Page 83 of The Favorite Sister

If that’s not God telling me to go for it, it’s Lucifer.

I could cartwheel to Jen’s car. But just as I’m about to climb into the back, I notice that Jen has stopped in the driveway. She’s examining her hand, holding it up to the sunlight. Something is caught in her Standing Sisters ring. A hair, it looks like, from the way she pinches it between her fingers and pulls—and pulls—flicking her index finger on her thumb, making that panicked face all women make when they find a bug crawling on them and they need to get it off but they don’t want to touch it. She watches the hair float slowly to the ground, hereyelids fluttering, woozily. She stumbles, leaning into the side of the house, swaying a little, then spins and vomits all over the base of the Japanese maple Yvette planted in memory of her late mother. Some of it even gets on the bronze plaque Yvette had made:For Betty “Battle Axe” Greenberg, who would rather die than rest in peace.

“Jen! Oh my God!” Kelly cries, rushing to her aid. Is Kelly the new Lauren? “Are you okay?”

Jen straightens enough to wave a hand over her shoulder—shoo, Kelly—before lurching over and retching again. Vince, concerned for the well-being of others as always, turns away, his face crinkling in disgust, like he might be next. For some strange reason, Lauren’s eyes fill with tears, though I doubt even she understands why.

I watch Jen’s bony back expand and contract, expand and contract, as her equilibrium returns to her. She stands, wiping the side of her hand across her mouth. Is she hungover? Is she sick? Is it contagious? I have that visceral, germaphobestay away from mereaction, before remembering with a dry chuckle to myself—Someone could stick me with an AIDS-coated needle right now and it wouldn’t matter.

“Jen,” Kelly says, as Jen heads for her car, “maybe you should stay home and—”

“I feel better now actually,” she says.

“At least let someone else drive if you aren’t—”

“I feel better now!” she cries, sounding fully hysterical as she climbs behind the wheel of the car and slams her door shut. This group is made up exclusively of whack jobs, but the Green Menace has always been the wackiest.

I’ve been to Jesse’s house only once before, as a guest of Brett’s, who is such a regular you could pick out her preferred lounge chair. Hint: It’s the one with the slightly sunken middle. We drank Casamigos by the pool (I got Jesse’s hydrangeas very drunk) and ate swordfish prepared for us on the grill by Hank, who Jesse refers to as her friend but everyone knows is her Jeeves. The Montauk communitywas sure Jesse Barnes would demolish the original Techbuilt home when she bought it in 2008, but she ingratiated herself when all she did was remodel the kitchen and add a pool.

We park in the dirt driveway, next to the white crew van and Jesse’s vintage Land Rover. Jen’s Tesla looks downright villainous on the humble property, the car of a collector come in from Gotham to repossess the land from farmer Ted, blithely unaware he’s sitting on a multimillion-dollar lot. Thanks to theNew York Post’s steadfast reporting, I know that a rolling meadow used to separate the end of the drive from the seventy-foot drop to the sea, but that the bluffs have eroded, little by little some years, in honking wet chunks during others. Jesse has had to file an emergency application with the East Hampton Planning Department to have the home moved one hundred feet back from the abyss. Lucky for me it has yet to be granted.

The crew has moved the picnic table from the shallow end of the pool to the deep, in an attempt to game the sun’s position and mitigate the glare off the water. Marc is covering all of the cameras with beach blankets, keeping them out of direct sunlight so that they’re not too hot to handle. The PAs are setting the table with platters of food and Lisa is halfway through uncorking a dozen wine bottles so that we do not lose a moment to our drinking, which is a production trick to keep the cast from realizing they’ve had too much. The act of stopping to open a new bottle can make you take stock—How many have I had? Might be smart to drink a glass of water. Anything smart is bad, when it comes to production purposes.

Jesse does her part by readingA Little Lifebeneath an SPF-coated umbrella—clearly, she has been expecting me. It’s a dexterous insult, I’ll give her that. The same monthThe New Yorkercalled out thesubversive brillianceof Hanya Yanagihara’s novel,Kirkuslikened the third book in my fiction series to aLifetime movie-of-the-week, right down to the contrived dialogue.

Jesse notices us and bends the page. Her Bettie Page paleness and black jeans swan in the face of the beach babe aesthetic that rules out here, and I think we are all grateful for it. Imagining Jessein a swimsuit is like imagining your parents having sex. Her bare feet are embarrassing enough.

She walks over to meet us, removing her sunglasses in a way that implies I should do the same, so that we can have a proper gal-to-gal chat. I leave my big black Pradas right where they are.

“I don’t know what you hoped to accomplish by coming here,” Jesse says.

Lisa sets down the wine opener and joins Jesse at her side, a punkyyeah, what she saidexpression on her thin, jowly face. All that weight loss only to look ten years saggier in her eHarmony profile picture. Being a woman is like the lottery. Yes, some sad sack is destined to win it, but the odds are very against that sad sack being you. No matter, most of us will continue to try, and most of us will continue to hear someone else’s number called, year after year.

“You know you can’t be here,” Jesse says to me. “We were willing to let you try it last night but you’ve proven yourself to be untrustworthy and honestly, Steph? A little bit unstable. I hope you are getting the support you need for your mental health.”

From the person who has stomped all over my mental health in steel-toed Dr. Martens. How does she nothearherself?

Vince slips his hand into mine in an act of courageous spousal support. Even his hand feels like it’s been in another woman’s hand. I turn to him with a brave smile, though I can feel my contempt for him in my fingernails. “Vince?” I ask in a tiny brave voice. “Will you just give me a moment to speak to Jesse and Lisa in private?”

He doesn’t let go.

“I need to do this on my own. Please.” I give his hand a measured squeeze, stifling the urge to bend his fingers back until they snap.

Vince sizes up Jesse and Lisa like schoolyard bullies, with a look that says if they try anything, he will beright over there. He lets go of my hand and wanders off. Dumb fuck. Pretty fuck. But so,sodumb.

“I’m just asking for an opportunity to take ownership of what I did,” I appeal to them when it is just the three of us. “Please. Brett’s not here so I can tell you everything that really happened. Do youwant to hear about that or do you want to hear whatever vanilla lie Kelly has come up with to protect her sister?”

I know Jesse has heard the whisperings—insulting, frankly—that my fight with Brett was really about the affair we had while she lived with me. Ha. Maybe if she lost thirty pounds. Didn’t seem to bother Vince.

Jesse stares me down, torn. She doesn’t want to see Brett hurt, but she also wants her money shot for the season. She turns to Lisa to recruit her ever-valuable second opinion.

“It could be a powerful moment,” Lisa says, to the complete surprise of nobody. Nothing would make Lisa happier than seeing me lay bare Brett’s lies on camera. She will be thrilled, then, to learn that Brett’s lie is so much worse than what she thinks it is.Just hand over my mic pack, I think,and everyone gets hurt.

Jesse sighs. Her decision is obvious, but she has to act a little bit pained so as not to look like a total turncoat to her very best vagina. She nods at Vince, over my shoulder. “And what is he doing here?”

“I thought we might address the rumors about him and Kelly,” I say. “That could be a powerful moment too, right?”

Lisa snorts, genuinely tickled. “Someone found her ballsack.”