An Honest Lie
Tarryn Fisher
AT THE END OF THE highway sat an old town, not completely dead, but on its last breath. There was no reason to go there unless you were lost or, in her case, trying to be found. She stared past the candy-colored lights, the reds and blues and lilacs, to the empty desert beyond...to Friendship. That’s where it began fifteen years ago and what had begun there would never really end. Two birds with one stone, she thought. Two vultures.
Her phone lit up, drawing her eyes away from the window.
Braithe: I’m going to kill her. You better come if you want to save her.
1
Now
It towered on high, a black house throned on a mountain and surrounded by lush foliage. The constant flow of water from the sky nourished the succulent shades of green on Tiger Mountain. Her house was at the highest point, a cake topper. She liked to think of the mountain as hers, but the road that led to the bottom of the mountain passed by many houses. She knew only a handful of their occupants. She felt less determined than she had five minutes ago. She could go home, say she wasn’t feeling well or give another flimsy excuse, but duty kept her left foot jumping between gas and brake as she navigated the curves.
Duty to whom? She met her own eyes in the rearview mirror, and then quickly looked away before turning left down a driveway. Rainy felt her tits lift and slap back against her rib cage as her old truck cleared a pothole; she’d forgotten to put on a bra. Trashy, she thought. Braking sharply in front of the shed, she threw the truck into Park and hopped out. The house was a Cape Cod, painted white with black trim and set back from the road on a cozy lot bordered by mountain hemlock. So stark was the comparison to her own ultramodern home that Rainy always paused to admire the warm charm of the Mattson house. Each of the houses on Tiger Mountain was marvelously different; that’s what both she and Grant loved the most about living there.
As she stepped away from the car, her boots crunched against the gravel in the driveway, and she kept her head down against the rain as she climbed the three stairs that led to the door. She could hear them inside, their voices filling up the house with a cacophony of sound. Rainy hated this part: walking into a room and having all eyes on her. They would check her clothes, noting the lack of effort, see that she was braless, wonder—she was sure—what Grant saw in her. She rang the bell and bent to unlace her boots. By the time Braithe Mattson opened her front door, Rainy had kicked them off and was standing in her socks. One, she noticed, was of the floral variety, and the other plain white. It was too late to do anything about it.
“I told you to stop ringing the bell and just come inside,” Braithe said.
She didn’t have time to respond. Braithe pulled her through the door, and Rainy had to rework her face as her host corralled her toward the kitchen where the women usually hung out.
“Working today?” Braithe glanced over her shoulder, eyeing Rainy’s black jeans and T-shirt. But Rainy didn’t sense any judgment, just curiosity. Braithe was—for lack of a more interesting word—kind. She nodded, and Braithe’s face lit with happiness. She was a rarity: a friend who understood that, for an artist, a productive day of work was hard to come by. Rainy felt a surge of affection for her. She’d only known Braithe for the year she’d lived there, but they’d fallen into an easy, noncommittal friendship that included an occasional dinner downtown and texts about nothing in particular. That dip you made on Friday night was amazing. Did you watch the Justin Bieber documentary? The boys want to go bowling Friday night, you down?
Following Braithe past the formal areas of the home, she braced herself, keeping her eyes on the back of her friend’s head, dreading the routine of the next five minutes. There was nothing more painful to Rainy than the way women greeted each other: the high-pitched squeals of joy, the touching and hugging, the exaggerated expressions that accompanied the small talk. The high, singsong voices saying, “How are youuuuuuuu?” Bonus points if they delivered a compliment about hair or outfit. In her circles in New York, her artist friends never touched; they kissed the air beside her cheek and asked how she was in the same sentence they inquired about her bag. They didn’t wait for the answer—that was the best part to Rainy—but here, they wanted her answer. Here, they asked and expected to receive.
Braithe Mattson’s kitchen was stark white, aside from the large black butcher-block island that sat at its center. A cluster of women were seated around it, seeming to glow under Braithe’s mood lighting. These were the faithful, the loyal, her ladies-in-waiting. The room smelled of her signature scent, a Tom Ford candle—Rainy had once Googled the price of it—called Lost Cherry. It was cozy, even if it was a little overly curated. Rainy did not see herself as one of them; she was the newest, still in the first year of her feel-out phase. She came to their weekly happy hours, and since some of their partners and husbands were friends, there were crossover dinners and summer barbecues, the group discussion centering on sports, their respective jobs and family gossip. All in all, they were nice...and they were Grant’s friends. She’d come because Grant was important to her, and he had asked her to.
Rainy made a split-second decision: she sneezed violently into her elbow, and by the time she opened her eyes, a unanimous “Bless you” echoed from the women across the room. Suddenly, everyone was laughing, including Rainy, who was able to avoid the hugging and touching part as she sniffled past them. No one wanted to get sick or touch the snotty girl.