Санктуарий

‘Here’s to our kids finally becoming adults,’ Bridget says. ‘Well, your three, anyway. Here’s to Harper, Beatriz and Daniel. A few weeks to graduation, then a long summer and bright futures ahead of them.’
Our hostess pushes aside her plate and leans forward to refill our glasses.
I say ‘refill’. Bridget only poured the champagne a few minutes ago, so the rest of us have barely made a start. Her own glass is already empty, though. As are the three wine bottles that stand amid the remains of our dinner party.
Dear Bridge does like a drink. And tomorrow, she’ll complain that the hangover potion I brew her isn’t strong enough. But then, I’m a witch, not a miracle worker.

Our moms were drinking champagne when Daniel died. Sipping on bubbles as Beatriz screamed outside the burning party house and I was loaded into an ambulance.
Just before the first fire truck roared past where they sat, the four of them raised a toast, Mom told me. They lifted their glasses and drank to our futures. They congratulated themselves that despite us kids having our ‘differences’ – and the four of them having ‘differences’, too – we’d come through everything. The bad days were behind us, and our friendships and theirs were stronger than ever.
Lies, lies, lies. And they all knew it.