Page 4 of The Lies I Told
I had one birthday wish—no, two. Maybe three. Wish #1: Clare was alive. Wish #2: if Clare couldn’t be brought back from the dead, her killer was caught. And last and certainly least, wish #3: booze didn’t haunt all my waking hours.
But seeing as wishes didn’t come true, no matter how many candles I blew out, I didn’t bother. I crossed the bar to the private banquet space and stepped inside.
I normally wasn’t early; in fact, I’d flaked a few too many times during the last decade, and Brit wasn’t here now because she was expecting me to be late. No doubt the time she’d given me was earlier than what she gave the guests. My new self-improvement mantra—“early is better”—would never be tested enough for my sister.
“Can I help you?” A waiter entered from a side door carrying a tray of glasses.
I removed my overcoat, still coolish from the ten-minute walk from my apartment in fifty-degree weather. “My sister made reservations for dinner. Her name is Brittany Stockton.”
“Ah yes, you’re here for the birthday party.” He pointed at me. “Didn’t you have an art show here in January?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Mike. I worked that event.”
Already a lifetime separated me from January. “Great. Thanks for helping out that night.”
“It was fun.”
I searched for hints that Mike and I’d met before, but I found no traces of the encounter. Maybe I simply didn’t notice him in January. Brit told me my art show had been a hive of activity. But my exhibit, like Mike’s shift, had fallen into a ten-day window that I now called the Black Hole.
“I’m also the birthday girl.”
“Ah!” Mike said, smiling. “Happy birthday.”
Brit, like our mother, loved birthdays when we were kids and marked each with a big party. How many times had she destroyed our mother’s kitchen baking cakes for her planned parties? How many paper hats and chains had she made as a kid?
A round table surrounded by six chairs dominated the small room. Each place setting had a decorative birthday hat that appeared to be inspired byTheWizard of Ozand represented one of the story’s main characters: Dorothy, Glinda the Good Witch, the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Wizard.
“Do you feel any older?” Mike joked as he positioned a glass at each of the six place settings.
It was a birthday party for a six-year-old. Typical Brit. She never articulated it with words, but she missed the days when Mommy and Clare were alive, and the Stocktons could pass for normal.
My mouth twitched as I imagined Brit scouring Pinterest and Etsy pages. “This year I’m feeling my age.”
His gaze skittered over my body quickly. “You’ve cut your hair since you were here last.”
My long red hair had been a casualty of the head injury and surgery, and I still missed the weight on my shoulders and the ease of a quick ponytail. Without my signature mane, I didn’t get noticed as much, but in my pre-sobriety days, I’d grabbed a lifetime’s worth of attention, and the way I saw it, the new style served a greater karmic purpose.
Glasses rattled, and I caught myself conjuring a replay of my greatest mistakes. Clearing my throat, I drew in a deep breath. I hung my coat on a peg as Mike pulled out a chair facing the door. I sat in front of the Dorothy hat, which was centered on the plate, doing my best to feel special but already dreading Brit’s plans. Any sign of a clown or a male stripper, and I was outa there.
Moistening my lips, I searched the menu, noticing it had changed. Subtle modifications. Prices, a few additional appetizers, and more desserts. I studied the pasta offerings, wondering what I’d liked best. Hard to say, these days. My taste buds had been MIA since the accident, another lingering souvenir of the head trauma. Maybe I’d stick with the crunchy fries.
Brit stepped into the small room, wearing a leather jacket and a navy jumper that flared above her ankles, skimmed her narrow waist, and rose to a halter top that hugged full breasts. Straight dyed blond hair skimmed her shoulders, highlighting an angled face, red lips, and bold smoky eyes.
The effect was very attractive. In fact, as I rose, I noticed my sister had lost a couple of pounds. Perhaps rumors of the new boyfriend were legit. Brit held a square box wrapped in silver paper and adorned with an ice-blue bow. No clowns yet, thank God.
My sister looked a little frustrated, which had been her signature expression since she was a kid. Put upon. Doing the best, given the limited resources.
“I was supposed to be here first,” Brit said.
After moving around the table, I hugged her and drew in the familiar scent of Chanel perfume and hair spray. “You look terrific. Losing weight?”
Brit stifled a grin. “Think so?”
“I know so.”
“Thanks. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”
