“Where was the job?” Rachel asks.
“At the hospital,” I answer.
“Oh,” Rachel says. “Which department?”
Yeah, definitely getting on my last nerve. The other women are nudging one another, each one wanting one of the others to stop this train wreck.
“The billing department,” I answer.
Sara, obviously done with our back-and-forth, chimes in, “I can’t imagine how hard things have been for you. But I am happy that you found Ryan and that Ryan found you.”
The food is delivered, and I’m granted a reprieve when everyone starts eating. Rachel keeps throwing looks my way, trying to figure me out. Good luck.
After several minutes, she spears a tomato on the end of her fork, then points it at me. “It’s surprising to see Ryan get serious so quickly. Beth says you’ve already moved into his place. You’ve known him what, two months?”
I’m done playing nice.
“Rachel—” Allison whispers.
I hold my hand up, letting Allison know I’m okay. “I get it, I really do. You’ve known Ryan forever and then here I appear, out of nowhere.” A smile stretches across my face. “He’s lucky to have you. To have friends who care so much about him.” Looking directly at Rachel I say, “So ask me what you really want to know. Am I after him for his money? I mean, that’s the real concern, right? That I’m using him?”
Sara stutters out, “No, no, no . . .”
But Rachel says, “I’m worried he’s thinking with his dick and not his brain.”
Allison drops her head in her hands, clearly embarrassed, while Beth rolls her eyes and says, “Rachel, that’s enough.” At this point, they are probably glad they don’t know anyone else in this restaurant.
Truth be told, while Rachel annoys me, I admire her the most.
I lean forward, pushing my plate away so I can rest my arms on the table. They automatically lean forward too.
“You have no reason to trust me. No reason to believe my intentions are good. But trust your friend. While I may not be comfortable telling you everything you want to know, I’ve told him. That’s the best I can give you today.”
There’s not much else that can be said at this point. If I’m reading them right, Beth, Sara, and Allison will all go back to their significant others with stories of how humiliated they were by Rachel’s behavior rather than any concern over my intentions toward Ryan. And since Rachel didn’t make the dinner cut, I’m not too concerned about her sway over Ryan. But most important, no one is questioning who I am or where I came from.
The first lie wins.
We finish our meal quickly, with little conversation, and it’s almost a race to see who can leave the fastest. I stand on the sidewalk and watch them scatter to different parking lots, each of them walking with purpose.
The friends always require the most work. I pull my phone out and Google “Evie Porter” and “Brookwood, Alabama,” just like I know they will the second they get to the privacy of their own vehicles. The first page is full of vague articles that mention the accident, an accident actual residents of Brookwood might have trouble remembering but would never admit to—because what type of person forgets when two members of their community die? The articles are dated several years ago but didn’t truly exist until a couple of months ago. Articles that were created to give me credibility and a reason why I don’t like to talk about my past.
Shutting off my phone, I drop it in my bag, then walk the two blocks back to work.
Chapter 6
Ryan leans against the open door of the small workroom in the basement of the gallery. Lunch ended less than two hours ago, so I’m impressed with how fast word got to him.
“I heard lunch was awesome,” he says with a grin I recognize but a look in his eyes I don’t. He’s dressed casually today, wearing jeans that he’s probably had since college and an untucked button-down that I know is soft to the touch. It’s a good look on him, making him seem carefree and younger than he is.
I didn’t ask why there was no suit, no tie, no perfectly styled hair this morning while we were getting dressed, and he didn’t offer.
“So much awesome,” I answer back, matching his smile.
I’ve got seventy-five place cards scattered on the table in front of me, all needing to be color coded to match the lunch choice selected by the attendees of tomorrow’s luncheon. He drops down in the chair next to me, his foot sliding against mine while he picks up two of the closest place cards.