Rainy made a split-second decision: she sneezed violently into her elbow, and by the time she opened her eyes, a unanimous “Bless you” echoed from the women across the room. Suddenly, everyone was laughing, including Rainy, who was able to avoid the hugging and touching part as she sniffled past them. No one wanted to get sick or touch the snotty girl.
The Tiger Mountain group was composed of mostly childless, married women in their thirties and forties who connected via a Facebook page, but the Baby Tigers—as Tara called them—were a handful of newlyweds in their midtwenties. They brought a fun, energetic vibe to the group; it felt like hanging out with your little sister and her friends. They were cute, but there was a disconnect that happened whenever the thirty-and fortysomethings spoke about things the twenties hadn’t reached yet. The two that came to happy hour with the most consistency were Ursa and Mackenzie, best friends who seemed to enjoy the company of the slightly older women. The other twenties had broken off into their own group that Ursa and Mac still hung out with occasionally. Rainy felt bad calling them the Baby Tigers; Tara had only come up with that nickname because she was threatened by their youth.
Braithe came back and pushed a glass of white wine into Rainy’s hand. Her lips were lined in gold, as were her eyes. She surveyed the room.
“Sit over there by Viola, will you—she’s miserable because she can’t drink.” She said it loud enough for Viola to hear.
Braithe winked at Viola, who in turn made a face at her. Rainy made her way over to where Viola was sitting and slid obediently into her seat. She would have chosen to sit next to Viola, anyway. The clock on Braithe’s range read 7:47; she’d stay until nine-ish, and then say she had to get home to let Shep out. These were dog people; they would understand. That meant an hour and fifteen minutes for happy hour and she could call it. She grinned at Viola, who returned her look with raised eyebrows. Her pursed lips were a perfect matte burgundy.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking. I am thinking the same damn thing.” Viola leaned back in her seat, cradling her belly and looking miserable. Rainy eyed the gaggle. They were talking about a new restaurant and were distracted for the moment.
“Well, why do we keep coming to these things?”
“Good question. Pass me that water, would you?”
Rainy leaned forward, reaching for the glass, and Viola took it from her gratefully. She drained it, eyeing Rainy over the rim.
“Indigestion,” she said before Rainy could ask. “Samantha made some shit, and now I can’t tell if I’m in labor or if hot sauce is leaking into my chest cavity from her rice.” She pounded her chest with a small fist and grimaced. Samantha was Viola’s partner. Rainy had only met her once at one of these things; she was one part goth and the rest awkward computer nerd. Since Rainy was equally as awkward, she’d hit it off with Samantha, who shared her dry sense of humor.
“Why did you put hot sauce on your rice?”
Viola looked at her sideways, eyeing her with disapproval. “Why do you not?”
Rainy laughed. “Touché.”
Braithe seated herself on the last empty bar stool, her glass of white wine in front of her. To her left was Tara Hessler, her right-hand woman and main lady-in-waiting. Tara was a little flushed tonight, her creamy skin rosy with anticipation. She was, in Rainy’s opinion, a social scavenger, but a smooth one. She needed to be the prettiest girl in the room, but that was Braithe, so she settled for a close second. Tara adorned Braithe like an unnecessary tiara. Rainy avoided having close friendships for that reason: the last thing she wanted was costume-jewelry friendship. She didn’t have time for that. Codependency sucked up large chunks of time.
Rainy, being the newest to the group, was always pelted with questions when she showed up to happy hour. It was like they were trying to fast-track her into their group with these little Q and As.
“The new-girl novelty will wear off soon and they’ll stop hounding you.” It was a promise Viola made to her a year ago when Rainy moved to Washington. They wanted to know who she hung out with in New York—a handful of close artist friends from college. Who she dated before Grant—two art students and a gallery owner, nothing serious. Where were her parents? Dead. Did she miss the city? Yes and no. She liked the solitude and vast openness of Washington. And finally, the most painful question of them all—was she going to marry Grant? Viola had called them out after that, told them to stop being nosy.