“What type of food? Vietnamese, Korean—I know this great Mexican place in Tacoma.” He was excited as he opened his laptop and said, “It’s Seattle, I can find you almost anything you want—or at least something similar.”
The New Yorker in Rainy highly doubted that, but she kissed him to get a taste of his excitement and said, “Seafood sounds great.” Grant had booked a place on the water that he swore up and down served the best crab legs in the state. He’d sent a group text to his friends and their wives with the date and time. Everyone texted back, excited, and then Tara’s text had come.
Hey, don’t mean to be a vibe killer, but that’s the weekend of the annual chili cook-off.
The texts came in fast little pelts: everyone suggesting that they combine the two.
Rainy had been embarrassed that her birthday plans were disrupting something they all wanted to do. We’ll have a cake for her at the party! someone had texted. But she was already mortified by then, trying to make some big weekend about herself when they barely knew her.
“I’ve never celebrated my birthdays. I don’t want to be the center of attention,” she’d argued when he said it was no big deal to reschedule the dinner.
“This is your first year here with me. Let me do this.”
Grant was so set on the issue—so pleased with himself—that she couldn’t bear to burst his bubble. She’d relented, but with a sinking feeling. She didn’t want his friends to think she was the one pushing the issue, demanding to celebrate even though they barely knew her. It had been a rule among her New York friends to ignore each other’s partners until they were too embedded in the circle not to. A cruel but cautionary way to not get “too attached.” As she half hid and healed, the coldness had suited her, but these were Grant’s people. She was thirsty for his approval—and the last thing she needed was to be the topic of their gossip.
She agreed to a six o’clock dinner on Friday night with four other couples: Braithe and Stephen, Tara and Matt, Viola and Samantha, and Gary and Linney—a couple Grant knew from high school that he affectionately referred to as Old Faithful. Ten minutes before they were supposed to leave, Tara had texted links to the group with several reviews she’d found online about the restaurant.
Five cases of food poisoning in the last four months, she’d said. Didn’t know if you wanted to chance it…
No one had. And by that time, it was too late to get a reservation for ten people anywhere else. The dinner had been canceled, and Rainy was left with the distinct impression Tara had wanted it that way. Rainy had never figured out why Tara disliked her, and she’d learned to not care. There were plenty of people who liked her well enough.
Now, she glanced around and saw five sets of eyes pinned on her. The sudden surge of attention from everyone at one time was making Rainy dizzy.
“Take my hands, Lorraine Ives.” Tara’s nails were painted a pearly white. She flipped them over and held two small palms toward her, so soft and unblemished Rainy was fixated. Had the woman ever so much as fried bacon in her life? Tara cleared her throat and Rainy offered her hands apologetically.
“Sorry, artist acknowledging beautiful hands.”
Tara flushed, pleased with the compliment. Viola kicked Rainy under the table and Rainy shot her an apologetic look. What? She has beautiful hands.
Before she could make sense of why everyone was watching her and what was happening, Tara launched into her sell.
“So! We know you’re new to the group, and we don’t always like the new people,” she said, winking. The others murmured their agreement, and Rainy wondered who the last new member had been. Maybe one of Grant’s other girlfriends? Tara continued. “But we’re all totally obsessed with you—that’s why—and you can absolutely say no, buuut we won’t let you.” They all laughed at the joke she didn’t get and Rainy held her breath as she waited for the punchline. Were they going to suggest matching tattoos? Were they swingers, asking her into their circle? The possibilities were endless as Rainy sat sweating beneath their eyes. She could feel her eyebrows dancing comically in confusion.
“Picture sun, heat—” she said the word heat with reverence “—and drinks by the pool! We’re inviting you on our girls’ trip…to Vegas!”
At first, Rainy’s relief was immense; a girls’ trip was kind, inclusive. And then she processed the word: Vegas. She glanced over at Viola and wondered if they would have invited her instead if Viola wasn’t in her last trimester, and then corrected herself for thinking that way. It was a nice gesture, one she never intended to accept. But she couldn’t tell them why.