An Honest Lie Read online

  Hey, don’t mean to be a vibe killer, but that’s the weekend of the annual chili cook-off.

  The texts came in fast little pelts: everyone suggesting that they combine the two.

  Rainy had been embarrassed that her birthday plans were disrupting something they all wanted to do. We’ll have a cake for her at the party! someone had texted. But she was already mortified by then, trying to make some big weekend about herself when they barely knew her.

  “I’ve never celebrated my birthdays. I don’t want to be the center of attention,” she’d argued when he said it was no big deal to reschedule the dinner.

  “This is your first year here with me. Let me do this.”

  Grant was so set on the issue—so pleased with himself—that she couldn’t bear to burst his bubble. She’d relented, but with a sinking feeling. She didn’t want his friends to think she was the one pushing the issue, demanding to celebrate even though they barely knew her. It had been a rule among her New York friends to ignore each other’s partners until they were too embedded in the circle not to. A cruel but cautionary way to not get “too attached.” As she half hid and healed, the coldness had suited her, but these were Grant’s people. She was thirsty for his approval—and the last thing she needed was to be the topic of their gossip.

  She agreed to a six o’clock dinner on Friday night with four other couples: Braithe and Stephen, Tara and Matt, Viola and Samantha, and Gary and Linney—a couple Grant knew from high school that he affectionately referred to as Old Faithful. Ten minutes before they were supposed to leave, Tara had texted links to the group with several reviews she’d found online about the restaurant.

  Five cases of food poisoning in the last four months, she’d said. Didn’t know if you wanted to chance it...

  No one had. And by that time, it was too late to get a reservation for ten people anywhere else. The dinner had been canceled, and Rainy was left with the distinct impression Tara had wanted it that way. Rainy had never figured out why Tara disliked her, and she’d learned to not care. There were plenty of people who liked her well enough.

  Now, she glanced around and saw five sets of eyes pinned on her. The sudden surge of attention from everyone at one time was making Rainy dizzy.

  “Take my hands, Lorraine Ives.” Tara’s nails were painted a pearly white. She flipped them over and held two small palms toward her, so soft and unblemished Rainy was fixated. Had the woman ever so much as fried bacon in her life? Tara cleared her throat and Rainy offered her hands apologetically.

  “Sorry, artist acknowledging beautiful hands.”

  Tara flushed, pleased with the compliment. Viola kicked Rainy under the table and Rainy shot her an apologetic look. What? She has beautiful hands.

  Before she could make sense of why everyone was watching her and what was happening, Tara launched into her sell.

  “So! We know you’re new to the group, and we don’t always like the new people,” she said, winking. The others murmured their agreement, and Rainy wondered who the last new member had been. Maybe one of Grant’s other girlfriends? Tara continued. “But we’re all totally obsessed with you—that’s why—and you can absolutely say no, buuut we won’t let you.” They all laughed at the joke she didn’t get and Rainy held her breath as she waited for the punchline. Were they going to suggest matching tattoos? Were they swingers, asking her into their circle? The possibilities were endless as Rainy sat sweating beneath their eyes. She could feel her eyebrows dancing comically in confusion.

  “Picture sun, heat—” she said the word heat with reverence “—and drinks by the pool! We’re inviting you on our girls’ trip...to Vegas!”

  At first, Rainy’s relief was immense; a girls’ trip was kind, inclusive. And then she processed the word: Vegas. She glanced over at Viola and wondered if they would have invited her instead if Viola wasn’t in her last trimester, and then corrected herself for thinking that way. It was a nice gesture, one she never intended to accept. But she couldn’t tell them why.

  They were waiting for her to say something, but she was having trouble forming words.

  “You guys,” Viola said from beside her, “give her a minute to swallow what you eager beavers are saying.” She felt a much gentler kick under the table: Viola saying, You okay?

  Tara loosened her hold on Rainy’s fingers, which was a good thing because Rainy’s hands were starting to sweat, and she doubted her sweat was organic enough for anyone in the room.

  “Okay, let me explain.” Tara pushed her hair behind her ears and scooted forward on her stool. She had pale blond hair that on the average day was scooped back into a ponytail, but tonight she wore it parted and past her shoulders. “Every year we go on our annual girls’ trip. We’ve done all sorts of things,” she said, waving a hand in the air. “Camping near the hot springs, we’ve driven up to Canada for the week and stayed in a lodge...”

  “What about the year we rented those tree houses?”

  Rainy glanced over as Braithe set down a baked brie, surrounded by a cluster of fruit, in front of them. The room seemed to hinge on Rainy’s answer, but it was one thing eating cheese with these women a few minutes from her own home, another entirely to go away with them. Shit, why had she drunk the wine so fast? She couldn’t think of a good lie fast enough.

  “Vegas is not my thing. Trust me, I’m not fun, not even a little bit. Look, you sat me next to the pregnant woman—you all know it’s true in your hearts.” That brought a cry of outrage from Viola, and a few laughs from the others.

  “That is not true, Rainy! We love hanging with you!” This came from Mackenzie, who was always positive, always inclusive. She was married to Bryan Biggs, a software engineer; the group fondly called them BigMac.

  Rainy reached for the cheese, slamming back a mouthful to buy herself time. They wouldn’t understand this, her hesitation. They had just emerged from a bitter winter, and everyone was jumping at the chance to travel again. She should want to go. Any normal person would want to go.

  “Well, we certainly aren’t going to force you to come,” Braithe said a little hesitantly. Her face was conflicted but Rainy couldn’t tell why. She was a fairweather member of the group and they’d always been okay with that.

  “But I for one am going. And you know what else? I’m not going to feel bad about all the money I’m going to lose at the slot machines...and I plan on losing a lot of it, more than last time.” She pointed around the table, daring anyone to contest, and Rainy breathed a sigh of relief. She owed Braithe one. The banter continued, and the air of planning descended on the group. Rainy was content to listen to them talk about it, laughing when Tara and Ursa got into an argument about setting drink limits, so no one would be chaperoning anyone else.

  “Last time we were there I had to drag you back to the room as you vomited into my bag,” Tara complained.

  “Well, leave me where I am next time and mind your business,” Ursa shot back. “Besides, I am not sitting at a slot machine pressing buttons the first time I get a vacation in two years. Send me to a club and let me dance!”

  She spotted the time on Braithe’s range right as they were discussing hotels and stood up a little too abruptly; her chair screeched painfully against the floor.

  “Rainy, no! Stay longer!” Tara said. Her teeth were stained purple, like she’d been feasting on the wine instead of drinking it.

  “I have to go let Shep out.” The planned excuse tumbled easily out of her mouth. She wanted to give herself a congratulatory pat on the back.

  Tara had a poodle named Stacey that she treated better than most parents treated their kids. She nodded right away like she understood.

  “Promise us you’ll at least think about it, okay?” Tara was smiling, the blond daggers of hair contrasting with the sweetness of her tone.

  Rainy knew this tactic, and she wasn’t going to allow herself to be guilted or strong-armed into something she didn’t want to do.

  “Think about what?” She said it casually, but she supposed if you listened closely, there was a nip to her voice. Tara’s smile became fixed. Rainy could see her thoughts ticking behind her eyes.

  “Think about coming, silly.” She leaned in and Rainy had the urge to pull away. “I know it would mean a lot to Braithe if you did.”

  She stared into Tara’s eyes and saw something she didn’t like; what was that? Desperation? She blinked back her thoughts, casting a glance at Braithe, who was chatting with Ursa and Mac. The only one paying attention to them was Viola, who was pretending to text, but Rainy knew the look on her face—she was listening. Rainy highly doubted Braithe’s happiness was hinging on her going to Vegas, especially since she’d be surrounded by her groupies. If Tara wasn’t getting it, she’d help her.

  “I already said no, but hey, hit me up if you guys decide to do the tree houses again. I’ll see you guys next week.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, avoiding Tara’s eyes and winking at Viola, who gave her a thumbs-up.

  She was moving toward the door; a few more steps and her hand would close over—

  “Rainy.” It was Braithe, walking toward her, an apologetic look on her face. Her shoes made pitter-patters on the hardwood as Rainy turned to face her.

  “She comes on strong, but she means well.” Braithe’s mouth was pulled into a tight little bud; she only made that face when she was worried. Little tendrils of hair had come loose around her face. She looked like a painting.

  “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  Braithe sighed and opened the door. “Have you considered that we actually like you?” Rainy hadn’t; she’d been too busy trying to like them. It felt more
like they were tolerating her, but she smiled at Braithe and nodded.

  “I’m behind on work. I can’t really take the time off right now. Maybe next time. You guys will have to let me know how it all goes.”

  Braithe laughed, reaching out to squeeze Rainy’s shoulder. “That sounded rehearsed.”

  Rainy grinned, guilty. “I’ll see you, Braithe.”

  She’d already bounded down the stairs when Braithe called after her again. “We’re at Viola’s tomorrow, remember? Throwing her a little sprinkle before the baby comes. You signed up to bring sparkling apple juice and the couscous.”

  “I remember,” Rainy called over her shoulder. She hadn’t, and was glad Braithe couldn’t see the lie on her face. The mist soaked into her clothes as she walked. She could feel Braithe watching her from the doorway, wanting to say one last thing before sending her off. She’d only known the tiny, articulate former ballet dancer for a year, but she was the unofficial group mother. And there it was: “Don’t be a stranger this week. Come down for coffee.”

  Without turning around, Rainy lifted a hand to acknowledge that she had heard, and walked quickly to her truck.

  2

  Now

  When Rainy pulled past the end-of-road sign and up their long, looping driveway, the lights on the basketball court were on and flickering gingerly under the mist. Grant was shooting hoops; he had his shirt off, and she could see the top of his boxers above the line of his shorts. The floor of her stomach dropped out whenever she looked at him; sometimes she had to look away very quickly so he wouldn’t see how much he affected her. It wasn’t a bad problem to have, she supposed.

  He stopped playing when he saw her and jogged over, the ball tucked under his arm. Rainy’s fingers hooked through the fence until they touched Grant’s chest, and she looked into his sincere brown eyes. The corners crinkled when he smiled at her, and for a moment, she was so captivated by him she forgot everything else.

  “You look like you need to be kissed.” He pressed himself right against her, bending the fence outward and tangling his fingers with hers.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He kissed her through a chain-link diamond, and she relished the salt and sweat of him.

  “There’s a bottle of wine waiting for you inside, Miss Ives.”

  “Great.” She looked over her shoulder at the house, the sharp angles of it black against an even blacker sky. “I better go let him out.”

  Grant leaned in for one more kiss. “I’ll be in in a minute. Dinner is in the oven.”

  Had she been hungry a short while ago? She remembered the cheese, and her stomach rolled.

  “I’ll wash up, too. See you.”

  At the center of the round driveway was a very large western hemlock, its roots beginning to split the asphalt in places. Rainy knew where to step so she wouldn’t trip. Grant threatened to have it cut down, lest the roots reach the house, but Rainy loved the tree, and she wouldn’t have minded if the roots popped up in her living room.

  Grant had made a fire before he’d gone outside. Rainy could smell it as soon as she walked in the door, along with whatever he was making for dinner. To her left was a staircase, curving up toward the master bedroom; to her right was another that led to Grant’s office and the rooftop deck. Instead of taking either, she walked down three steps into the dropped living room where, during the daytime, the windows looked out over the mountain. It was for this view, this house, this solitude, that she’d agreed to leave her apartment in New York; Grant had offered to move there to be with her, but when she’d seen this place... She’d called it Goth House the first time she’d seen it.

  Putting a log on the fire, she called for Shep and heard him scrambling up from wherever he’d been sleeping, nails clicking on the wood floors. Bending down, she greeted the old mutt by pressing her forehead to his.

  “Need outside?” she asked. He whined. She’d adopted Shep from the Humane Society a day before he was to be euthanized. He was already old when he came home with her five years ago, and now he reminded her of a grouchy old man who hated his naps interrupted. At the far end of the living room were three stairs that led up to the kitchen, and she followed Shep through it and to the back door, where he pawed at the floor impatiently. After she let him out, she stood with her back pressed to the door, massaging her temples. She needed to process what had just happened. Had they been able to see how shaken she was? She’d tried to keep her cool and get out of there as quickly as possible, but Tara had sensed something. Get your shit together, Rainy.

  As she glanced around the kitchen, her eyes swept across the gray cabinets and clean quartz countertops until they landed on the nook where Grant had set the table and put out candles. The nook was surrounded by the same grand windows that were in the living room, and Rainy glanced at them uneasily before going to the control panel and hitting a button that made the shades roll down automatically. Better. She grabbed a box of matches from the drawer and lit the candles before sliding into her chair to wait for Grant.

  It had taken her years, but she’d trained herself to live solely in the present, because the past and future were in competition for what frightened her more. But how fragile was her current reality if just the mention of a place—that place—could still make her feel like this? And what did she feel exactly? Unnerved. Unsettled. Unsafe. In New York, none of her friends ever spoke about Vegas; it was garish and vain, not up to their standards. Here in this rainy, cold state, it was paradise. People popped over there for sun and a nice stay in a hotel all the time. She told herself she was a drama queen, tried to brush off the feelings of doom that were making a playground of her mind, but in the end something bad had happened there. She was only human.

  The pipes groaned upstairs as Grant turned off the shower; she opened the wine and carried it over to the table, splashing it into the glasses. The kitchen smelled of pepper and oregano.

  The kitchen smelled of him.

  No, it doesn’t, Rainy reminded herself. It smells fine. They’re just spices.

  “So, what happened?” She jumped when he walked in, wearing pajama pants. Damp hair rested on the neck of his T-shirt as he bent to pull something out of the oven with her flamingo-patterned mitts.

  “How do you know something happened?”

  When he put the casserole dish on the table, he made a face that made her both angry and want to kiss him at the same time.

  “You get a look on your face,” he said. “A panicked look in your eyes.”

  She laughed without looking away. “A panicked look, huh?”

  This time, he raised a lone eyebrow as he sat down, like, You gonna tell me or what?

  “They invited me to Vegas. Their girls’ trip.” She picked up her fork and realized there was nothing on her plate.

  “Oh?” He reached over to slide a piece of lasagna onto her plate.

  Rainy didn’t answer. Instead, she took a sip of her wine and stared at her partner over the rim. Grant was one of the most chill men she’d ever met. It was why they worked. He thought she was reclusive because of her art. He’d spent a lot of time convincing her to hang out with his group at first.

  “So, will you go?”

  “To Vegas?” Rainy swallowed. “No, I hate that place.”

  He looked crestfallen and she felt awful. Grant was a good man. It was her fault he didn’t understand.

  Again, she lied easily, by omission, though it wasn’t without a price; the guilt settled in her throat and she tried to swallow it down. Grant was watching her carefully.

  “What is it? What are you not saying?” he asked, frowning.

  She was startled at how perceptive he was, and that she liked how he saw through her.

  “It’s just one of those places that holds bad memories for me,” she said, looking away. “And besides, do I look like the type of girl who enjoys a Vegas good time?” This time, the joke fell flat to her more discerning audience, and Rainy turned to her meal, head bowed.