An Honest Lie(11)

“What’s on the schedule for you today?”

“Oh, you know, thought I’d fire up the gun and blow some metal.”

“I love it when you talk welding to me, baby.”

“You home tonight at the normal time?” She carried her plate to the sink, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder. She heard his hesitation and knew what was coming.

“Happy hour with the office.”

She didn’t mind, but he acted like he was doing something wrong whenever he went somewhere without her. Rainy knew he felt like that because she’d moved here for him, leaving her own social life behind. But the truth was that she was glad to leave it; none of those relationships had meant what Grant meant to her. She listened to him as she watched the yolk of her egg spread like paint across her plate.

“I figured since you had Viola’s baby shower tonight...”

Shit. Rainy almost dropped the plate. She’d forgotten, even after Braithe’s reminder last night. She put everything in the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water scramble the stains.

“You forgot about it, didn’t you?” Grant’s voice was teasing, but the reality was there; she was forgetful, too lost in her art to keep in touch with the real world.

“Yeah, I did. I better run to the store. So much for working today, huh?” She could hear the disappointment in her own voice. She was uncomfortably behind schedule on the hive—three weeks behind, if she were honest with herself.

“Baby, this is how it’s going to go down, are you listening?”

“Uh-huh.” If there was a phone cord to wind, Rainy would have wound it around her finger. She was familiar with this particular timber of his voice.

“You’re going to wear that black dress I like—”

“It’s a baby shower,” she reminded him.

“You’re an artist, so you get to wear black. When you get there, you’re going to talk to Viola and Samantha—they’ll look for you, too, because they like you more than any of the others—”

“That’s not true,” Rainy cut in again.

“Hush, this is my story.”

She stifled a laugh while Grant kept talking. “You’ll wander over to the drinks table and make yourself a double without anyone noticing, then, bravely, you’ll manage small talk with Tara, who will ask where I am even though she knows, then she’ll make a comment about your dress and how she’s not brave enough to break the rules of fashion to wear black to a baby shower.”

Rainy lost it at this point, the laughter escaping her throat in ripples. That was exactly what Tara would do.

“Braithe will, of course, rescue you. She’ll see what I see with the dress, and she’ll grab your arm and make you go with her to the drinks table.”

She knew all this was true. Grant couldn’t have written a better script.

“After a few shots with the Baby Tigers, you’ll be ready for the big rocking chair presentation—”

Rainy groaned at this part. Shots with them wasn’t what she was groaning about, though; it was the rocking chair she’d made for Viola. Rainy loved making art; she just didn’t love being around for people’s reaction to it. The oohs and aahs, the questions that came about the process, she hated all of it. She didn’t want to talk about what she made.

“Anxiety,” a therapist had once told her, “comes in all shapes and sizes.”

“You’ll grin and bear it, and it won’t be as bad as you thought because Viola will be so, so happy. You made her a chair with your bare hands, like a beast.”

They were both laughing now, Grant unable to continue. When they caught their breath, Rainy was the first to speak.

“I love you, and I love that you can do that.”

“S’why you keep me around, baby.”

She got dressed, dreading her afternoon. The promise of a quiet workday forgotten, she resolved herself to another night of vapid social fanfare. There would be even more of them there tonight. Her only consolation was how much she liked Viola. Supporting her on her special night was easy; making small talk with twenty-plus women was not.

But instead of going to the store, she changed into a pair of coveralls and headed straight to her studio. Then, shivering, she turned on the gas fireplace, standing close to the blue-orange flames. She rubbed her thumb along the ridges of her necklace, stroking the same spot absently. There was something bothering her, something just out of reach.

For the next few hours, she got lost in her work. When it was time to get ready for the party, she hastily threw together the ingredients for her mother’s couscous salad recipe and went to get dressed. Hopefully, no one would notice that she hadn’t brought the sparkling apple juice. She stared into her closet. Her options ranged from black to gray. Instead of the black, she chose a gray dress so fair it was almost heather, and dug out an earthy cardigan to throw over top. A for effort, she told herself, shrugging. The dress was expensive, but it looked snobby instead of stylish.

Slipping her feet into orange Birkenstocks, she walked back and forth in front of the mirror, sizing herself up. She sent a text to Grant, telling him whoever got home last had to drag the garbage cans to the curb, and she ran for the truck.

Viola and Samantha lived in a ranch house halfway down Tiger Mountain. It took her ten minutes to pull up and another two to gain the courage to enter. Their three-bedroom house was ablaze with orange and cream balloons, dancing in the corners and around the fireplace where a gold-lettered sign was stretched from one side to the other: Baby Makes 3! Rainy swallowed a memory: balloons. Not orange and cream, but blue and yellow. Her head began to swim.