Page 9

9

Krista usually has dinner with her best friend Becky once a week, but because she’s sick of my self-imposed isolation in the house, she’s dragged me along with her to Becky’s place tonight to make it a double date with Becky’s husband, Malcolm.

I’m not looking forward to what feels like an adult playdate. And it doesn’t help that Malcolm also works at Coble & Roy, and he’ll be the first person I’ve seen from the company since I was fired.

But here we are, standing in the hallway outside Becky and Malcolm’s tenth-floor apartment. I’m clutching a bottle of wine from Porto that Krista loves, and we’ve also got the oatmeal raisin cookies she baked last night. Krista is wearing that short blue dress with the low back that makes her look incredible, especially with her strawberry-blond hair loose and running down her bare shoulders. She hasn’t applied enough makeup to cover up the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when she flashes me a smile, I get that fluttering in my chest.

She’s a knockout, and if I don’t get my shit together soon, she’s going to dump me.

Krista is looking up at me, scrutinizing my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

She knows when I’m lying though. She throws her arms around me and presses her small body against me. She squeezes just enough to make the evening seem less awful without creating a tent in my pants. “Level six?” she asks.

“Maybe seven,” I reply, and she squeezes just a little tighter.

We break off from the hug much too quickly, but we’re already five minutes late. Krista is the one to ring the doorbell, and a few seconds later, Becky throws open the door for the two of us. My nostrils are immediately assaulted by the floral perfume that Becky always wears too much of. I don’t know how Krista can stand it. It’s all I can do not to breathe through my mouth whenever I’m near her.

Becky hugs Krista first, then after a moment of contemplation, I get a hug too. Great. Now I’ll smell like her.

“Blake.” Becky steps back to look at me, and her nose crinkles slightly, even though I’m wearing a nice dress shirt and I shaved and I don’t smell like the inside of a flower. It’s especially insulting because in the past, she’s always flirted with me in a way that felt very inappropriate, given I’m her best friend’s boyfriend. “How are you doing?”

“I’m great,” I say, although if she’s talked to Krista at all, she surely knows that’s a lie.

“Blake is starting a new job next week,” Krista says.

I cringe. The temp office job I’ll be starting on Monday is the last thing I want to talk about. It’s humiliating that I had to resort to a job that I was overqualified for ten years ago , with zero benefits and a paycheck to match. But work is work.

“That’s wonderful, Blake,” Becky says. “I knew you’d find something.”

Christ, when can we crack open this bottle of wine?

Naturally, dinner is nowhere near ready. Becky made a lasagna that still needs another half hour in the oven. While it cooks, Becky directs us to the living room with the promise of a platter of crackers and cheese waiting for us on the coffee table. Malcolm is already in the living room, and he stands up from his armchair when we enter the room, waving enthusiastically.

“Blake.” He cocks his head to the side in a sympathetic gesture I’ve learned to despise. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I say tightly.

“Good good good.”

I’d almost forgotten his annoying habit of repeating words multiple times. “How are things at…at Coble & Roy?” I manage to spit out.

He looks a little embarrassed by my question, as he should be. I was the one who got him the job there a year ago, as a favor to Krista. He was decidedly mediocre, but somehow, he’s still there, and I’ve been fired.

“It’s not the same without you,” he says.

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Becky asks me and Krista.

Thank God. “I’ll have a glass of red,” I say too quickly.

Becky fetches the two of us glasses of wine while we settle down on the sofa. I reach for a cracker from the table mostly to kill some time, but then Krista swats at my hand. She’s been doing that a lot lately, like she thinks I’m snacking too much—which, to be fair, might be true. “Don’t spoil your appetite,” she scolds me.

I flash her an exasperated look. “They put the crackers out for us to eat.”

Malcolm chuckles. “Don’t feel bad, Blake. I’m not allowed to eat them either.”

I lean back against the sofa and scratch my forearm. I don’t know why, but this shirt is itching my arms. I unbutton the sleeve and roll it up, and sure enough, the underside of my forearm is red and irritated. I’ve been out of work barely three months, and I’ve already developed an allergy to dress shirts.

I pull down my sleeve and get it buttoned again just as Becky returns with our wine. I accept the glass gratefully, downing half the contents in one gulp. She brought the bottle out and left it on the coffee table so all four of us can self-serve, which is dangerous. I wonder how much I can get away with drinking tonight before either Krista notices or I start slurring my words. It will be an entertaining experiment. I’ll do it for the science.

“So,” Becky says, “the new roommate has moved in?”

Krista nods. “Whitney moved in last week.”

“Is she nice?” Malcolm asks.

“Really nice,” Krista says. “She’s so sweet. And very quiet. Honestly, she’s just about perfect.”

“Is she pretty?” Becky asks.

She’s looking at me when she asks the question. Actually, everyone is suddenly looking at me. I’m looking at the crackers I’m not allowed to eat.

“Not really,” I say, because I’m not a complete idiot.

Krista rolls her eyes. “Actually, she’s really gorgeous. A natural beauty, you know?”

“Uh-oh.” Malcolm elbows me in the ribs. “Sounds like trouble, right right right?”

“I hardly ever see her,” I mumble. That’s a lie. I see her all around the house, sometimes in only her sheer pajamas and once in nothing but a towel.

Krista laughs and drops a hand onto my knee. “I’m not worried.”

Well, that’s good. I think.

My stomach rumbles as the aroma of melting cheese and tomato sauce wafts in from the kitchen. I gaze longingly at the cheese and crackers, but Krista already made a fuss over not having any. So I dutifully polish off the rest of my glass of wine and pour myself a second.

“Anyway,” Krista says, “you should see some of the people we interviewed when we were looking for a tenant. Honestly, it was a bit frightening. We got very, very lucky with Whitney.”

“Oh yeah?” Malcolm asks, settling into his chair. “Sounds like there’s a good story there.”

“My favorite was that woman who almost ate Goldy,” I speak up, finally starting to get a little buzz from the wine on an empty stomach.

Krista smacks me in the knee. “She didn’t almost eat Goldy!”

“She did!” I insist. “She stood right near the fishbowl, and she was telling us how good fresh goldfish tasted. She was basically giving us instructions for how to cook Goldy.”

“Well, she did mention Goldy might taste good with a side of chips,” Krista says.

“Or beer battered,” I add.

Krista is giggling now, also a little buzzed. Her face is glowing slightly the way it always does when she’s had a bit too much to drink. She’s always been a lightweight. “But that wasn’t as bad as that last woman…what was her name? It was like some weird version of Elizabeth, right?”

My stomach churns, the wine suddenly not sitting well. “Uh…I don’t know if that’s an interesting story…”

Krista’s eyes go wide as she looks between her friends. “You wouldn’t believe this woman. She was some kind of psychic or something. And when she touched my hand, she got a psychic vision.”

“Ooh!” Becky clasps her hands together. “I love that stuff!”

Of course she does.

“What was the vision?” Malcolm asks.

Krista takes a sip from her own wineglass, which is nearly empty. “She said that Blake was going to stab me to death in the living room!”

Becky and Malcolm adopt equally stunned expressions. For Christ’s sake. It’s not like it actually happened . It was just some nutjob spouting out nonsense.

“This woman was not mentally all there.” I scratch my forearm, which is suddenly much itchier. “I mean, she was wearing a tinfoil hat.”

“She was?” Krista frowns. “I don’t remember that. I thought she was very well dressed.”

Becky crosses her legs, leaning forward. “She saw it happening in your living room?”

“I think so,” Krista says. “She pointed to our floor when she said it.”

Becky clasps a hand over her mouth, looking at me with an expression of horror, like I’m standing over her best friend right this second with a bloody knife.

“That woman wasn’t a real psychic.” I grit my teeth. “You should have seen her. She was wearing, like, three robes, and she kept pouring salt everywhere.”

“Salt is important for warding off evil spirits,” Becky says sagely.

Is she kidding me?

“Why are you so skeptical?” Becky levels her dark brown eyes at me. “Are you a Scorpio?”

“He is,” Krista confirms, nodding.

I glare at the two women, ready to stab both of them. (Not really.) “Look, I don’t care what some random woman told us. I’m not going to kill Krista, okay? Do I look unhinged to you?”

And then I finish off my second glass of wine.

“No offense intended, Blake,” Becky says gently. “Nobody thinks you’re a murderer. But some people have that vibe, like they might do something…you know, unexpected .”

I don’t like the turn this conversation is taking.

“And you have to admit,” Malcolm adds, “you’ve fallen apart a bit the last couple of months. Krista says all you do is clean the house and go to the gym obsessively. We’ve all been worried about you, man.”

I don’t know what they’re talking about. Yeah, it hasn’t been so great since I got fired. But there’s a big difference between hitting the gym a little too often and going on a killing spree in the living room.

“I’m fine,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. “And I’ve got a job starting Monday, so everything will get back to normal, and Krista won’t be murdered.”

Krista reaches out to take my hand. For a moment, I don’t feel like giving it to her. I mean, what the hell was that about? Why did she tell everyone about that nutcase? Now everyone in the room thinks I have a screw loose. But then she coaxes her fingers into mine, and honestly, it’s hard to stay mad at her.

“We’re just teasing you, Blake,” she says. “Obviously, I know you’re not going to kill me.” She winks. “At least not until the wedding planning starts.”

“Ooh!” Becky perks up. “Have you two set a date yet?”

I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved for the conversation to turn to the lack of a date for our upcoming nuptials. I sit back against the couch, scratching my arm absently and sipping my third glass of wine while the two women discuss the best possible month to get married. (May, apparently?) But I can’t help noticing that Becky is studiously avoiding my gaze, and when she speaks to me, she is painfully polite.

What is going on here? Does Becky really think I’m capable of killing my fiancée?

That’s ridiculous. I love Krista. I would never do anything to hurt her.

Never.