Rainy leaned forward, reaching for the glass, and Viola took it from her gratefully. She drained it, eyeing Rainy over the rim.
“Indigestion,” she said before Rainy could ask. “Samantha made some shit, and now I can’t tell if I’m in labor or if hot sauce is leaking into my chest cavity from her rice.” She pounded her chest with a small fist and grimaced. Samantha was Viola’s partner. Rainy had only met her once at one of these things; she was one part goth and the rest awkward computer nerd. Since Rainy was equally as awkward, she’d hit it off with Samantha, who shared her dry sense of humor.
“Why did you put hot sauce on your rice?”
Viola looked at her sideways, eyeing her with disapproval. “Why do you not?”
Rainy laughed. “Touché.”
Braithe seated herself on the last empty bar stool, her glass of white wine in front of her. To her left was Tara Hessler, her right-hand woman and main lady-in-waiting. Tara was a little flushed tonight, her creamy skin rosy with anticipation. She was, in Rainy’s opinion, a social scavenger, but a smooth one. She needed to be the prettiest girl in the room, but that was Braithe, so she settled for a close second. Tara adorned Braithe like an unnecessary tiara. Rainy avoided having close friendships for that reason: the last thing she wanted was costume-jewelry friendship. She didn’t have time for that. Codependency sucked up large chunks of time.
Rainy, being the newest to the group, was always pelted with questions when she showed up to happy hour. It was like they were trying to fast-track her into their group with these little Q and As.
“The new-girl novelty will wear off soon and they’ll stop hounding you.” It was a promise Viola made to her a year ago when Rainy moved to Washington. They wanted to know who she hung out with in New York—a handful of close artist friends from college. Who she dated before Grant—two art students and a gallery owner, nothing serious. Where were her parents? Dead. Did she miss the city? Yes and no. She liked the solitude and vast openness of Washington. And finally, the most painful question of them all—was she going to marry Grant? Viola had called them out after that, told them to stop being nosy.
Rainy did not want to play house for the next ten years—she did want to marry Grant—but she also had no intention of talking to them about it. He was the only man she’d ever felt this way about, unless she decided to hold these little happy hours against him.
“Get to know some people, this is your new home,” he’d said.
“What people?” she’d argued stubbornly. “You are my people.”
“Friends,” he’d said. “Friends are good, friends are healthy.”
Ursa, in a pink silk top and jeans, was lip-synching along with Braithe’s playlist, forcing Mac to be her audience. She got right up in Mac’s face as she sang, “You make me, make me, make me want to cry!” Mac giggled and shoved her away; undeterred, Ursa began grinding against Tara on her other side. She paused her dancing to point a finger at Rainy and wink.
Viola laughed from beside her. “She is on tonight.”
Rainy had never really seen Ursa not be on. She was energetic: matte skin, leggy, shaggy hair. She worked in marketing and was smart as a whip. Rainy liked the way she could make anything sound fun—even a bikini wax. Mackenzie was her best friend: sweet, less sure of herself, a kindergarten teacher by trade. Rainy thought they were both in their late twenties, but she wasn’t sure; Botox made it impossible to guess a woman’s age. When Grant set her up with the group—the wives of some of his friends—he’d called them “fun” and “easygoing.” She’d wondered if he’d remembered she was uptight and not fun at all, but loving someone meant talking yourself into things on occasion. And besides, Viola was one of the realest people Rainy had ever met. The group was worth it solely for her friendship. And then there was Braithe: the glamorous, put-together adult friend. Her job was to make everyone feel like they had a place at the table—her table.
Rainy sipped her drink, content for the moment. She looked around at their faces, her gaze finally resting on Tara. To her consternation, Tara was looking at her, as well. Rainy crossed her legs, suddenly nervous. Maybe it was the way Tara had repeated her name the first time Braithe introduced them, dropping her chin and raising her brows. “Rainy like our damn weather...?” Everyone had laughed, including Rainy, but she’d had the distinct impression that Tara didn’t like her. And over the last year that feeling had grown, fanned to life by Tara’s lack of eye contact and her occasional snarky remarks. When they were in a group, it was easy to overlook that she usually hadn’t said a word to Rainy all night. With Tara being the life of every party, she seemed inclusive, drawing everyone into her stories and jokes. Rainy had never minded the slights; these were, of course, Grant’s friends, and she didn’t take offense, since she didn’t want to be there, anyway. But here was Tara, smiling at her warmly, no hint of dislike on her face. Her full lips were curled nicely, the mole above her lip punctuating her smile. The result was French model holds a secret she’s about to spill.
Rainy put her drink down and leveled her shoulders, the tag from her T-shirt scratching her neck. She could feel the energy building in the room, and it was making her nervous.
They all were staring at her now, smiles picking up the corners of their mouths. Rainy suddenly felt a knot form in her throat; she was going to choke on her own panic.
“Um...what? You guys are weirding me out.”
“Look at my face, Rainy...look at my face.” Ursa wiggled her eyebrows and made kissy faces until Rainy cracked up.
“Rainy...” Tara scooted forward in her seat, drawing Rainy’s attention back to her. Tara was seated directly across from her, on the side of the island nearest the kitchen door. In one hand she loosely held her vodka tonic, and the other was sliding something across the counter to Rainy. Tara tried to control the cogs of every situation and Rainy did not want to become one of those cogs. For that reason, she was hesitant to look down at what Tara was passing to her.
She’d lived in Washington for a mere four months when her thirty-fifth birthday snuck up. She hadn’t been thinking about it. She’d been preoccupied with settling into her new home, finding a comfortable groove with Grant. The things on her mind back then: wondering if Grant secretly hated her cooking and stressing about whether she needed to go to bed when he did. When he told her he wanted to plan a dinner to celebrate, she’d been surprised.
She’d been content to spend the night at home with Grant. She secretly hated her birthday, anyway; since her mother died, it had been a reminder of who she didn’t have. But at the time, it seemed important to Grant to plan something for her, so she’d let him.
“What type of food? Vietnamese, Korean—I know this great Mexican place in Tacoma.” He was excited as he opened his laptop and said, “It’s Seattle, I can find you almost anything you want—or at least something similar.”
The New Yorker in Rainy highly doubted that, but she kissed him to get a taste of his excitement and said, “Seafood sounds great.” Grant had booked a place on the water that he swore up and down served the best crab legs in the state. He’d sent a group text to his friends and their wives with the date and time. Everyone texted back, excited, and then Tara’s text had come.
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.