I’m late for lunch with the girls. Sara and I texted back and forth over the course of the last few days trying to find a day that worked for everyone, and while adding me to their group message would have saved a lot of time, it will take more than one dinner party for that invitation.
They wanted to meet in a small tearoom in the back of a gift shop that sells everything from handcrafted jewelry to smocked baby clothes to high- end skin-care products. They would know every person at every table as well as every shopper they passed on the way to the dining area.
While I might be willing to be interrogated by the women Ryan considers friends, I’m not opening myself up to anyone else. Not yet. Not until I’m sure I know more about them than they will ever know about me.
So instead, we’re meeting at a small restaurant not far from where I work. It only took a week or so after meeting Ryan for him to push me toward a new job, one that wouldn’t make him hesitate when his friends asked him where I worked. I’m the assistant to the event coordinator at a small gallery downtown. The job is easy, and since the head guy, Mr. Walker, is one of Ryan’s clients, we skipped the part where I had to turn in three references and list past job experiences.
Beth, Allison, and Sara are already seated along with another woman who was not at the dinner party, but whom I recognize from pictures as being part of their tight group.
I watch them through the window from the sidewalk as I approach. It’s more like a diner, and most everyone else is either in business suits or the polyester uniform all courthouse employees are forced to wear. The women are uncomfortable, and from their glances around the small space, I know they’re trying to figure out exactly how they ended up in a place where the stench from the fryer will soak into their hair, their clothes, and their skin, and cling to them for the rest of the day. A place where they won’t linger once the meal is done.
Sara stands when she sees me, motioning for me to join them. All four women use the time it takes me to walk across the room to survey my appearance. Their eyes glance between the deep slit up the side of my bright-blue maxi skirt, to the paper-thin white tee that does little to hide my baby-blue bra, to the stacks and stacks of bracelets that jingle when I walk.
It took me a while to decide what look I wanted to give them—someone who wants to fit in or someone willing to stand out.
Today I’m hard to miss.
“Hey, Evie, it’s so good to see you again,” she says before sitting back down. Gesturing to the other women at the table, she adds, “You remember Beth and Allison.”
“Of course,” I answer, nodding to both women.
“This is Rachel Murray. Rachel, this is Evie Porter.”
Rachel holds her hand up in a small wave from across the table. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you, Evie. I’ve heard so much about you.”
I’m sure she has. “It’s so nice to meet you too.”
It’s a little awkward that the reason we’ve never met was because she wasn’t invited to Ryan’s for dinner, but that was his call. He tossed her name around but ultimately decided to exclude her because, as he put it, sometimes she can get on his “ever last fucking nerve.” Plus, she’s single and that threw off the numbers at the table.
Just as I’m stashing my purse on the floor by my chair, I feel the vibration of an incoming text. A quick glance tells me it’s from Ryan:
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.”
“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.
