Free The Girls by Emma Cline

only person left was my mother, who’d let it happen, who’d been as soft and malleable as dough. Handing money over, cooking dinner every night, and no wonder my father had wanted something else—Tamar’s outsize opinions, her life like a TV show about summer.
    It was a time when I imagined getting married in a simple, wishful way. The time when someone promised to take care of you, promised they would notice if you were sad, or tired, or hated food that tasted like the chill of the refrigerator. Who promised their lives would run parallel to yours. My mother must have known and stayed anyway, and what did that mean about love? It was never going to be safe—all the mournful refrains of songs that despaired
you didn’t love me the way I loved you.
    The most frightening thing: It was impossible to detect the source, the instant when things changed. The sight of a woman’s back in her low dress mingled with the knowledge of the wife in another room.
    —
    When the music stopped, I knew my mother would come say good night. It was a moment I’d been dreading—having to notice how her curls had wilted, the haze of lipstick around her mouth. When she knocked, I thought about pretending to be asleep. But my light was on: the door edged open.
    She grimaced a little. “You’re still all dressed.”
    I would’ve ignored her or made some joke, but I didn’t want to cause her any pain. Not then. I sat up.
    “That was nice, wasn’t it?” she said. She leaned against the door frame. “The ribs came out good, I thought.”
    Maybe I genuinely thought my mother would want to know. Or maybe I wanted to be soothed by her, for her to offer a calming adult summary.
    I cleared my throat. “Something happened.”
    I felt her tense in the doorway.
    “Oh?”
    Later I cringed, thinking of it. She must have already known what was coming. Must have willed me to be quiet.
    “Dad was talking.” I turned back to my shoes, working intently at the buckle. “With Tamar.”
    She let out a breath. “And?” She was smiling a little. An untroubled smile.
    I was confused: she must know what I meant. “That’s all,” I said.
    My mother looked at the wall. “That dessert was the one thing,” she said. “Next time I would do macaroons instead, coconut macaroons. Those mandarins were too hard to eat.”
    I was silent, shock making me wary. I slipped off my shoes and put them under my bed, side by side. I murmured good night, tilted my head to receive her kiss.
    “You want me to turn off the light?” my mother asked, pausing in the doorway.
    I shook my head. She shut the door gently. How conscientious she was, turning the handle so it clicked shut. I stared at my red feet, marked by the outline of my shoes. Thought about how strangled and strange they looked, all out of proportion, and who would ever love someone whose feet could look like this?
    —
    My mother spoke of the men she dated, after my father, with the desperate optimism of the born-again. And I saw the devout labor it took: she did exercises on a bath towel in the living room, her leotard striped with sweat. Licked her palm and sniffed to test her own breath. She went out with men whose necks raised boils where they cut themselves shaving, men who fumbled for the check but looked grateful when my mother removed her Air Travel Card. She found men like this and seemed happy about it.
    I’d imagine Peter, during our dinners with these men. Asleep with Pamela in a basement apartment in an unfamiliar Oregon town. Jealousy mingled strangely with a protectiveness for the two of them, for the child growing inside Pamela. There were only so many girls, I understood, that could be marked for love. Like that girl Suzanne, who commanded that response just by existing.
    —
    The man my mother liked best was a gold miner. Or that’s how Frank introduced himself, laughing, a scud of spit in the corner of his mouth.
    “Pleased to meet you, darlin’,” he said the first night, his big