners. “Who I suck off is none of your business, unless it’s you.”
We pass the stone gargoyles, climb the steps, and stop at the door that ended my search last time. This time, it swings open when Manson tries the handle. Inside, I expect something dark and creepy like Annabel Lee’s room, but the high-ceilinged foyer speaks more of old elegance than garish Halloween décor. An elaborate, wrought iron candelabra hangs above us, gently lighting the room and gleaming over the polished, original hardwood floors. A thick, red carpet extends in front of us, and a photographer stands waiting to snap guests’ pictures as they pose in front of old, gilt-framed portraits on the wall.
“I heard they still have the old wood-fire oven from when the priests lived here and made the communion loaves,” Annabel Lee says. “There’s a rumor that once, someone was baked alive in them. Let’s go look.”
“Jesus,” Manson says, linking his arm through mine. “Wait until we’ve had a drink before you start scaring us to death. Come on, Mercy. Let’s find something that will give us the serenity to accept Annabel Lee.”
She grins wickedly, seeming unbothered, so I let him pull me along the red carpet and into the other room, with a stop along the way for him to strike several poses for the photographer. In the next room, people are milling and socializing. As soon as I see how many people are there, how many are fluidly moving around the room talking to differentpeople, I freeze. Manson plucks various hors d’oeuvres from passing waiters until someone comes by with trays of drinks.
He takes two, handing me a long-stemmed crystal goblet filled with golden liquid.
“To your first college party,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. “What do you think?”
“Fancier than I expected,” I say, nervously wiping my free hand on my dress, which is really Ronique’s dress. Annabel Lee forced me to try on several of her high-necked gothic style dresses before she realized I do not have her effortless elegance. Finally she admitted defeat when Manson told her I looked like “a creepy Victorian ghost” in her clothes. So, now I’m squeezed into a simple little black dress, though it clings to me in ways that I’m not entirely comfortable with.
“Really?” Manson asks, assessing the party. “Seems pretty tame to me. We’ll have to get you to a frat party.”
“I wish I hadn’t let Annabel Lee steal my cardigan,” I mutter, tucking one arm across my middle, already regretting my decision to come.
“Don’t even start with that shit,” Manson says. “You have a bomb-ass figure. Show it off a little. It’s not a crime to be hot.”
