The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,99
to me, but I’ve no idea what else to say. I think of various scenes, discarding the obvious choices of electric fences and green Jell-O, and say, “Vomit.”
“Vomit?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You might stump me this time.”
“That’d be a first,” I say.
When we get close to Gia’s, I flip down the visor. My makeup looks as it did when we left. Of course. I slide my hands under my upper thighs. Nip the inside of my lower lip between my teeth.
“You okay?” Ryan says.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You seem nervous.”
“Maybe a little anxious. We won’t know anyone. What if they’re all boring or heavily opinionated or drunk and belligerent?” I add good humor to my voice.
“If they’re terrible, we’ll leave. Sound like a plan?”
It does. But my fingers dig into the backs of my legs.
Gia’s curtains are open, lights bright and welcoming, matched by the cheery message on the mat. I square my shoulders as I knock. A stranger opens the door, and Gia comes running, giving me a hug first, then Ryan. She’s in dark jeans and a paisley shirt. Flats with lacing at the ankles. She turns to the room, to the dozen people milling there. “Everyone, this is Heather, who I’ve known since we were kids, and her husband, Ryan. Ryan, Heather, this is everyone.”
People say hello or wave and Gia leans close. “I’m sorry I’m not introducing them all individually, but I can’t remember some of their names.” She points toward a table in the corner topped with a collection of liquor bottles. “Trying not to create too many bottlenecks, so mixers are there, and there’s beer in a cooler on the back deck.”
I try to picture this woman behind the wheel of a battered Chevy and fail. I try again. Fail a second time.
Ryan holds up the wine.
“Wine’s in the kitchen. Follow me,” she says over her shoulder. “And you can meet my husband, Spencer.”
The downstairs layout is fairly simple—living, dining, kitchen, small family room in the back, half bath. A staircase to the left of the front door. No basement, common in houses in Annapolis. It’s decorated in shades of gray with bright splashes of color—teal throw pillows; sea-glass-green tablecloth in the dining room, almost completely covered with bowls and trays of food; a glossy red Keurig on the kitchen counter.
I recognize her husband from the Facebook photos as he extends a hand. Gia gives us two wine glasses and leaves us in the kitchen while she greets another arrival. Spencer tells us to please eat, so we wander into the dining room, where other folks are piling food onto heavy-duty paper plates. Deli meats, baked ziti, Caesar salad, fruit salad, Caprese skewers. Tortilla chips, salsa, guacamole. A massive charcuterie tray. And a sideboard filled with a whole slew of desserts.
Ryan and I eat and exchange pleasantries with the other guests. Most are coworkers. One couple lives next door. The conversation rises and falls, a roller coaster of thoughts, opinions, and random observations. Expressions hold polite interest. I visit the half bath, which is clean enough to dine in, and peek in the cabinet under the sink. Extra rolls of toilet paper, bowl cleaner, a packet of what Ryan calls butt wipes. Advil, Band-Aids, tweezers, and Neosporin in the medicine cabinet. I soap off the guilt. Even if Gia’s the least likely suspect, there’s no harm in looking.
When I return, Ryan’s nowhere in sight, and I wander around until I catch sight of him through a sliding-glass door. He and Spencer are chatting up a storm, so I refill my wine glass and step out a side door to a small empty porch with three steps leading down. The closed door dulls the hum of voices. It’s verging on cold tonight, but I don’t mind. Out here I don’t have to feign good nature. Only a few minutes pass before Gia comes out with a glass of her own.
“An escapee!” she says.
“Catching some air,” I say.
She plants herself on the middle step. “Yeah, more people came than expected, even a bunch who said they weren’t coming, and it’s getting crowded.”
When I sit, she scoots even closer so we’re crowded together like kids. I want it all to be real. Our reconnecting. Our growing friendship. It has to be. She couldn’t fake the sort of kindness she’s shown. Something would give it away. Leaning against each other, we sit for a time talking about Annapolis and such, and then, her glass empty, she says, “I’d better get back in before Spencer comes to