Page 6 of The Lies I Told
“Not yet.”
Brit had said something once about him being divorced. I glanced to his left hand. Empty with no trace of a ring tan. “Can’t rush greatness.”
He grinned. “That’s what I keep telling my mother.” He turned to Brit, hugged her, but the embrace was tentative—chaste, as if Brit were an older, distant aunt. In reality she was only a year older than Kurt.
“I’m glad you made it,” Brit said.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “Been too long.”
“The bar is running an open tab,” Brit said. “What can I get you, Kurt?”
“Craft beer.”
“You got it. Soda for you, M?”
“Perfect.”
Brit hurried out of the room, leaving a scented trail behind. The silence settled. The only thing Kurt and I had in common now was Clare’s murder. We both had gone through the wringer after her death. The devastating news, the cops asking endless questions, the media attention, and then the friends who stopped calling.
“You’re drinking soda?” he asked. “That a joke?”
“No punch line. Sober for one year now,” I said.
“Wow. How’s that been?”
“Not too bad.” Lying was a birthday-girl privilege.
Brit entered with a tray sporting a beer bottle, a canned soda, and a misty glass of white wine. She doled out drinks and held up her wineglass. “This will be the first of many toasts tonight, but happy birthday, Marisa.”
Kurt grinned as he drank from his beer bottle, clearly relieved for something to do. He looked around the room at the dark wood paneling, flickering sconces, and vintage bar signs now draped in pink and white streamers with balloons dangling from the ends. “Brit, you’ve outdone yourself. The room looks terrific.”
Mama Brit beamed. “Thanks, Kurt.”
“There’s no place like home,” he quipped.
“Exactly.” In high school, Brit had a crush on Kurt, and there had always been a snap of attraction in her eyes when she’d looked at him. Then she’d left for college, and he’d started dating Clare.
“What’s on the menu?” Kurt asked.
“We’re having Marisa’s favorite,” she said. “Barbecue, rolls, creamed corn, and coleslaw. A little out of season but can’t argue with a favorite.”
I popped the top on my soda and drank. The menu offering wasn’t my favorite, but Clare’s. Like the tequila, Clare had loved a good barbecue. I’d always reached for pizza or fries when I had the choice. This wasn’t the first time that Brit had confused Clare and me. When Clarewas alive, it had happened all the time. Other than our fashion choices, there was no way to tell us apart if we were far away or it was dark. If Brit had been close, she might have noted Clare’s eyes were slightly more almond shaped than mine. When we were newborns, our mother had written our initials in Sharpie on our heels.
This menu mix-up was par for the course. In fact, it felt right to have Clare’s favorite meal tonight. We’d always shared our birthday with each other, so today should be no different.
“And the cake?” Kurt asked.
“Chocolate on chocolate,” Brit said.
She’d gotten the cake right. So the rest didn’t matter. “Perfect.”
“Tell me about your wedding-photography business,” Kurt said. “Never saw you chasing that dream.”
Clare had been the artist when we were growing up. She’d loved to draw, filled dozens of sketchbooks, and even dabbled with photography. “Fell into it like I have most things. Became obsessed with taking pictures of Richmond: Main Street Station, the old tobacco warehouses, Hollywood Cemetery. When I realized I could make money doing this, I went full time.”
“Feast-or-famine kind of business.”
“The second part of this year is looking like a feast,” I said.
