Page 106 of Rock Bottom Girl

“To bad moms!” They clinked beers. Andrea giggled.

I liked their honesty. There was no white-washing or one-upping. They weren’t trying to prove who was the best. And it felt refreshing.

“What about you, Marley? What’s life outside of Culpepper like?”

I could have told them lies. Could have spun real life into something that sounded exciting and respectable. But, damn it, I was tired of trying to paint a fucking picture.

“It’s busy. There’s never any time for anything but the absolute necessities. I’ve been meaning to go to the gym for six years now,” I confessed.

They laughed like I was doing a stand-up routine.

“Oh, you always were the funny one,” Faith sighed, wiping at the corner of her eyes.

“I was?” I asked. “I always thought I was the mousy, sad one, hiding in the corner waiting for someone to like her.”

“Nope. That was me,” Mariah insisted.

I blinked. Mariah had been artsy and smart and, to my recollection, rather popular.

“Uh, no way. I laid claim to Sad Mousy One,” Faith argued. She had been in every stage production Culpepper Junior/Senior High put on. And she made it to the semifinals in the state spelling bee when we were in the fifth grade.

“Guidance counselor secret,” Andrea said, leaning in. “Ninety percent of people remember high school as a miserable experience.”

“What about you, Disney princess? I bet you were prom queen and captain of the volleyball team,” I guessed.

Andrea snorted. “I had braces until I was nineteen and didn’t get breasts until I was twenty-one. And I was really into graphic novels. I got into the guidance counselor thing so I could tell kids like me that, usually, life after high school is a lot better.”

“Now, there’s someone who remembers high school fondly,” Mariah said, raising her cup in the direction of the fire.

Amie Jo strolled through the crowd, greeting people like a sash-wearing beauty contestant. She was wearing a pink parka and yet another pair of Uggs, also pink. She’d probably throw them out after an evening in a cold, muddy pasture and break out the next pair in her inventory, I guessed.

Travis was behind her. If Amie Jo’s outfit had a train, he’d be carrying it.

“She’s wearing fake eyelashes and hair extensions to a bonfire,” Faith observed with a head shake.

“I admire the effort, but I’d rather gouge my eyes out with bacon tongs than spend my free time locked in a bathroom in an endless search for perfection,” Mariah claimed.

“We only have one bathroom,” Faith laughed. “If I tied it up for an hour at a time, my husband would break down the door with the sports section in one hand and his Sudoku in the other.”

We laughed, and I turned my back on the picture-perfect Hostetters. They didn’t need any more attention.

I saw Jake coming. He had a pretty girl and a gangly redheaded man in tow.

“Marley Cicero, meet my cousin Adeline O’Connell and her husband, Rob,” Jake said, taking my empty cup and handing me a fresh one. “Adeline? Rob? This is my girlfriend, Marley.”

I felt my cheeks warm at the “girlfriend” introduction. Ilikedhaving that designation with Jake. Ilikedbeing attached to him in that way. And, if I were continuing with the whole honesty thing, I would be forced to admit that I liked just about everything associated with Jake.

As if reading my mind, he gave me a slow wink. There must be something in the smoke here, casting its spell of attraction. Or maybe it was the cold beer, enjoyed under a crisp autumn sky. Whatever the source of the magic, the “fake” in our relationship was becoming less and less important to me.

We made small talk, shooting the shit. Interweaving old memories with new stories. And I didn’t hate it. Not with Jake’s arm around my shoulders. Not with old friends, once forgotten, reminding me that childhood and high school hadn’t been quite as bad as I remembered it.

It was too good to last.

“Oh. My. God,” Amie Jo screeched as if seeing me for the first time. “What happened to your hair? Did you demand your money back?” She shouldered her way into our happy little circle, carrying a glass of wine. Only Amie Jo would show up to a bonfire with her own crystal.

“Oh, you don’t like it? Darn,” I said, lightly.

“Youdon’t like it, do you? I mean, I don’t see how you could. If you need someone to fix it, I’d be happy to recommend my stylist. But she books out months in advance. She’s very popular.” This clearly was not Amie Jo’s first crystal goblet of wine.