she woke up with a hangover. Her cheekbones were the stuff of legends, as was skin that had never once permitted a blemish to bloom. Jasmine had been the first girl in seventh grade to get boobs. Also the first girl to tell ninth-grade football hottie Bryson to keep his hands to himself.
While Riley had spent her adolescence obsessed with being normal, Jasmine had railed against it. If there was an expectation, she ignored it. If there was a rule, she broke it.
And if some asshole ever dared hurt one of the people she loved, Jasmine Patel was the Don Corleone of payback.
When the judge had ordered Riley to pay damages to her lying, cheating ex-husband, Jasmine had calmly strolled out of the courthouse, got in her SUV, and rammed it into the driver’s side door of Griffin’s Audi convertible.
She’d pleaded “bee in the car.” Coupled with her good looks and the fact that Griffin had taken up two handicap spaces, the cops had let her off with a warning.
“I almost feel sorry for her,” Riley confessed to her best friend.
Champion grudge-holder Jasmine snorted. “Please, she’s old enough to know that marrying a dickless moron who cheated on his first wife is a shit idea.”
“I’m sure they’ll be very happy together,” Riley said. At couples’ plastic surgery appointments and across conference room tables while their attorneys hashed out a prenup.
“How do you feel?” Jasmine asked. Riley found it comforting that there was more rage than pity in her friend’s tone.
“Like I want a gallon of tequila,” she admitted.
“I can make that happen,” Jasmine promised.
Riley gave a humorless laugh.
“Look, I’m worried about you, and not just because your ex is a self-absorbed toadstool,” her friend said.
“I’m fine,” Riley insisted. “Everything is fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re living in a sketchy retirement home. Working a dead-end job. You’re not dating. And I bet you a bottle of that tequila that not only did you not put on mascara this morning, you’re wearing gray or black.”
Riley was wearing gray and black.
“Not everyone needs a colorful closet, Jas.”
“Listen, girl. You need to accept the fact that your attempt at boring and normal failed. Stop clinging to the hope that one day you’ll wake up and be someone else. You need to embrace who you are and get back out there. You are stagnant. Stir things up. Slap on some concealer, bust out something that shows cleavage and do something.”
“Doing something involves money,” Riley pointed out.
Jasmine snorted. “Honey, if you walked into a bar with a pouty face, you wouldn’t pay for a drink or dinner or possibly even your rent. It depends on what bar we go to.”
Jasmine had never paid for a drink in her life.
“I think you’re overestimating my appeal,” Riley said wryly.
“Are you depressed?” her friend pushed.
“No. Of course not.” Maybe. Probably.
Riley’s computer made a “whoosh” noise, and a new email popped into her inbox.
Subject: On-Time Arrivals to Work.
She heard the squeak of Donna’s orthopedic shoes on the industrial tile in the hall.
Riley heaved a sigh. “I have to go.”
“Okay. But do yourself a favor and stay off of social media today. Do not watch the proposal video. I’ll call you later.”
Of course there was a proposal video. “Thanks,” Riley breathed.
She disconnected and then did what she always did when she received a passive-aggressive memo from the supervisory staff. She abbreviated Sullivan, Hartfield, Aster, Reynolds, and Tuffley to S.H.A.R.T. in the signature line of her outgoing email messages.
Then she brought up Channel 50’s Facebook page and cued up the “surprise engagement” video.
4
5:15 p.m., Tuesday, June 16
After watching Griffin theatrically get down on one knee in the middle of Bella’s explanation of a high-pressure system a dozen or so times, Riley buried herself in work. This included spending the entire afternoon double-checking that all 300 links on a township’s horrifically outdated website no longer took users to the porn site that had hijacked them.
She slogged home through the afternoon commuter traffic, windows down and music up to drown out Uncle Jimmy’s fishing suggestions. Her phone rang when she got to the mansion’s parking lot. It was her sister, Wander.
“Hey,” Riley said, shifting the Jeep into park and cutting the engine.
“Hi.” Wander’s breathy Zen tone made a simple greeting sound like the ringing of a meditation gong. If a meditation gong were ringing over a backdrop of three screaming kids. “I just heard about Griffin. How are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Really,” Riley said repeating her refrain. “It’s not like I want to still