“It was,” I answer. It was the first night I spent at his house. The first time I slept in his bed. He’s still staring at the picture, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind while he thinks back on that night.
Finally, he pulls down all the pics and menus and stacks them on the counter before opening the fridge. “Still have a few things in here,” he calls.
“Oh, shoot! Thought I cleaned it all out. Can you just throw it in the trash?”
I hear him gathering the containers, then opening the cabinet under the sink where the trash can hides. He dumps them on top of some take-out boxes and other items I found in one of the outdoor trash containers. Ryan pulls the can out and says, “Anything else need to go in here before I take it to the dumpster?”
I frown while I think about it. “Yeah, there may be a few things in the bathroom that need to go.”
He follows me down the hall into the bathroom. I pluck the worn-down soap out of the shower and toss it inside the can. Then I pick up the shampoo and conditioner, testing the weight as if I’m trying to decide if there is enough worth keeping, then toss them in too.
Ryan is digging around in the drawers and cabinets, checking each space. He’s more thorough than I thought he would be.
Once we’re back out in the main room, he peeks inside a few of the boxes I’d filled earlier in the day. But then it’s more than a peek. It’s almost as if he’s searching for something.
After he’s riffled through three boxes I ask, “Are you looking for something?”
His head comes up and his eyes catch mine. A small smile forces his dimples to appear. “Just trying to learn everything there is to know about you.”
The words are ones that any girl would love to hear, but they feel weighted. Heavy. And I wonder if he is choosing his words as carefully as I choose mine.
Chapter 4
There are lots of reasons why I haven’t stopped by here in the last week—the shopping, the packing, the moving—but I’ve waited as long as I can. It’s fifteen minutes until the official closing time, and even though I can log in and enter after hours, I don’t want a record of that.
Just like every third woman I pass, I’m dressed in black leggings, a tee, and running shoes. My long black hair is pulled into a low bun that sits underneath the back strap of my baseball cap. I angle my head down and to the left to make sure the camera in the corner of the room doesn’t capture a clear image of me. There are several people in line waiting for the next clerk to help them, including a woman who is struggling with a stack of small boxes, juggling them from one side to the other, before finally spilling them all on the floor. The two people in front of her bend down to help her reclaim her packages while attempting to maintain possession of their own. I skirt around the chaos and move to the back of the store, where the mailboxes line the wall.
Bottom left-hand corner. Box 1428.
These boxes use a code rather than a key, so I use the middle knuckle of my pointer finger to punch in the six-digit code. The door unlatches but doesn’t open all the way. Still using the knuckles of my right hand, I swing the door open.
I pull out the small envelope that is tucked in the waistband of my leggings, hesitating a second or two before sliding it into the empty space.
I slam the door shut and reenter the code to lock it back, leaving the store as quickly as I entered it.
Chapter 5
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.