Rachel had come to the drive-in because it was the last place anyone would look for her. Her Saturday nights were usually spent drinking white wine at fundraisers, not watching action movies with greasy popcorn. It was also past midnight. She and Matt would normally be ready for bed by now, guzzling big glasses of water to chase down the drinks they’d had at the party. She would have popped an Advil before they traded notes on how the evening went with a chasm of space between them in their king-sized bed.
After thirteen years of marriage, she’d settled into the predictable rhythms of their life. But now she knew that they were all lies. Now she was sitting on the hood of the car he’d given her for Christmas, chugging whiskey mixed with a fountain drink the size of her thigh, wondering if he’d fucked his mistress in the back seat before putting that big red bow on top. He probably looked at her now the same way he did that old Honda Accord. “The car is fine, Rache, but we were long overdue for an upgrade.”
She used to be wilder. Braver. The girl who dove headfirst into whatever caused the most damage. Making scary, life-altering choices was proof that she was living instead of merely existing. It was the reason she pursued an art career with an obsessive focus that eschewed any other marketable skills. It was how she ended up in Oasis Springs fifteen years ago with no money, a busted car, and a six-year-old who hadn’t eaten more than a bag of Funyuns for three days. It was the reason she’d initially placed Matt in the fuck-and-dump category. He was too nice and eager. Like her pussy was a math quiz he wanted to ace with extra credit.
But there was also a cockiness to the way he pursued her. If she said she wasn’t interested in anything serious, he would counter with reasons she was the woman he’d eventually marry. She’d never been loved like that before: like a wish that had finally come true. Rachel eventually trusted that feeling, and even though she’d never really believed in happy endings, she’d believed in Matt. He was supposed to be her safe place.
Rachel stared at the few cars left in the parking lot. The drivers were all so young. Her eyes were drawn to a red Camaro with two girls in the back seat. She used to love cars like that, with their loud, growling engines. Now she wouldn’t consider one that wasn’t at least a fuel-efficient hybrid. Matt was the first person in their neighborhood to go electric.
Two guys stood near the Camaro, a short blond with a pair of keys dangling from his fingers, and a tall, dark-haired one rifling through the trunk. She could hear the girls’ high-pitched squeals of “Nate, come with us!” that went unanswered.
The tall one, Nate apparently, had a sweatshirt balled under his arm like a football. He didn’t look like a Nate. His black hair was cut into an intricate low fade they didn’t offer at the high-end salons that shaped Matt’s preppy crew cuts. He had golden-brown skin and colorful tattoos covering one arm. A snow-white T-shirt, stretched over large biceps and broad shoulders, completed his best-kind-of-trouble look. The name Nate was too short and simple, gone just as quickly as you said it. He looked like someone who would linger.
Matt fit his name. He was handsome in a generic way that forced him to rely on charm and earnestness when asking someone on a date. This Nate probably hoarded his compliments like war rations. A guy like him could ignore his girlfriend’s calls, party all night on do not disturb, and wake up the next day sure that her devotion would be exactly where he left it. Rachel used to think that way too. She used to look in the mirror and see herself as someone with options.
Her cup was still almost full. She’d chosen Dr Pepper, but after a few gulps, remembered she didn’t like the taste. Maybe she didn’t know herself anymore. If someone said, “You can have any drink you want,” she’d probably stutter and ask for a menu.
Rachel slid off the car and winced when her bare feet hit the pavement. That was the problem with dramatically storming out of a room. There was no dignified way to double back to grab your shoes. She balanced on the balls of her feet as she made her way to a group of empty picnic tables. Tall pergolas covered in string lights were spread around the area. Each table had a ceramic popcorn bucket centerpiece filled with fresh-cut daisies. She dumped the rest of the Dr Pepper into an enormous pot of burnt-orange mums.
A blond woman in a fleece pullover that looked like a poodle devouring her neck paused to stare. “You’re going to murder that poor plant,” she said.
“My husband donated these in my name.” Rachel shook the last few droplets into the soil. “I really don’t think he’ll mind.”
The teenage girl working concessions gave Nathan a sour look when he asked for a fountain drink three minutes before closing. She wore the drive-in’s teal T-shirt uniform over low-rise acid-wash jeans that probably cost a fortune. He put a five-dollar bill in her tip jar, and the sneer disappeared. She shot him a cheerful “Thanks!” as she retrieved the cash and stuffed it into her pocket.
He turned to grab a straw but shuffled back when Rachel Abbott suddenly blocked his path to the condiment table. She set a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle next to the ketchup packets and leaned into the counter with a tipsy wobble that confirmed she’d been upgrading her soda with five-thousand-dollar whiskey.
“I need a refill.”
The girl flicked off the open sign. “We’re closed.”
“But the movie isn’t over yet.”
Rachel seemed oblivious to his hooded presence, even though he stood eavesdropping a few feet away. Grumpy Teen yanked the shade down halfway. “We close at eleven,” she said, with a dismissive attitude that made Rachel bristle.
“It’s two minutes till.”
“Is it?” The girl tilted her head and gave the tip jar a pointed look.
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Are you extorting me for a Coke?”
Grumpy Teen sighed. “It’s soda, not revenge porn.”
Nathan waited for the inevitable “Do you have any idea who I am?” that would end the face-off. Anyone who worked retail in Oasis Springs probably heard that song at least once a week. The suburb was filled with professional athletes, Washington power players, and retired tech moguls “consulting” from the golf course. There were also people like Rachel, who managed to be a national celebrity while also being so ingrained into the insular fabric of the town that her last name was etched into bricks on four different buildings.
He was surprised when Rachel placed her hand over her heart, fifth-grade Pledge of Allegiance–style. “I get it. It’s sweet of you to try to protect me from myself. But I promise I’m not drink.” She paused. “Drunk. I have been drinking, but I am not drunk.”
The girl’s blank stare said it all. Nathan smothered a laugh, and Rachel’s eyes briefly shifted in his direction. “I’m not,” she said to both parties. “I just spilled whiskey on my dress. That’s what you smell.” Rachel refocused on the girl. “You know, I used to wait tables when I was your age—”
“In the eighties?”
Nathan laughed out loud this time, but Rachel didn’t seem embarrassed. Her lips trembled as she looked at him, like she was seconds from laughing too.
The concession shade slammed closed. “Try ’03!” Rachel yelled at the ghost of her tormentor. “And those jeans won’t age well!”