The Girl He Knows (3 page)

The moment passes between us, and I’m reminded why Gigi has been and always will be my best friend. When her eyes catch mine there isn’t an ounce of pity in them.

“Why’d you drive here looking like a college coed sneaking out of a frat house?” In a snap, we shift gears.

“Because I have a dinner tonight at Sarah Grace’s and...you know.” I want to leave it at that but her expression is open, waiting for me to continue with my story. “I mean this guy, he like lives in Orlando and I um...didn’t have the time to drive home. Now I’m up shit creek. I guess I didn’t think it through.”

If that isn’t the understatement of the year I don’t know what is. I catch my lower lip in my teeth but quickly release it. What if that’s my “tell” and she knows I’m fabricating the truth?

“You wanna shower here, too?”

Slowly, I let out my breath and nod as I reach for a doughnut. Maybe it will be OK after all.

“OK, I’ll lend you clothes and you can shower in the guest bathroom, but I want details. Every juicy one. I want to know everything about this guy.”

I may throw up. I put the doughnut back and wipe my fingers on my jeans.

“Can it wait until after the shower? I feel pretty skanky.”

She laughs and gets up. I follow her into the house and down the hall to the bedrooms, stepping over a boy’s oversize dump truck. Gigi and John have a four-year-old who defines the word rambunctious. She pauses at a closet, opens the door, pulls out a fluffy blue towel and washcloth, and hands them to me.

“Aside from this event, how’s the single life?” This is her favorite question and I’m afraid she’ll compare my answer to her life, weighing what she has and what she’s given up. I follow her into her room and watch her pull clothes out of her closet.

“It’s all right. It’s an adjustment.” Mostly good, I want to add, but why rub salt in a wound? All my money is mine, I can shop when I please, keep dirty dishes in the sink without a care, and don’t have to worry about someone else making poor decisions and messing up my life. I’ll leave that part to me.

She hands me some clothes.

“I need underwear.” We both grimace, she pauses before snapping her fingers.

“You left a swimsuit here that you can use. It’s not like I don’t want to give you some underwear, it’s just... You get it.” She runs down the hall. The French door opens, slams shut a moment later and she comes back carrying my old bikini. She tosses it to me.

The elastic and fabric are separating, “I don’t know if I can wear this all day.” I pull the elastic, puckering the fabric, and let it go in a snap.

“Only until the mall opens and you can go buy your own skivvies.”

She breaks into a smile and when I look at her dimples, so similar to Hank’s, my knees quiver. I look at my bikini bottom and figure it’s better than nothing.

Gigi is an amazing hostess who keeps her bathrooms stocked with spare everything: toothbrushes, shampoo, soap, and lotion. Her mother does the same. I take the best, albeit shortest, shower of my entire life and don a short, navy-blue T-shirt dress and flip-flops. Thankfully, we’re close in size. Gigi’s clothes are perfect for the warm Florida spring day.

Outside, I find Gigi sipping iced tea by the pool. The bottle of Jack is sitting out, the box of doughnuts half-empty. I plop into a chair next to her and reach for a doughnut. My headache is finally fading.

It dawns on me something isn’t right.

“Why is your house so quiet?” Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her son. “Where’s Pete?”

“He’s at John’s mother’s house. We’re supposed to be having a romantic weekend. But, he got called in to work, of course.” She leans in, her eyes suddenly bright. “Hey, stay over and we’ll get our party on.”

If memory serves, I believe I got my party on last night.

“I can’t. Sarah Grace’s dinner remember?” I do an eye roll.

My sister, Sarah Grace, is perfect. She married her high school sweetheart, is blissfully happy, has a twin boy and girl, a beautiful home, and makes me feel inadequate simply thinking about her. Sarah Grace would never get divorced, my mother once told me.

“Sounds nice.” She wears her oh-poor-me face.

“Seriously? You don’t want to come with me do you?”

“What are my options? John will be at work tonight, I’m kid-free, and you won’t ditch your family for me.” She looks at me. “I could go to my parents’ I guess.”

Holy shit.

My headache flares up. “That would suck, huh?”

I whip out my phone and send a text to my sister.

“It’s OK, I’ll figure something out.” She sighs, takes another drink, and watches me text.

I give her my knock-off-the-pity-party look. I’m like a juggler. Only my balls are on fire. Chances are I’ll get her to my sister’s house and she’ll still want to pop over to her parents’, say hi, and find Hank there.

Without a car.

She’ll put two and two together and kick my ass right there in front of my nana.

Gigi once said no girl would be good enough for her brother. She’s certainly not going to approve of me and my actions. I may be her best friend, but I’m her divorced, train-wreck best friend.

“You’re coming. Y’know my sister is an amazing cook, so the meal will be good. You’ll have a decent time, if a bit tame.” I finish my text and put my phone on the table to wait for a reply. It comes in an instant.

“Sarah Grace says to bring wine. You’re locked in. It’ll be mandatory fun. No good time for you, my friend,” I tease. “And certainly no S.E.X.,” I say, reminding her of her lost romantic weekend.

“You suck.” She laughs and throws her teaspoon at me. “Hey speaking of things that suck, did Hank get a hold of you the other day? He misplaced your number.”

I nod. Thinking of Hank makes me blush. I try to hide it by guzzling my tea. She quirks a brow, and I look at my watch. Well, what do you know? The mall is open.

I pop up out of my chair.

“You in a hurry?” She pours more Jack Daniels in her tea.

“Yeah, the reason I left this swimsuit here is it’s a bit small. It’s chafing me in a few uncomfortable areas. Let’s hit the mall. You’re coming, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Jeez, don’t look so excited. What else you got going on?”

I guess I strike a chord, because when she looks up at me she looks sorta sad and I hate that for her. Is her life what she wants it to be? Are her dreams coming true? Did she think these things about me when I was married to Trevor? Seems like neither one of us are doing too well in the whole make-your-dreams-come-true department.

“You’re right. I have absolutely nothing going on. What I do have is chocolate-covered strawberries and champagne in my fridge going to waste. I guess a bit of retail therapy will boost my spirits.”

“Plan a trip to Daytona and boost your spirits. We’ll meet with my Daytona gang and have a great time.” I reach over and give her a hug. My Daytona gang consists of four other women who get together on a monthly basis for girl’s night out.

“When?”

“Next weekend, any weekend. Just come.” I pull her up out of the chair and push her toward the house.

“Now go turn your frown upside down and let’s go get our shop on.” I fidget with the suit as it decides to ride into my crack.

The way I see it, this is a win-win situation. I’m cheering up my best friend by keeping her busy. If she’s busy she won’t wander over to her folks, see Hank, visualize how we spent the night, and take me out. No doubt I’ll score some crazy-good retail deals because Gigi is the bargain huntress of the world.

Totally win-win.

When Gigi and I roll to a stop at my sister’s house, the tension returns, my blood pressure rises, and nausea joins the party. I want to turn around and go speeding back to Daytona. I don’t have the energy for my family.

With flowers and wine in hand, we head inside. I give the customary polite two knocks, open the door, and stick my head inside. You never know with Sarah Grace. She’s blindsided me before by bringing home one of Dan’s employees to dinner as a setup. It’s happened twice, once when I was dating Trevor and once right after our divorce.

Nana, my father’s mother, comes around the corner and smiles. My mother is right behind her.

“Hi, Nana.” I give her a kiss. Two years after my father died, my mom spiraled into a dark depression. It was clear she couldn’t keep it together any longer. Without any living relatives from my mother’s side, Sarah Grace and I were at a loss as how to help her. Thankfully, Nana stepped up. She came for a visit and never left. They’ve been thick as thieves since.

Nana waits for Gigi to give her a kiss before she pats us on our cheeks and walks away, cocktail in hand. That’s my Nana, quiet. Though when she has something to say, it’s wise to listen up. I hug my mother, who is scanning me up and down.

“Are you staying long enough to see the hairdresser?” My mother, a Georgian Southern belle, never goes out of the house unless fully coiffed. My appearance this morning at the Circle K would have given her a coronary.

She met my father at the University of Georgia. Dad was a foreign-exchange grad student in the engineering department, and Momma was getting her MRS. Degree. According to them, it was a whirlwind courtship. They moved to Florida when my sister was a baby.

I reach up and try to pat down my wayward curls. It’s not my fault I inherited my father’s light complexion with the uncontrollable reddish-orange hair, nor can I help my mother wants me to dye it some color close to a Crayola crayon. Magenta, I think it’s called.

“Leave her alone, Helen, I like her hair. Don’t ye worry, me dear, it’ll brown out as ye age,” Nana, who has ears like a bat, says from the other room. I’ve been waiting for it to “brown out” most of my life. She’s right about it getting darker, though it seems to be taking forever. Sometimes I wonder if the darker color she refers to is gray.

Thankfully, Gigi distracts my mom with her clever conversational skills. We follow her into the great room and kitchen combination. Oversize French doors separate the inside from a large outdoor deck and even larger pool. Sarah Grace’s kids are outside running around the yard. They catch sight of me and come rushing in.

“Aunt Paisley,” they cry and lunge at me when they get close. I hug the best niece and nephew in the entire world with all my strength.

“Did you bring us anything?” Jill, the youngest by three minutes, asks.

“No,” my sister answers for me. She’s standing in the kitchen, tossing a salad.

“Yes, it’s in my car. Front seat.”

They run out before I can say any more, Jackson in the lead, and I follow behind. Jackson pulls a bag out of my car and holds it up for affirmation. When I give him the nod, he pulls out two books.

“Yippee. Thanks, Aunt Paisley.” They give me hugs and kisses before running off to fight over their new books.

“At least it’s books,” my sister says. She thinks I spoil them. “Hello, Gigi, it’s great seeing you. How’s little Pete?”

They exchange hugs and cute stories about their kids and I try not to let it bother me. This is one area I have nothing in common with Sarah Grace or Gigi. We are at such different places in our lives.

“You look pretty, Paisley.” Sarah Grace hugs me close. “I’m glad you changed your mind and decided to come.”

“You look pretty, too. The house looks great.” It doesn’t hurt that Sarah Grace is an interior designer.

In high school, she was the
it
girl and it’s still obvious as to why. Tall, with long, blond hair, and big green eyes, she looks as much like our mother as I look like our father. She is perfection, gives perfection, and expects nothing less from others. Sometimes it’s hard to be her sister. Sometimes it isn’t. Like when I was going through my divorce and she called me every day to check up on me. She’s sweet.

I glance outside. Dan’s in the yard staring at some folding tables he’s been tasked to assemble. He gives me thumbs-up with a smirk.

“Why’s Dan outside?” I snag a chip and dip it in salsa.

“We are dining alfresco tonight.”

My vision blurs, and I choke on the chip. We cannot eat outside. Sure, it’s a wonderful idea and even though Sarah Grace’s seven-foot privacy fence blocks any view to Gigi’s folks’ house, Gigi will still think about them. Knowing they are right behind the fence, she’ll feel obligated to go say hi, see Hank, do the math, come back, punch me in the face, and end our friendship. My family will figure it out. My mother and Nana will gush with joy and start scouting for wedding locations, and Sarah Grace will shake her head with disappointment. I don’t want anyone to know what Hank and I did.

“What about the mosquitos?” Any state in the South will claim mosquitos as their state bird. Florida included. I start chewing my fingernails.

“I bought some of those large citronella candles. According to the package, we shouldn’t be bothered.”

Desperate times call for desperate measures and, even though I know it’s a cheap shot, I don’t hesitate.

“Oh, OK. So you aren’t worried about the study that came out?” There is no study.

Sarah Grace stops cutting vegetables. “What study?”

I pick up a second chip and dip it. “The one linking childhood learning disabilities to West Nile Virus. It stated citronella and pesticides are ineffective.” It’s low, I know. I also know the safety of my niece and nephew is high priority for Sarah Grace and about her natural proclivity to go to the extreme.

I use it to my advantage.

Sarah Grace pauses for a beat and marches outside. I watch her discuss something with Dan, turn, and march back inside. Dan shoots me a lethal look. I give him the thumbs-up. I bet he’s happy I came.

He takes down the table he struggled to get open and carries it to the screened portion of the deck, closer to the house. It’s still outside, but if I can get Gigi to sit facing toward the inside of Sarah Grace’s house, maybe I’ll be OK.

“You don’t have to change eating outside, Sarah Grace. It’s one study. I’m sure one night of citronella smoke and the odd mosquito bite won’t hurt them. Much.” What’s the point of putting a blade in if you don’t twist it?