An Honest Lie(64)

Viola agreed. “You’re right, I’m just overly emotional and in hyper-mother mode. I’m going to step off this cause right now and take a bath.”

They hung up and Rainy decided to follow suit and take a shower. The guilt was gnawing at her, but she pushed it away each time. The hot water did little to calm her, and Rainy sat on the bed, wrapped in the hotel robe a few minutes later, staring at her phone.

She tried calling first, but her call was sent to voice mail. She left a short message asking Braithe to call her back, and then she hung up and texted, too.

Braithe, can we talk? It’s about you and Grant.
She felt sick even typing those words. Rainy hated confrontation and she wasn’t good at having friends. The people she’d hung out with in New York had been just as busy and distracted as she was; their meetups had included late-night dinners and gallery parties with people you knew but didn’t really know. She’d liked the simplicity of those shallow relationships: talking about art over seventeen-dollar cocktails, gossiping about a peer’s affair over sushi. No one wanted to know what your daddy issues were or where you were raised. They had been right now friends, and not one of them had contacted her in the year she’d been gone. The response from Braithe didn’t come right away; when it did, Rainy had to read it twice.

Why would you be asking me questions about your husband?
She stared at her phone and read the text again. Was Braithe making a jab at her, at the fact that Rainy and Grant weren’t married? It was confusing. Why would she call Grant her husband? She decided to answer using the same tone. When Rainy hit Send it felt good.

Probably because you’re still in love with him.
She wanted to understand why Braithe had pretended to be her friend and if it had all been a play for Grant. She also wanted to know why she had been stupid enough to fall for it. Hadn’t she learned how to spot disingenuous people by now? She’d certainly had enough therapy to understand what toxic behavior looked like. She was rubbing her forehead when the text came.

You have my attention...
She blinked at the text. “What the fuck,” she said under her breath. This felt like a game, one where she was being baited. She left the phone upside down on the counter and went to make herself a drink. This was nuts. This didn’t feel right or like Braithe. Halfway to the minibar, she changed her mind and picked up her phone, her thumbs moving furiously across the screen.

I don’t just want your attention, she typed. I want an explanation.

She watched the text bubbles appear and disappear; she imagined Braithe typing something angry and then erasing it. In her current state of mind, Braithe clearly didn’t believe she owed her own husband an explanation for her behavior; she definitely wasn’t going to tell Rainy anything. She could push harder.

Tara told me that the whole reason you came to Vegas was to see that psychic to ask about you and Grant. Is she telling me the truth, Braithe? You’re in love with Grant?
It looked like Braithe was composing a novel; the text in progress dots danced on the screen for what felt like ten minutes before her reply lit up Rainy’s screen.

What we had was special and he feels the same way. I can prove it.
She didn’t want to hear from Braithe again, not until she’d had a chance to talk to Grant face-to-face. That was fair, she thought; they’d both been holding back information. She could at least give him the truth about her own past.

She saw that Braithe had texted her again, and she almost deleted it without reading...almost. Curiosity won. Braithe had sent four photos. Letters laid out on a white bedspread.

When Rainy zoomed in, she saw that they were photos of handwritten letters from Grant, or at least his name was signed to them. She wouldn’t read the content. Braithe was trying to bait her. She slammed her phone on the counter and thought about calling Grant; this was nuts, what exactly was she trying to prove?

Those are old letters, she sent back.

Lol. They are. You’re too sharp for your own good, Rainy.
She stared hard at the text, her face contorting as she tried to work out what was bugging her. She’d spent the last year getting to know Braithe, and had never once seen this side of her, or any hint of it. Maybe she was drinking, maybe she was having an emotional breakdown; someone—her family—needed to stage an intervention. She thought about sending a screenshot to Viola, but decided against it. Viola needed to soak up these days softly, not be embroiled in drama. After a few minutes of deliberation, she typed out a text to Braithe and hit Send.

Braithe, you need to talk to Stephen. You need help. Please stop texting me.
There. And she could always block her number if she didn’t. Ticking behind her eyes was the start of a headache that promised to hit hard.

She put her phone down, stepped away. Rainy tried to bring herself back to the present, to the problem, to the people involved—but the past was an oily, gelatinous thing rotting in the periphery of her mind. She purposefully lived in places that gave her no muscle memory for that place: first the city and then the forest. This is your fault, she told herself. You went back there and opened a door for the demons to sneak back in. But she didn’t believe that. Or did she? She was still staring at the phone when she heard the ping of a message received. She didn’t even need to open it to see what it said.

This isn’t Braithe.


22


Now


Stop playing games. Who is this?
She waited five minutes...ten. The dots had disappeared; Rainy was pacing in front of the window, chewing the inside of her cheek.