The Lies I Told(73)

Instead, I turned on the shower taps, and as steam filled the room, I stripped off clothes reeking of sweat and vomit and carried them directly to the unit’s small washing machine. With the washer chugging, I returned to the bathroom, stepped under the shower’s hot spray, and let the warmth spread over my chilled skin and ease the tension banding my muscles.

Past experience told me that I’d feel like crap for the rest of the day. A cold cola and a couple of aspirin would help, but there was nothing else to be done other than suffer through this.

Served me right. I’d let Brit push my buttons. I’d fallen for one of a thousand traps she’d been setting for me for years. The pleasure-and-pain seesaw I’d been balancing for a year had dipped toward pain with just a few words from Brit. Instead of taking it on the chin, I’d done what I’d always done. I numbed it.

Through bleary eyes, I realized Brit was happiest when she was driving me to rehab, holding my hand through another detox, sitting at my side after the car accident. So smug. My weakness gave her strength.

I tipped my face toward the water, and hot spray pulsed against my skin. “You’re too old to let this happen. Too smart.”

I shut off the water and toweled off. In my room I dressed in jeans and a gray sweater. For the sake of morale, I put on makeup, dried and styled my hair. As I’d said to a woman at a meeting a few weeks ago, “Get back on track, old girl. The future can still be bright.”

Meetings. The idea of facing my peers and turning in my one-year chip sucked. We didn’t like to call it the walk of shame, but that was exactly what it was. But disgrace, and the desire to avoid it, was a powerful motivator.

After setting up my coffeepot, I grabbed a large trash bag and collected the three empty wine bottles, which I stowed under the kitchen sink. For the secret drinker, cleanup was a key step. Couldn’t have the empties lying about.

As the fresh pot of coffee gurgled, the front doorbell rang. The list of people who could make it past the security door was short. I wasn’t interested in seeing anyone and was tempted to just wait them out.

The bell rang again.

“I know you’re in there,” Brit said. “I can smell the coffee.”

Shit. The woman had radar. No doubt, Brit had been thinking about that glass of wine she’d left out on the counter, like bait in a trapper’s snare.

Drawing back my shoulders, I moved to the door. A quick glance in the side mirror told me I didn’t look like a complete dumpster fire. Not my best, but presentable.

I opened the door to Brit and David. A doubleheader. How lucky could a girl get?

Brit eyed me closely, taking in my face, hair, and clothes. Narrowing eyes scrubbed off my makeup to see the woman behind the mask. “Good morning!”

“Good morning.” My voice sounded like rough gravel, forcing me to clear my throat. “Sorry. I was up late editing.” Lying also came naturally to a secret drinker. I’d often joked at meetings that if I were Wonder Woman, I’d have a Lasso of Lies.

“Morning, Marisa,” David said.

“Hey, David. How’re you two this morning?” I stepped aside and let them in. The sooner they said their piece, the faster they’d leave.

Brit’s gaze swept the apartment, searching for the bottles. She looked a tad disappointed when she didn’t see any. If David hadn’t been here, she’d have searched under the kitchen sink in the trash can, but with him, appearances trumped validation.

“We have news for you,” Brit said.

“Oh?”

“We wanted you to be our first,” David said.

“First?”

Brit held up her hand, displaying a white-gold ring with a solitaire diamond. “We’re engaged. David popped the question last night.”

I had to admit I was shocked. My sister, who thought out every move carefully, had accepted a marriage proposal from a man she’d known eight weeks. “Wow, that’s amazing.”

“We know it’s a bit fast,” Brit said.

“But the heart wants what the heart wants,” David said.

I studied the ring. Not Brit’s style, and I wondered how long it would be before she had the diamond reset. “It’s lovely.”

David took Brit’s hand in his. “I hope you’re happy for us.”

“Of course I am.”

“David thought it would be fun if you took our engagement pictures. Not the wedding, of course,” Brit said. “You’ll be in the wedding party and can’t very well be running around with a camera.”

I pictured myself in an eggplant or fuchsia dress with flowers in my hair, standing beside three of Brit’s friends dressed exactly the same. “I’d love to do your engagement pictures.”

David smiled. “That’s great. I know whatever pictures you take will be fantastic. Brit tells me how talented you are.”

“Thank you.” My stomach tumbled a little. How many brides and grooms had I photographed who’d been hungover from the rehearsal dinner and rallied to project the image of the perfect couple? How many families had used the wedding stage to prove they weren’t dysfunctional?

I missed Clare in times like this. We’d commiserated when Dad had announced he was marrying Sandra. All the side-eye and suppressed giggles when that happy couple fawned over each other. There was no one else now who would understand the true meaning of one of my eye rolls or smirks.