The Lies I Told(6)

“And the cake?” Kurt asked.

“Chocolate on chocolate,” Brit said.

She’d gotten the cake right. So the rest didn’t matter. “Perfect.”

“Tell me about your wedding-photography business,” Kurt said. “Never saw you chasing that dream.”

Clare had been the artist when we were growing up. She’d loved to draw, filled dozens of sketchbooks, and even dabbled with photography. “Fell into it like I have most things. Became obsessed with taking pictures of Richmond: Main Street Station, the old tobacco warehouses, Hollywood Cemetery. When I realized I could make money doing this, I went full time.”

“Feast-or-famine kind of business.”

“The second part of this year is looking like a feast,” I said.

“I heard you had an art show back in January.”

“It was a small event.”

“Still, a show is a show. Where does all the commercial work leave your art?” Kurt asked.

He had always been a good listener, keying in on whatever I was saying. He made me feel like an individual, and not one-half of MC, the nickname Brit had given her twin sisters. “Making it work.”

“Marisa is underselling her January show,” Brit offered. “It went well. She sold a couple of pieces.”

“One piece,” I corrected. “But who’s counting?”

“One more than I’ve ever sold,” Kurt said. “I’d like to see them sometime.”

I sipped my soda, savoring the bubbles. After booze and the accident, the new loves of my life were carbonation and crunch.

“All right, you two, time to put on a hat,” Brit said. “M, you’re Dorothy, of course. And, Kurt, you’re the Tin Man.”

Kurt waggled his eyebrows, as he’d done in high school when Brit went all Mom Squad. “If I only had a heart.”

I studied the blue velvet hat and Dorothy’s stunned face and wondered how many thirty-year-olds celebrated their birthdays sober at a Wizard of Oz–themed party? I settled the hat on my head, angled it a fraction, and then fished out my phone. Holding it up, I mugged for the camera, snapped, and posted. It was not vanity, but business. The more posts I put up, the higher the impressions my photography business received. Customers like to see you as real, accessible, and fun.

Clare’s laugh rang in my ears. “You look ridiculous, you know? Times when it pays to be dead.”

Hearing Clare’s voice was comforting. It’d been a while since my sister had piped up, and it was nice to know my former partner in crime was riding shotgun tonight.

Brit chose the Glinda the Good Witch hat and settled it on her head. Perfect fit.

I smiled at her, reminding myself again that when our mother died suddenly (suicide, overdose), Brit had been fifteen, and Clare and I had just turned twelve. Our dad had needed the help, and firstborn Brit had stepped into the role. She was so good at it, no one had ever asked if she liked it. And when Clare died, Brit was devastated. She compensated by throwing herself into her college and then law school studies. To this day, she never sat still.

Kurt settled the Tin Man’s silver hat on his head. “How do I look?”

“A perfect fit,” I said.

“Tin Man needed oil, and I’m in asphalt, an oil-based product.”

“Are you still with your dad’s asphalt business?” I asked. “In high school you said you’d rather die first.”

“It’s a good gig,” he said. “The pay is great, and we all have to grow up eventually.”

“So I hear.”

A flurry of laughter echoed outside the banquet room, and when we turned, a petite brunette stepped into the room, carrying a gift bag covered in clowns. My dislike of clowns had always been well known, and the bag choice was meant to be a joke. Ha ha.

“Jo-Jo,” I said. Jo-Jo, the bestie to team MC, had hosted the New Year’s Eve party where Clare had been last seen. Once the cops and media learned her parents hadn’t been at home during the party, there was enough fallout to drive them from Richmond.

Jo-Jo had married Brit’s high school boyfriend, Jack, two years ago. It had been a surprising combination. The bad boy married the cheerleader, but after thirteen years, the old labels shouldn’t have mattered as much. Jo-Jo and Jack now had the house in the suburbs, and odds were, they’d have a kid on the way within the year.

I didn’t see Jo-Jo that much anymore, and I had to wonder why she’d accepted Brit’s invitation. The last time I’d seen her had been at a wedding last November. She and Jack had been guests, and I’d been working. I’d been sober about eight months but still wasn’t broadcasting it—after too many misfires, I didn’t want to jinx things. Jo-Jo, remembering the high school version of me, kept sneaking me vodka shots. Finally, after dumping three shots in a potted ficus, I’d told her I was now sober. That had earned me an eye roll and a “just this once.” Girls like her, who can shut off the drinking like a water tap, don’t really get girls like me, who can drink until our livers fail.

Jo-Jo wrapped her arms around me. “I was so worried about you,” she whispered. “I wanted to see you in the hospital. But was cut off at the pass.”

I had asked Brit to keep everyone away. No one needed to see my newly shorn hair, pale skin, and confused expression. Not my best Instagram moment. “I wouldn’t have remembered it anyway.”