Gillian swept into the house rather than arrived, a beautiful bluster, laden with bags, gifts for Lily, for Rain, her overnighter, her laptop case.
“Ugh,” she said as Rain helped her unload. “What a week!”
Something about the sight of her friend made all the tension Rain was holding in her body just melt away. Roommates, coworkers, partners in crime, they’d seen each other at their best and worst. Gillian was a hold-your-hair-while-you-puke, tear-drying, belly-laugh, potato-chip-binge bestie. She filled the room with her warmth, her good humor, her scent of lilacs.
“Where’s my girl?” said Gillian, dropping to her knees in front of Lily. “There she is!”
Lily bounced up and down in her swing, vibrating with excitement.
“Oh, my goodness, you’re such a grown-up girl,” she said. “So pretty. But no! You’re brilliant, powerful, in charge. Forget about pretty. Pretty is boring.”
Rain laughed, putting the gift bags on the table, Gil’s luggage by the stairs.
“Mommy and Daddy are going to have a date! And we’re going to have a girls’ night! Yay us!”
Lily giggled, delighted, as Gillian gave her a big smooch.
Rain and Gillian lay on the floor with Lily and spent a while chatting about office politics, and how their former boss was facing harassment allegations (handsy asshole), Gillian’s new subscription to Stitch Fix, and how she wanted to buy some Bitcoin. It was the usual exuberance of both of them talking nonstop, one topic bleeding into the next, tangents taking over the conversation. It had been like this since college; they couldn’t stop talking when they were together.
When Lily got fussy, Rain took the baby up for her nap. She came back down to find her friend was making coffee. Gillian knew her way around their kitchen as well as Rain knew her way around Gillian’s.
“Tell me,” said Gillian. Rain held the monitor, watched Lily fight sleep.
“What?” Rain suddenly felt weary, sank into a seat at the table and let Gillian take over.
“Don’t even,” said her friend. “You’ve got circles under your eyes—you’re preoccupied. I know that look. Tell me what you’ve got. Chris told me you two have been talking.”
“Oh, did he?” she said. “Over drinks?”
“Don’t even try to redirect,” she said lifting a palm. “That’s not going to work with me.”
Gillian carried over coffee, slid her tall, lean frame into the chair across from Rain. She was sporting some pretty dark circles herself. Rain noticed the lick of one of her tattoos snaking out her sleeve. It was a snake that wove around her arm. She almost always wore long sleeves when they worked. Gillian regretted that tattoo, bitterly, a drunken night in college, hanging out with the wrong guy. But she’d stopped short of having it removed. I have too many scars already.
Gillian put a hand on Rain’s, and it all came out in a tumble.
The papers her father had kept, how she’d been poring over them, her visit to the Kreskey house, what happened with Lily, the FBI visit that had her feeling off-kilter and nervous. Gillian listened in that way she had, leaning in close, chin in hand, as if all her focus was on the sound of Rain’s voice. Nodding. Making all the right affirming noises in all the right places.
When Rain finished, Gillian was quiet, traced the rim of her cup.
“This is the perfect story for us,” she said finally. “You know that.”
Of course she knew. This was exactly the kind of thing that they could sink their teeth into together, a long, looping story that spans decades, a mystery, so many questions.
“Andrew’s pitching it next week,” said Gillian. “They’re going to say yes. Are you ready for this?”
“I think so,” said Rain, gazing at Lily through the video monitor.
Gillian gazed out the window, took a drink from her cup. “Have you talked to him?”
When Rain didn’t answer: “He’s the logical next person to talk to. I’m sure you realize that.”
Rain told her then about the letters. How he wrote every couple of weeks—long, eloquent missives. Gillian didn’t seem surprised, just gave that thoughtful nod she was so good at.
“What do they say? What does he write?”
Rain shrugged. “Memories of that day. Things he holds against me. Sometimes apologies for the way things ended between us. Musings. Mundane things about his day, his life. Sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he’s nostalgic. Like an old-fashioned correspondence. Except that I don’t answer him.”
Rain retrieved the stack from the drawer in the kitchen where Greg had put them. She handed them to Gillian, who thumbed through them, reading.