An Honest Lie(6)

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.

“Could be fun. You’re all about the human experience.” He was prodding her, and she’d have to give him something. “I could take care of all the details for you,” he said hopefully.

She chewed enthusiastically for several minutes to stall. How to explain that there were certain human experiences she had no desire to revisit? Grant didn’t know certain things and that wasn’t on him; she just wasn’t ready to let him see those parts.