An Honest Lie(3)

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.

“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.