The Art of Scandal(11)
She tucked a rose behind her ear, took the lid off her soda cup, and swished it around. Matt stopped a few feet away, hands outstretched, as if he’d found her on the ledge of a building. He had changed into the monogrammed robe and pajamas she’d bought him for his birthday. “Where have you been? You look terrible.”
“Good thing you’ve found a replacement.”
Matt’s concern evaporated. “I was worried,” he chided, as if a broken curfew was their real problem. She would have laughed if it wasn’t so depressing. Rachel lowered her head and willed it to stop spinning. She could hear mulch crunching under Matt’s shoes as he took hesitant steps in her direction. “Are you okay?”
A flash of headlights made her look up. A red Corolla slowed and parked in front of their house. Matt tensed and pivoted like a thief weighing the odds of escape. Everyone in town knew that car. It had appeared at almost every troubled household in the area. Mia Williams worked for the police department as a victim’s advocate. On paper, her job was to assist uniformed officers with domestic violence calls to help de-escalate situations and make sure the victim’s rights were protected. In reality, she primarily dealt with retirees calling in complaints about their teenage neighbors trampling expensive landscaping.
For more than a decade, Mia had been a mediator for angry spouses, a babysitter to sulky preteens, and the moral authority to single playboys who thought it was a good idea to change clothes near open windows. She knew everyone’s secrets, which was why no one ever wanted her around. In a town determined to perform perfection, it was hard to fake it with someone who knew that your wife wasn’t at a family reunion because she was on vacation with the nanny you’d both been fucking. Despite Mia’s innocent appearance—short and curvy, with dimples so deep, they were still visible even when she wasn’t smiling—she had the instincts of a hard-boiled noir detective. Her sudden appearance sent Matt spiraling into a sweaty panic.
“Mia!” Matt’s voice cracked with forced enthusiasm. “It’s been a long time. What brings you out here?”
Mia moved closer, ignoring Matt. Her gaze was fixed on Rachel. “One of your neighbors called in a suspected break-in. They said a Black man was hiding in your bushes. But the alarm didn’t trip, so the uniforms called me. I’m guessing they were trying to keep things in the family.”
Rachel and Mia were family in the way two passing ships might occasionally dock at the same port. Despite being first cousins, they’d never met until Rachel moved to Oasis Springs with Faith. As an only child, Rachel had been excited to connect with family members so close to her age. But Mia was intimidating from day one. The oldest of two children, she lived up to the birth order stereotype. The day they met, Mia had introduced herself in one breath and then outlined an Oasis Springs for Beginners itinerary in the next. Mia’s brother Niles, four years younger, with a personality composed entirely of charm and optimism, had offered to hire Rachel as a server at a seafood restaurant that never opened. By the time everyone learned he’d lost the financing, Niles had left the country to work as a sous-chef in Belize.
Mia’s path had briefly intersected with Rachel’s during those initial months when Rachel couldn’t afford her own place and had to live with her aunt. Mia had recently quit law school and was staying with her mother for the same reason. During the day, Rachel waited tables at a café, and Mia hunted for jobs with the drive of someone who wanted out of her mother’s house. At night, on the rare occasions they were still awake, they inched closer to friendship, trading war stories about Rachel’s rude customers and Mia’s awkward interviews like they’d known each other for years.
But then Rachel met Matt, and a few weeks later, Mia was offered a temp job at Abbott and Associates, his father’s law firm. Neither of them could take the awkwardness of Rachel dating a man who signed Mia’s paychecks. Rachel moved in with Matt and limited her interactions with her overly perceptive cousin to occasional waves across the grocery store parking lot.
Now Mia appraised Rachel’s current situation—noting Matt’s pajamas, the booze cup, and Rachel’s bare toes peeking up through the mulch—with grim resignation. She was the domestic drama trash collector, and here they were, dumping another pile at her feet.
“A Black man?” Matt’s eyes flashed with familiar outrage. He was gearing up for some rant about racial profiling in the neighborhood. Rachel hated when he did that. His stump speeches were usually smooth and measured, but he couldn’t talk about racism to Black people without a hint of desperation. Like if he spoke loud enough with more flailing gestures, they’d finally believe he cared.
Rachel cut him off. “I’m sure they were just worried about us.”
“There’s a lot of that kind of worry in this neighborhood,” Mia said. “I don’t think there’s been an actual break-in around here in five years. And that was some drunk kid, trying to sneak back into the wrong house.”
It was jarring to hear someone say what she and Matt knew but ignored most days: their subdivision was diverse like a corporate recruiting ad—impressive until you realized it was filled with stock photos of the same Black model. Mia lived in a neighborhood filled with Black middle-class families and recent immigrants that reminded Rachel of where she’d grown up. Maybe that was the real reason they’d been so distant all these years. Mia considered her a sellout. In moments like these, a small part of Rachel agreed.