Brett continues to open cupboard doors and drawers. The tape here is cluttered with the sound of utensils rattling, plates clinking into one another. I think, even as drunk as she was, that she was pretending to stay busy to avoid meeting Jen’s eye. I think she knew she had gone too far by saying that in front of Lauren. Not like either of them had to worry about Lauren remembering in the morning. She barely seems to remember what happened next.
I thought you’d like to know that I’ve crafted a statement with my PR team about my decision to step away from veganism, Jen tells Brett, eloquently. At this point in the tape, I have become so inured to Brett and Lauren’s slurring that Jen, speaking clearly and reasonably, is the one who makes me sit up and take note. Green Theory has and always will be about promoting what works best for your individual body, and shedding labels is truly a healthy step forward for all women. I have a good feeling about this. I’ve built a strong community and I have confidence they will support me, and by disassociating from veganism, my team believes I will attract a whole new customer base.
I know you’re talking, Brett says, but all I hear is this. She’s misquoting Emily Blunt in The Devil Wears Prada, making a closed beak gesture with her hand, I have no doubt.
I am talking, Jen snaps. She’s mad now. Brett embarrassed her. I know what it’s like to share something with Brett that you’ve put a lot of thought and effort into, and for the Big Chill to make you feel like a complete nerd for trying so hard. I’m telling you this for two reasons. One, because I’m no longer going to allow you to lord it over me, and two, I thought you might want to take a cue from me Prepare your own statement. Get ready for the ensuing shitstorm when everyone finds out that you slept with Vince.
Thudding silence. Whatever Brett was doing in the kitchen, she’s stopped.
Vince is foineeeee, Lauren says through a yawn.
Your sister told me, Jen says, probably in response to the stunned look on Brett’s face. That’s bad, Brett. Not just what you did and what you’ve lied about, but that your own sister is so done with you that she sold you down the river. You’re going to have no one, after this is over. You think Jesse will stand by your side after this? I know Yvette won’t. See, she might not always like me, but she will always love me. The same cannot be true of some girl she met three years ago.
Yvette. Ugh. Why did Jen have to bring up Yvette? Yvette was Brett’s do-over. She made Brett feel worthy of a mother’s love. Of all that Brett stood to lose if the truth came out, I believe she would have felt Yvette the hardest.
Brett makes a dismissive noise that just barely masks her full-blown panic. Tell me, did you work with your PR team to craft a statement about the year you spent fucking Vince?
Jen and Vince?! I scream-thought on the first listen.
Jen and Vince? On the second.
Jen and Vince. On the third, I remembered Brett trying to talk to me before we set out for the mountains in Morocco. Something about Jen. I had brushed her off. No. I hadn’t just brushed her off. I had screamed at her that I never wanted to hear another bad word about Jen again. I was just so sick of feeling like she didn’t have my back and also that she was set on sabotaging my relationship with the one person who did. Would things have been different if I knew?
Would I want them to be?
Vince is not my best friend’s husband, Jen says, cool as a cucumber, almost as if she was prepared for Brett to bring up the dalliance. That was your best friend. She was good to you. She loved you. And you shit all over her. Think about it, Brett. Women are going to hate you when they find out.
Brett does seem to think about it. Then she laughs defiantly. Was he your first or something, Greenberg? You are TOTALLY still writing Mrs. Jen DeMarco in your diary, aren’t you? You know I broke it off with him, right? You know he kept pursuing me, even after I got engaged? He is capital O Obbbbbb-sessed with me. That must killllll you. You got yourself a little makeover with your new boobies and your long hair and you thought you were gonna sweep in and win yo man back. Brett gasps, theatrically. Oh my God, look at your face! You did think that. You did. You thought you were going to show Vince what he was missing and instead, he only had eyes for my fat ass. See. This is what you have never understood. Actually, I think you do understand it, and that’s why you hate me. Nobody likes you, Greenberg. You are boring. Being thin is your full-time job and your hobby. Being thin is all you have to offer anyone, because you have no charisma, no sex appeal, no guts. Of course Vince would rather fuck me over a lonely bag of bones in an Ulla Johnson dress and your mother would still rather I was her daughter. Aw, are you going to cry? You know, I’ve never actually seen you cry. Do you cry, like, green kale smoothie tears?
I held my breath here, on the first listen, because I was so sure this was when it would happen. I would have understood, on some level, if Jen had snapped after an evisceration like that. It was so mean. It was so cruel. It was so true. But somehow, it manages to get worse.
Because Jen, from what I can gather, turned away. She didn’t engage. She didn’t give Brett the reaction she was looking for.
Jen, Brett hisses, trying to call her back. Jen. Stop. Jen! And then, I hear Brett’s fast feet on the limestone flooring, that unyielding flooring, and Jen’s grunt. Brett went after Jen. Brett started it.
Lauren snores lightly as Brett and Jen tangle on the floor, groaning, breathing hard, trading curses. They kept their voices down for a reason: they didn’t want to be stopped.
The crack reminds me of the coconuts Brett and I used to raise above our heads and slam into our driveway when we were kids. It is not the crack! of something breaking. It is the crack! of someone breaking something. The intention is deafening. Brett moans, almost in recognition. Ohhhh, this is it for me. Brett’s cause of death was acute subdural hematoma, a blood clot below the inner layer of the dura. The pathologist identified two contusions to the back of her head, caused by two separate blows, only one of which was fatal. But because they came in such quick succession, she could not determine their order. Listening to the tape, I am certain it was the first.
Still, Jen might have been able to spin this as self-defense, or even an accident, up until this point. She could have called for help, and maybe Brett could have been saved. But then, a second crack. What she believed to be the coup de grace. There was no calling anyone after that.
For a while, Jen’s distraught breathing is the unstressed beat to Lauren’s snoring. Brett is silent. Brett died fast.
She tried to drag her on her own first. I heard it. But there was no way the show’s elfin flower child was going to be able to dispose of my sister’s sizely body without some assistance. A woman wouldn’t have been able to do that on her own, the officer had said, but two women could.
Lauren. Jen’s voice is a close hiss. Lauren. Wake up.
This continues for a good minute or so.
Stop, Lauren finally groans.
No, Lauren. Wake up.
No. Hey! Stop! What are you doing? I can imagine Jen dragging Lauren off the couch.
Help me! Jen snarls at her.
Is that Brett?
Get her feet.
Lauren laughs. Brett is DRUNK. Wake up, Brett!
Get her—that’s it. You got it. Keep moving.
Is this Brett?
Keep moving.
A door creaks open. A light clicks on.
Ow, Lauren complains, and there is a sickening plop, then another. Brett’s feet, being dropped to the concrete garage floor.
Get her feet again!
Is this Brett?
A light clicks off.
Just wait here, Jen tells Lauren. I’m grabbing my keys. Don’t move.