“Think about coming, silly.” She leaned in and Rainy had the urge to pull away. “I know it would mean a lot to Braithe if you did.”
She stared into Tara’s eyes and saw something she didn’t like; what was that? Desperation? She blinked back her thoughts, casting a glance at Braithe, who was chatting with Ursa and Mac. The only one paying attention to them was Viola, who was pretending to text, but Rainy knew the look on her face—she was listening. Rainy highly doubted Braithe’s happiness was hinging on her going to Vegas, especially since she’d be surrounded by her groupies. If Tara wasn’t getting it, she’d help her.
“I already said no, but hey, hit me up if you guys decide to do the tree houses again. I’ll see you guys next week.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, avoiding Tara’s eyes and winking at Viola, who gave her a thumbs-up.
She was moving toward the door; a few more steps and her hand would close over—
“Rainy.” It was Braithe, walking toward her, an apologetic look on her face. Her shoes made pitter-patters on the hardwood as Rainy turned to face her.
“She comes on strong, but she means well.” Braithe’s mouth was pulled into a tight little bud; she only made that face when she was worried. Little tendrils of hair had come loose around her face. She looked like a painting.
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
Braithe sighed and opened the door. “Have you considered that we actually like you?” Rainy hadn’t; she’d been too busy trying to like them. It felt more like they were tolerating her, but she smiled at Braithe and nodded.
“I’m behind on work. I can’t really take the time off right now. Maybe next time. You guys will have to let me know how it all goes.”
Braithe laughed, reaching out to squeeze Rainy’s shoulder. “That sounded rehearsed.”
Rainy grinned, guilty. “I’ll see you, Braithe.”
She’d already bounded down the stairs when Braithe called after her again. “We’re at Viola’s tomorrow, remember? Throwing her a little sprinkle before the baby comes. You signed up to bring sparkling apple juice and the couscous.”
“I remember,” Rainy called over her shoulder. She hadn’t, and was glad Braithe couldn’t see the lie on her face. The mist soaked into her clothes as she walked. She could feel Braithe watching her from the doorway, wanting to say one last thing before sending her off. She’d only known the tiny, articulate former ballet dancer for a year, but she was the unofficial group mother. And there it was: “Don’t be a stranger this week. Come down for coffee.”
Without turning around, Rainy lifted a hand to acknowledge that she had heard, and walked quickly to her truck.
2
Now
When Rainy pulled past the end-of-road sign and up their long, looping driveway, the lights on the basketball court were on and flickering gingerly under the mist. Grant was shooting hoops; he had his shirt off, and she could see the top of his boxers above the line of his shorts. The floor of her stomach dropped out whenever she looked at him; sometimes she had to look away very quickly so he wouldn’t see how much he affected her. It wasn’t a bad problem to have, she supposed.
He stopped playing when he saw her and jogged over, the ball tucked under his arm. Rainy’s fingers hooked through the fence until they touched Grant’s chest, and she looked into his sincere brown eyes. The corners crinkled when he smiled at her, and for a moment, she was so captivated by him she forgot everything else.
“You look like you need to be kissed.” He pressed himself right against her, bending the fence outward and tangling his fingers with hers.
“Oh, yeah?”
He kissed her through a chain-link diamond, and she relished the salt and sweat of him.
“There’s a bottle of wine waiting for you inside, Miss Ives.”
“Great.” She looked over her shoulder at the house, the sharp angles of it black against an even blacker sky. “I better go let him out.”
Grant leaned in for one more kiss. “I’ll be in in a minute. Dinner is in the oven.”
Had she been hungry a short while ago? She remembered the cheese, and her stomach rolled.
“I’ll wash up, too. See you.”
At the center of the round driveway was a very large western hemlock, its roots beginning to split the asphalt in places. Rainy knew where to step so she wouldn’t trip. Grant threatened to have it cut down, lest the roots reach the house, but Rainy loved the tree, and she wouldn’t have minded if the roots popped up in her living room.
Grant had made a fire before he’d gone outside. Rainy could smell it as soon as she walked in the door, along with whatever he was making for dinner. To her left was a staircase, curving up toward the master bedroom; to her right was another that led to Grant’s office and the rooftop deck. Instead of taking either, she walked down three steps into the dropped living room where, during the daytime, the windows looked out over the mountain. It was for this view, this house, this solitude, that she’d agreed to leave her apartment in New York; Grant had offered to move there to be with her, but when she’d seen this place... She’d called it Goth House the first time she’d seen it.
Putting a log on the fire, she called for Shep and heard him scrambling up from wherever he’d been sleeping, nails clicking on the wood floors. Bending down, she greeted the old mutt by pressing her forehead to his.
“Need outside?” she asked. He whined. She’d adopted Shep from the Humane Society a day before he was to be euthanized. He was already old when he came home with her five years ago, and now he reminded her of a grouchy old man who hated his naps interrupted. At the far end of the living room were three stairs that led up to the kitchen, and she followed Shep through it and to the back door, where he pawed at the floor impatiently. After she let him out, she stood with her back pressed to the door, massaging her temples. She needed to process what had just happened. Had they been able to see how shaken she was? She’d tried to keep her cool and get out of there as quickly as possible, but Tara had sensed something. Get your shit together, Rainy.
As she glanced around the kitchen, her eyes swept across the gray cabinets and clean quartz countertops until they landed on the nook where Grant had set the table and put out candles. The nook was surrounded by the same grand windows that were in the living room, and Rainy glanced at them uneasily before going to the control panel and hitting a button that made the shades roll down automatically. Better. She grabbed a box of matches from the drawer and lit the candles before sliding into her chair to wait for Grant.
It had taken her years, but she’d trained herself to live solely in the present, because the past and future were in competition for what frightened her more. But how fragile was her current reality if just the mention of a place—that place—could still make her feel like this? And what did she feel exactly? Unnerved. Unsettled. Unsafe. In New York, none of her friends ever spoke about Vegas; it was garish and vain, not up to their standards. Here in this rainy, cold state, it was paradise. People popped over there for sun and a nice stay in a hotel all the time. She told herself she was a drama queen, tried to brush off the feelings of doom that were making a playground of her mind, but in the end something bad had happened there. She was only human.
The pipes groaned upstairs as Grant turned off the shower; she opened the wine and carried it over to the table, splashing it into the glasses. The kitchen smelled of pepper and oregano.
The kitchen smelled of him.
No, it doesn’t, Rainy reminded herself. It smells fine. They’re just spices.
“So, what happened?” She jumped when he walked in, wearing pajama pants. Damp hair rested on the neck of his T-shirt as he bent to pull something out of the oven with her flamingo-patterned mitts.
“How do you know something happened?”
When he put the casserole dish on the table, he made a face that made her both angry and want to kiss him at the same time.