The Lies I Told(5)

The media and police pressure had gotten so bad that Kurt had fled Richmond to finish up high school in North Carolina. When he returned nearly a year later, his father was days away from dying of ALS. He’d lost a year with his father, and by then most had forgotten Clare’s name except for the occasional reporter drumming up an anniversary piece. One year. Five years. Ten. Thirteen was too odd a number for a story, but maybe fifteen would work.

Kurt’s six-foot-one running back’s frame had filled out with muscle in the last dozen years, and the ink-black, collar-length hair that once swept recklessly over his forehead was cut short and silvering very slightly. His jaw was still strong, and the nose broken in a fight continued to add interest to a too-perfect face. Black blazer, white button-down shirt, faded jeans, and boots that he’d worn in high school. Gray-green eyes bore down on me.

Grinning, he drew me into an embrace that smelled of Old Spice aftershave, the brand he’d once mocked because his father wore it. “You look terrific, Marisa.”

How had Brit convinced him to come to this party? We were hardly a blast from the past he wanted to remember.

As he wrapped me in his arms, my chest tightened, and my heart kicked up a beat. But I held steady and drew back slowly, as if I were fine. It wouldn’t do to ruin this party that Brit clearly had taken a great deal of time to plan. “You’re a terrific surprise, Kurt. It’s been way too long.”

He regarded my hair. “Thirteen years.”

“A life,” I said.

“I’ve been tracking your bridal-photography business, MIS Images,” he said. “Doing pretty well.”

“It’s growing slow and steady.”

“Better than that. Your photography has been in a few national online trade publications. You make the average wedding portrait look artistic and different.”

I was a frustrated artist with a screwed-up personal life, but I knew how to work hard (even hungover or buzzed), and I had an eye for commercial images. However, showing my real art always felt awkward and exposed, so I’d put my energy into the paying work. I’d somehow established a quirky vibe that was now popular. “It pays the light bill.”

“Whenever I’m in the market for a wedding photographer, you’re my girl,” Kurt said.

“There a lady in the wings?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

Brit had said something once about him being divorced. I glanced to his left hand. Empty with no trace of a ring tan. “Can’t rush greatness.”

He grinned. “That’s what I keep telling my mother.” He turned to Brit, hugged her, but the embrace was tentative—chaste, as if Brit were an older, distant aunt. In reality she was only a year older than Kurt.

“I’m glad you made it,” Brit said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “Been too long.”

“The bar is running an open tab,” Brit said. “What can I get you, Kurt?”

“Craft beer.”

“You got it. Soda for you, M?”

“Perfect.”

Brit hurried out of the room, leaving a scented trail behind. The silence settled. The only thing Kurt and I had in common now was Clare’s murder. We both had gone through the wringer after her death. The devastating news, the cops asking endless questions, the media attention, and then the friends who stopped calling.

“You’re drinking soda?” he asked. “That a joke?”

“No punch line. Sober for one year now,” I said.

“Wow. How’s that been?”

“Not too bad.” Lying was a birthday-girl privilege.

Brit entered with a tray sporting a beer bottle, a canned soda, and a misty glass of white wine. She doled out drinks and held up her wineglass. “This will be the first of many toasts tonight, but happy birthday, Marisa.”

Kurt grinned as he drank from his beer bottle, clearly relieved for something to do. He looked around the room at the dark wood paneling, flickering sconces, and vintage bar signs now draped in pink and white streamers with balloons dangling from the ends. “Brit, you’ve outdone yourself. The room looks terrific.”

Mama Brit beamed. “Thanks, Kurt.”

“There’s no place like home,” he quipped.

“Exactly.” In high school, Brit had a crush on Kurt, and there had always been a snap of attraction in her eyes when she’d looked at him. Then she’d left for college, and he’d started dating Clare.

“What’s on the menu?” Kurt asked.

“We’re having Marisa’s favorite,” she said. “Barbecue, rolls, creamed corn, and coleslaw. A little out of season but can’t argue with a favorite.”

I popped the top on my soda and drank. The menu offering wasn’t my favorite, but Clare’s. Like the tequila, Clare had loved a good barbecue. I’d always reached for pizza or fries when I had the choice. This wasn’t the first time that Brit had confused Clare and me. When Clare was alive, it had happened all the time. Other than our fashion choices, there was no way to tell us apart if we were far away or it was dark. If Brit had been close, she might have noted Clare’s eyes were slightly more almond shaped than mine. When we were newborns, our mother had written our initials in Sharpie on our heels.

This menu mix-up was par for the course. In fact, it felt right to have Clare’s favorite meal tonight. We’d always shared our birthday with each other, so today should be no different.