Brianna pursed her lips. “Oh. Ye—yeah. Totally.”
Rhea led her into the restaurant and they settled on the leather sofa near the fireplace after shedding their coats. Brianna wore skin-tight pants and a low-cut blouse beneath her trench coat. And she was cold. Very cold. Rhea didn’t need to go by the goosebumps on Brianna’s arms to know it.
It was surprisingly quiet inside despite how busy it was. Rather than talking with Brianna or staring at her high-beams, Rhea studied the décor: a strange reddish rug sprawled atop rich wood flooring; there were dark wood chairs with similar coloring to the sofa on which they sat, and paler wood tables complementing the frames on skinny rectangular mirrors which hung vertically on one wall. The place oozed opulence and Rhea assumed she couldn’t afford to breathe the air there.
Brianna ordered a glass of the Malbec and Rhea selected a chocolate martini from the hoppily ever after portion of the menu.
While they waited for their drinks, Brianna squeezed her knees together, tapping the toes of her stilettos on the floor. She dropped her head. “I . . . really appreciate you meeting with me tonight. I needed a friend so bad.”
Rhea didn’t know how she qualified as a friend all of a sudden but she couldn’t bring herself to inquiring about it in the midst of Brianna’s misery. She considered asking why her local friends had hung her out to, well, hanging out with the high school riffraff. She exhaled. “What’s going on?”
“I went home for lunch today and my boyfriend was gone. Completely moved out. Left his key with the leasing office after leaving.” Brianna wrung her hands together. “He’s gone. Gone-gone.”
“Oh. Damn. I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t want to be by myself and I couldn’t exactly go back to work. You’re the only one I know in the area. Jeez, I’m so glad you’re here.”
Rhea shook her head. “How on Earth are you—” Maybe calling Brianna alone at this point wasn’t tactful. “How the hell am I the only one you know here? Did you move to Chicago just this afternoon?”
Brianna laughed, although she brushed a tear from her right eye with the side of her thumb.
“Seriously. You were the queen of the cool kids in high school. I’m sure you were head of your sorority in college—”
“I wasn’t in a sorority. I focused on getting my degree in communication. By the time commencement rolled around, I had a relatively useless diploma, mountains of debt, sixteen hundred Facebook friends, a boyfriend . . . and no social life to speak of.”
Poor unloved hot girl. Rhea rolled her eyes. Those sixteen hundred friends must leave you feeling real lonely. After a quick mental calculation, she realized Brianna had something around twelve times the number of friends on the social media network she did. That was probably an underestimation, too.
“Okay,” Brianna sighed. “What.”
Rhea blanched. “I . . . Look, I didn’t come here for a confrontation. I’m just baffled by—well . . . why me? You don’t know me now and you sure as hell didn’t in high school. You had your cool kids group and I had . . .” She squeaked, “mine.” Where ‘mine’ in reality meant virtually no one.
“Oh give me a break,” Brianna scoffed. “Cool cliques are useless. I only ever happened to wear the right things. If I’d gone to school in boys’ clothing, they’d have kicked me out of the group without a second thought and none of them would’ve missed me.”
Rhea bristled, accepting the martini from the waitress with a grimace. She waited until after the waitress gave Brianna her wine and went to serve other patrons before replying, “Wear boys’ clothing to school . . . You mean same as I did?”
“What?” Brianna yelped, gaping at Rhea. “I thought you were doing the grunge thing.” She faltered. “Some ten years after it was cool . . .”
Grunge was never cool—wasn’t that the whole point?
“No,” Rhea said through her teeth and tossed back her martini. “Excuse me, I need another.” She swept out of her seat to find the waitress. The idea of walking out without another word to Brianna was sorely tempting. She glanced toward the sofas by the fireplace. Brianna was hunched over, cradling her forehead in her palm. “God dammit,” she sighed. Without a replacement drink, she returned to her seat.
“I’m sorry,” said Rhea. “Look . . . I’m still working through some things.”
“I really didn’t mean it as an insult.” Brianna lifted her head, catching Rhea’s eyes and smiling briefly.
Rhea glanced away. “Was meeting me here part of some twelve-step thing?”
“No,” scoffed Brianna. “Hey, if I came across as a bitch when we were younger, I’m . . . sorry. I honestly believe if things had been different, we would’ve been BFF’s. Could we at least try to be friends now? From what I knew of you in high school, I’d have been better off with you as my only friend than with all the friends I supposedly had.” She muttered, “Some, especially, more than others.”
“That’s a consolation.” Rhea took interest in the hearth, tapping the empty martini glass with her fingernails. Jeez. When did I get to be such a liar?
“I’ve got an older sister who’s fashion-conscious and used me as her personal dress-up doll. I went along with it because it got me into the cool clique. And come on, you can’t hold that against me. Being included in the cool kids’ group is all any of us ever want.”
Rhea supposed that had to suck—the part regarding her sister, anyway. “I . . . was raised in the wealthy white-trash family of our neighborhood. My parents were more interested in saving for retirement than they were for buying things like, y’know, clothing for their daughter.”
“Yeah? My dad made big bucks,” Brianna countered, “but he was away on business for most of my childhood.”
“Oh.” Rhea hoped she was lying for sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. When he came home? He got drunk because he couldn’t handle the stress of his job . . . and he’d beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of my mom for screwing up the meatloaf. For letting the weeds grow too much in the front yard. For not pressing perfect creases into his stupid ugly slacks. Or sometimes for no reason at all. At least, none that I could tell. God only knows how bad things were in the bedroom. Maybe he beat her because she wouldn’t put out for him enough.” Brianna shrugged. “I dunno.”
Rhea fumbled with her martini glass. “Oh my God!”
“The sperm donor had a heart attack and died my freshman year in college. I didn’t attend his funeral and Mom got so mad at me she hasn’t spoken to me since.” Brianna finished her red wine, casting her empty glass an accusatory look. “I’m totally gonna need more of that tonight.”
Brianna stood and Rhea stopped her with a hand to her arm. “No. You don’t. You . . . need to talk to someone who’ll listen.”
After standing in silence for what felt like a year, Brianna sunk back to the sofa, staring at the spot on her arm Rhea touched.
“See . . . This is the kind of friendship I needed when I hid in the closet holding my breath as my parents fought in the room next to mine. This is what I needed while I waited for the wail of sirens to drown out my mother’s . . . To have one person who gave a rat’s ass— just one! —about something other than my hairstyle, or . . . my dumb shoes.” She looked Rhea in the eyes. “You’re the first I’ve ever told. Lucy’s never told anyone.”
Rhea had vague recollections of Brianna’s older sister: A blank piece of elaborate stationery came to mind. That is, beautiful but lacking any substantial content. “What’s Lucy doing these days?”
“Off-Broadway musicals. And . . . any man who isn’t totally gay.” Brianna gazed off into the distance. “Although I think she did a couple of them, too, just so they could be sure they were. She claimed she ‘changed’ one. I let her believe it.”
“Ah.” Rhea nodded. “Well. Good for her about the Broadway thing.”
“So. Um.” Brianna gazed into her empty wine glass. “I have a little confession to make.”
I’m on Cand
id Camera?
“You’re my hero.”
“What?” gasped Rhea. “Why?”
“I . . . actually found you on Facebook a couple weeks ago. And the day before I sent you a friend request, I read through your blog start to finish. The things you’ve done for yourself? Holy shit. I mean . . . My boyfriend of six months dumped me and I can hardly function. You waltzed out of your marriage and into your own life like it was nothing.”
Rhea waved off her praise. “It wasn’t like that at all. You must’ve actually been in love with your boyfriend. I waltzed away from a . . . a corpse.”
“Lovely.” Brianna sneered. “Anyway, I wasn’t exactly super into Travis. I was a teensy bit dependent on him. Okay . . . Honestly? I was definitely dependent on him.” She cast what looked like a guilty smile at Rhea. “Hey, uh, there was this month-long gap in your updates after you shared details of your train trip on the blog. What happened with Surfer Boy?”
Rhea exhaled, tilting her face toward the ceiling.
“Oh, I—I thought that story ended well. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to open old wounds.”
“I ran into him in my hotel lobby after we left the train station. He was desperately trying to find a place to stay because his reservations somehow got botched. There was the huge Home and Garden show going on that weekend and he wasn’t having any luck, so . . .” Rhea lifted her right shoulder.
“Are you two together? Oh my God it’s a literal fucking fairy tale!”
“He’s . . . in California. We’re . . .” She sighed. “It’s complicated. We’re kinda long-distance fuck-buddies?”
Brianna straightened in her seat, eyebrows arched. “How exactly does that work?”
“Skype. I think you can fill in the details.”
“So there’s no commitment to him?”
Rhea shook her head. “He’s actually been trying to get me laid by someone else.”
“Oh. Oh.”
Rhea leaned toward Brianna with a smirk and lowered her voice. “I don’t think it’s gonna happen. The guys I’ve met here? Meh.”
“Their loss, for sure.”
“Huh?”
“You’re . . . I mean . . .” Brianna rubbed at her right cheek. “You don’t post many selfies anywhere and your user icon for Facebook is only half your face. Frankly, I didn’t know what to expect when I pictured you during the drive over. I remembered you as this kinda geeky girl in the over-sized grunge-style clothing and the thick-rimmed glasses. Not—” She flailed at Rhea. “Not you. You look absolutely amazing, girl.”
What was it with the ass-backward compliments people always gave her? Nonetheless Rhea smiled. Hot bitch called her amazing.
Twice.
But she wasn’t keeping track. Obsessively. “Well thanks.” Rhea cleared her throat. “Funny what a woman can do with herself once she’s able to figure out who the hell she is.”
“I could use some pointers.”
“Being on your own will help real quick.”
“Yay,” said Brianna weakly.
Rhea smiled. “Consider it a silver lining.”
“I consider it a silver lining that we’re talking. Can we be friends? Please?”
All sorts of red flags were flapping in Rhea’s face. I hope I don’t regret this. “S-sure. Yeah. Of course we can.”
Brianna smiled and stood with dumbfounding grace. How the hell was she so fleet-footed while balanced on heels the shoe equivalent of porcupine quills?
“I’m getting us refills,” she announced. “This calls for a toast.”
On Sunday afternoon, Rhea called Adam on Skype.
On his end of the video chat, things looked brighter—from the sunlight illuminating Adam’s kitchen to his posture and the brilliant smile which only grew at the sight of Rhea’s face. “How’s my girl?”
“It’s horrible outside. Like . . . Hoth horrible. Windy as hell, sub-zero temps, and blowing snow. But I’m indoors, so whatever. How about you?” she replied.
“I’m going to Catalina tomorrow.”
“You are? That’s fantastic. How long will you be there?”
“Gary got me reservations at the Pavilion Hotel through Friday. I expect I’ll have my fill of inspiration in a week.”
Rhea grinned. “This sounds like it’ll be so good for you. Will you have time to check in with me?”
“The hotel’s supposed to have Wi-Fi. If it does, we’ll Skype when we always do. If not . . . Phone sex? You know, like how they did it in prehistoric times?”
“Okay,” Rhea laughed. “Will you get lots of photos for me? I always wanted to go to Catalina. Never got the chance.”
“I’ll tell you all about it, Sunshine, I promise. So. Tell me how things went with your Mean Girl.”
“Well . . .” Rhea took stock of her living room: she had a multi-colored shag rug positioned beneath her small, oval, walnut coffee table; the little flat-screen television sat on a TV stand because she was too chicken to wall-mount it and was missing her tools, besides; and on her kitchen counter was the empty red vase from the flowers Adam sent upon his return to California.
In an instant, five months felt like an eternity. “Things started rough,” she replied. “But I got some stuff off my chest. She apologized for things which—really—weren’t her fault. We decided to be friends. Since I’m alone out here and apparently she is, too . . . It made sense to be friends.”
“Are you so sure this isn’t a mistake?”
“She opened up to me about things she’s never told anyone.” Unless they were all lies. And try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling as though Brianna had been dishonest. “I’ve . . . gotta learn to trust. You know that. Especially when it comes to other women. The only one I’ve ever gotten close to is Cass and I keep even her at arm’s distance.”
“I know,” replied Adam. “You know I want nothing but the best or you. It’s just . . . I remember what you’ve told me about this girl—”
“And I told you, things are different now.”
“Okay, okay.” Adam took a deep breath. “I trust your judgment.”
“Thank you, that’s all I wanted to hear.”
“So. Have you found another guy to bone you yet?”
“No. I’m going out with Brianna soon though, so maybe we’ll find a pair of hot guys . . .” She glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of her laptop screen. “Actually, I’ve gotta go get ready. I’m sorry to cut things short here.”
“It’s okay, I should be packing anyway. Keep your wits about you, drive safely, and remember I love you.”
“I will.” Rhea blew him a kiss. “I love you, too. Have a wonderful trip, okay? Let me know you got there safe?”
“I will. Stay out of mischief, Rhea. Bye.”
“But if I stay out of mischief, how will I get boned by someone else?”
Adam laughed. “Bye, Rhea.”
“Bye,” she said, logging out of Skype.
The jukebox in the corner of the restaurant played the only song from The Monkees Rhea was even remotely familiar with thanks to Shrek. It was one she’d ordinarily sing along with but she was far too embarrassed by the possibility Brianna might hear her.
“Let’s do something stupid,” Brianna proposed during the lull in their conversation, dipping a fried mozzarella stick in honey poppy seed dressing.
Rhea coughed around her bite of cheeseburger and took a swig of strawberry lemonade to dislodge the chunk of beef. Probably the piece of pickle relish would be stuck in her tonsil forever. It’d join allegiance with the piece of French fry from the band trip to Disneyland in 2006. God only knows what they’d do once banned together.
As it was, Rhea was having a terrible time focusing; Brianna’s thin shirt left few details to her imagination. Seriously, it’s as if she wants her nipples to catch frost bite. Is frost bite something you catch? Or get? This was her first winter living someplace where such things were a distinct possibility and she didn’t know. Maybe she’d investigate
that at home. Rhea! Concentrate! “Uh—what did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I dunno . . .”
“Says someone who obviously knows exactly what she’s thinking.” Rhea’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Can those get any pointier? Oh my God, stare at her face, weirdo.
Brianna laughed. “I thought we could bond over ink.”
Holy shit, don’t stare at her face, it’s creeping her out. Look at the food. “I sure as hell hope you mean books. Or art.”
“Tattoos, silly,” Brianna giggled. “They’re . . . a type of art.”
“Yeah, no, I don’t think so.” If she were to bond over a tattoo, it would be with someone she was closer to. Much closer to. Perhaps Adam.
Nudging Rhea’s foot beneath the table, Brianna said, “C’mon, don’t be chicken.”
Rhea imagined the pain of getting a tattoo would be somewhere in the neighborhood of how her assorted body piercings felt while getting them: Mostly anxiety beforehand, mild discomfort during—but for however much longer it took to complete the art.
If she got it someplace inconspicuous, work wouldn’t even know—although Doctor Kasick was lenient on such things anyway. Lee-Ann had paw prints all along her right arm. Sheldon had large-gauge plugs in his ears and often wore ones with marijuana leaves on them.
Rhea wondered on many occasions if the doctor even realized what those were. Maybe he mistook them for maple leaves like she did as a young teenager. The naivety caused significant embarrassment the first time she chatted online about the Canadian flag with a patriotic Canucks fan.
“You’re considering it,” Brianna sang, twirling some hair around her finger.
Rhea sighed. “Fine. I mean hey. It’ll give me something to blog about.” Her voice was shaking. Was why her voice shaking? “It’s been kinda hard to be as isolated as I am and with a career most people don’t actually consider a real career . . . and my friends are all making their dreams come true left and right and, ugh. I haven’t even realized mine. I’m over here like . . . add reminder in my phone memo app to buy more fish oil. That’s my normal day.” Oh shut up already, I sound like such a loser.
Smiles By Trials (Rays of Sunshine Book 2) Page 2
