Have fun at lunch but don’t take any shit from them. Call me when you’re done.
I bite my lip to hide my smile.
“Thanks for meeting me here. I don’t have a very long lunch break,” I say while picking up the laminated menu that’s wedged in between the sugar caddy and a bottle of ketchup.
Sara snags one of the menus and says, “No problem. We never get downtown so this is fun.”
It probably took everything in the other three not to roll their eyes. This is not their scene. Not at all.
“Okay, so drinks at our house before the Derby party on Saturday,” Beth says.
I’ve been staring at that invitation on Ryan’s fridge for two weeks. Even though we’re nowhere near Kentucky, we’ve been invited to a Derby watch party promising mint juleps and Hot Browns at a horse farm right outside of town. The invitation stated that hats, the bigger the better, were encouraged.
The group tries to warm up to me by including me in their small talk, but it’s clear that I don’t know the people, places, or events they are referring to, so instead of participating, I watch them. Watch how they interact with one another, their mannerisms, the words they choose. They think this lunch is so they can learn about me, but I’ll come away with much more than they will by the time we’re done.
After our order is placed—waters and salads for everyone—all four women lean forward and I brace myself for what’s coming.
Not surprisingly, Rachel is up first. “Okay, so since I missed dinner the other night, catch me up! Tell me all about you.”
I lean back in my chair, wanting as much distance as I can from them, and say, “There’s really not that much to tell.”
They expect me to keep going, throw in a few details at least, but they’re going to have to work harder than that.
Sara fidgets with her glass, her napkin, her phone. “She’s from Alabama,” she says, looking at Rachel, answering for me. Sara is the girl who just wants everyone to get along. She probably had pale pink roses at her wedding and purposefully chose the same china pattern as her mother-in-law.
“What part of Alabama?” Beth asks.
“Outside of Tuscaloosa,” I answer.
“Did you go to Bama?” Allison asks at the same time Rachel decides to be more direct. “What’s the name of the town you’re from?”
I look at Allison, deciding to go for the less aggressive question. “I went there for a bit.”
Weary glances around the table show me how frustrated they are.
There’s an old saying: The first lie wins. It’s not referring to the little white kind that tumble out with no thought; it refers to the big one. The one that changes the game. The one that is deliberate. The lie that sets the stage for everything that comes after it. And once the lie is told, it’s what most people believe to be true. The first lie has to be the strongest. The most important. The one that has to be told.
“I’m from Brookwood, which is really just a suburb of Tuscaloosa. I went to Bama for a couple of years but didn’t graduate. My parents and I were in a bad accident a few years ago. I was the only survivor. When I was released from the hospital, I realized I needed a change, so I’ve been moving around ever since then.”
Their expressions change instantly. This should end the questions, because they’ll look like assholes if they keep prying.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your parents,” Sara says, and it’s obvious she means it.
I nod and chew on my bottom lip, my gaze not meeting anyone at the table, my body language telling them I’m one step away from losing it if I’m forced to continue talking about it.
Rachel gives me a small smile, like she understands my sadness, while the other three squirm in their seats, clearly uncomfortable. They were expecting to find out some gossip, maybe something that could help them dig deeper and possibly unearth dirt that could be used against me later, if needed. But now they realize they might be stuck with me, because how do you run off the poor little orphan girl?
It’s quiet at the table for a moment, then Rachel presses on, no matter how awkward it makes things.
“How did you end up in Lake Forbing?”
I’m starting to see how she could get on your ever last fucking nerve. This is the question I’m most careful about answering. This town isn’t big, and it’s not a place you’d randomly pick to settle in if you didn’t already have family or friends here.
“Came across an online listing for a job. Applied for it and got it so I moved. The job fell through, but I was already here so I made it work.”