"Oh I’m in the area today," she says, smiling and fidgeting with the edges of her rolled up mat. "I have some nail polish suppliers down here and I like to pick up the orders myself. That way I can count everything and make sure they’re not ripping us off. And your class just happened to fit in perfectly with my schedule."
"Right." We got along the night of Dan’s big send off, but booze skews all reason. With her call to Dan in mind and now conveniently crashing my yoga class, I don’t think she’s very fun or cool. I think she’s alarming.
"Anyway," she continues, shrugging in casual sort of way, "you said something about teaching yoga that night we all went out. And then you mentioned that your classes are only sixty minutes, which I love."
Did I say all that?
"And so I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker or anything,"—she laughs and shrugs as if caught red-handed—"but I googled your name."
A shiver races over my skin. "I’m surprised you remembered."
"Brynn Masters? Hard to forget!"
Geez, she has a good memory.
"So . . . awesome class!" She looks around the exercise studio as if she’s amazed with the white walls. Then another teacher walks in, followed by a few students.
"Thanks for coming, but I need to get going now. The next class is about to start." I give her an officious nod, grab my mat and bag, and head out at a good pace. Maybe she’ll take a hint.
"Yeah ninety minutes is so long, especially when you’re sweating like a sieve," she says, following at my heels.
"It can be a bit much," I say, heading straight to my car, while Erin tails me. That seems okay, as long as she clears out when I get there.
We chat during the minute or so that it takes for me to arrive at my car. I thought about confronting her about The Call, but decided to drop it. That would mean engaging her in meaningful conversation. And I want to get out of here.
"Well, maybe I’ll see you around sometime," I say, reaching in my bag for my keys.
Oouf. Why did I say that? Because I’m nice, that’s why. I’m a people pleaser. Dan always brings that to my attention. He tells me to stop caring so much about what people think, but I can’t help it.
It’s the curse of the oldest child, trying to ride out a terrible divorce, trying not to upset anyone more than they already are, trying to keep the family together.
So I tried to be super good. If I was the best kid ever, then mom and dad wouldn’t separate. Right?
Nope. Dad cheated. Mom cheated. And both descended into a haze of alcohol and work.
Except, old habits die hard. And I still strive to be nice, trying not to step on any manicured toes and all . . .
"Hey, Brynn?"
"Yeah?" I shift on my feet and hug my sweater close. Dark clouds threaten rain. I’m anxious to get going with my big plans for the rest of the day: homemade french toast for brunch followed by a movie binge-fest, curled up with a blanket next to Bear.
"I know this is a little awkward. But . . . I really need to talk to you."
First Dan, now me. This one really likes to talk. "What about?" I ask, wondering if there’s a Stalkers Anonymous hotline. Maybe she can talk to them instead.
A chilly breeze picks up, funneling leaves around our feet. She shifts her weight, glances over at a beleaguered palm tree and back to me. Finally, she says, "It’s about that night we all went out. The night of Dan’s going away party."
5
BRYNN
Erin and I sit down at a small round table in a vegan restaurant, two doors down from the gym. I suggested this place because I’m friendly with the staff, and if things go pear-shaped, at least I’ll have reliable witnesses.
Erin slides into the chair opposite me, stashes her yoga mat, and pulls her bag onto her lap, fidgeting with the long smooth handles.
Martin walks over, three-inch platform Creepers slapping on the faux wood floor.
"Hey, girl," he says. "What’ll it be today?"
I want to make one of my usual cracks about his choice of footwear, but Erin is downcast and edgy, chewing on the inside of her cheek. What does she want to tell me? "I’ll have an orange juice with ginger."
"Super spicy . . ." Martin repeats, writing down my order with a smirk. It’s literally a scribble. Then he looks up at Erin. "And you, hon?"
"I’ll take a water, no ice. "
"Water, no ice." Martin makes a final scribble on his notepad and leaves with a flourish.
An awkward moment of silence stretches between us. Erin looks a little peaked. There are dark smudges under her right eye that I hadn’t noticed before. Her lips are pale. I’m not sure if she sweated off her foundation or what, but she’s not looking so hot.
"So, what did you want to tell me?" I ask.
She picks a ragged cuticle on her thumb, mutely studying the table. "Erin . . . I know you called Dan."
She looks genuinely shocked. Not exactly Oscar-worthy, but respectable. "It’s not what you think," she says.
I look away and lean back. That old line? "Then why did you call him?" I tilt my head to the side, listening. This will be good.
But she doesn’t reply.
"Look, Erin," I say, running my thumbnail along a groove in the wooden tabletop. "I know this is hard for you. Breakups are hard. I’ve had a couple bad ones myself. And I know we didn’t make it any easier for you, but you really need to move on. Find someone else and . . . leave us alone."
That sounds harsh. I swallow, waiting for her to go Psycho Level Ten on me, and glance over at Martin, cutting oranges in half, oblivious to my combustible predicament.
But she doesn’t take offense or try to defend herself. She presses her lips together, brow furrowed. She looks down at her clasped hands, deep in thought. Then she looks up at me.
"You’re right. I shouldn’t have reached out. It’s just that something happened that night . . ." Like a shag? I wonder, but Dan said nothing happened. And I believe him. What else could it be? "And I wanted to talk to him before the police get involved."
The word ‘police’ hits me like a punch in the gut. Is she talking about rape?
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a photo from a side pocket, and slides it across the table toward me.
Carefully, I pick up the photo as fearsome as a snake.
It’s a close-up of Erin’s face with clusters of bruises around her temple and the corner of her eye and mouth. Her bottom lip is bloodied and bruised, her right eye swollen shut. Angry red scrapes like road rash mar the side of her forehead.
I drop the photo, afraid to touch it, and look at the shadows under Erin’s right eye and a very faint yellowish patch—an old bruise?—over her temple that I hadn’t noticed before.
She bites her lower lip and looks down. "It happened that night we all went out."
That night we all went out . . .
My mind races back to that big black hole of a night, jolted back to those foggy memories by this gruesome photo, whirring over as many scenes as I could recall, trying to solve this new mystery, looking at everything in a new investigative light. Who beat her up? And when?