I watched her hurry through the rain, as did my mom, Vik, Leonard, and a number of others intrigued by her beauty and presence. It could have been an excuse, I realized. The thought of eating lentil stew with my motley family may have provoked the invention of an imaginary friend. As Freya climbed into her white Range Rover, my mom spoke.
“She seems nice.”
“She is.”
“And she’s very pretty.”
“She’s beautiful.”
I could feel my mom’s eyes on me then: curious . . . even suspicious. But she must have pushed her innate protectiveness aside, because she smiled. “Let’s get you home. I made a big pot of dal. Your favorite.”
But dal wasn’t my favorite. A bacon double cheeseburger was my favorite. My own mother didn’t even know me.
“I’ll join you guys in a bit,” I said. “I want to stop by one of the grad parties.”
My dad approached us then. “I’ve got some homegrown in the glove box. Do you want to take it?”
“I’m good.”
Gwen said, “Don’t be late. I’ve made baba ganoush for an appetizer.”
My family scurried through the rain, toward the two vehicles required to transport them home. I skulked to my truck parked on an adjacent street, the rain wetting my mortarboard and blue synthetic graduation gown. Freya had come to see me receive my diploma. She had stood up and cheered my walk across the stage. I was grateful . . . I was.
So why did I feel so betrayed?
9
I drove directly to Freya and Max’s waterfront house. If the white Range Rover was in the driveway, I would know that Freya had fabricated this friend. I’d know that she had no one but me to confide in, to laugh with, to support her . . . and I would be happy. If the white Range Rover was there, I could cheerfully go home to my family celebrations, to baba ganoush, and my eighth favorite meal. But if it wasn’t there . . . I wasn’t sure what I would do.
From the road, I could peek through the trees into Freya and Max’s yard. The house had a two-car garage, but I’d never known them to park their cars in it. Freya had casually mentioned that it housed Max’s motorcycle (the image of him on a Harley prompted a feeling that bordered on sexual arousal), and a bunch of boating equipment. I spotted Max’s black Range Rover, but Freya’s white model was missing.
My face burned, and my pulse pounded as I turned the car around and drove back toward town. It wouldn’t be difficult to find her. There were three restaurants in Hawking that would be up to Freya’s health, taste, and cleanliness standards. Only one had an ocean view, so I drove there first. Pulling up across the street from the boutique hotel that housed the eatery, I parked my truck. From there, I could see the hotel’s tiny parking lot, and Freya’s big white SUV. I had guessed correctly.
I was trembling by then, sweat beading my forehead and upper lip. I’d experienced intense jealousy only once before. Her name was Topaz. She had shown up at my school in ninth grade. She’d been shy and awkward, and I was sure I’d found my person. But after a month, she began to settle in, to come out of her shell. Soon, she was shrugging me off like an itchy sweater, easing her way into more popular circles. I’d felt hurt and angry, but I had let her go. Now, when I saw her laughing and smoking with her popular friends, I felt nothing.
But this was different. Freya had lied to me. She had told me that she had no one else. That she was bullied and taunted and I was her only friend in the world. Without me, she would be depressed and alone. She had let me feel important and needed. And now, she was out for dinner with some random bitch.
I got out of the truck and loped toward the waterfront boardwalk. The restaurant abutted it, offering views of the Pacific, the boats, and, on a clear day, the mountains off in the distance. Even in the rain, Freya and her friend would be drawn to the outlook, their eyes darting from their salads to the spectacular scenery. If I brazenly walked by the window, they would see me. A six-foot-tall woman in a royal-blue cap and gown wouldn’t exactly blend in. Would Freya feel like she had been caught cheating? Would she drop her fork? Spill her wine? Run after me and beg my forgiveness?
But I wasn’t ready to make a scene, not yet anyway. I stopped several yards away, a vantage point that allowed me to see into the dining area without being spotted. The mortarboard still tenuously affixed to my head acted as a mini-umbrella, keeping the rain out of my eyes. If Freya wasn’t in a window seat, I would have to rethink my strategy. But I knew she would be. Only the best seat in the house would do for Freya. As predicted, I spotted her light blond hair at a table for two.
Freya’s back was to me, allowing me to examine her companion unobserved. The woman had a dark bob, tawny skin, a pretty face. She wasn’t stunning like Freya was, but she was undeniably attractive. She looked to be about Freya’s age, give or take a couple of years. Their body language was casual and familiar, like they had been friends for months. They were chatting and laughing, drinking white wine and noshing on bowls filled with healthy grains and roasted vegetables. They looked so right together, like a pair of matching salt and pepper shakers. It hurt me. Even when I wasn’t drenched, wearing a drooping cap and massive gown, I would never look like I fit with Freya.
The summer storm did nothing to cool my roiling emotions. As I watched this woman spear a piece of avocado and put it in her mouth, her eyes suddenly met mine. Her brow furrowed, ever so slightly, at the sight of the sopping graduate lurking on the boardwalk. But her gaze quickly returned to Freya. She was enamored with the beautiful blond, just like I was. And then, I realized I had seen her before. I knew who she was. And I knew how to get to her.
I turned and hurried away, my gown billowing out behind me like a Dickensian villain.
summer 2019
10
jamie vincent
On a Wednesday afternoon at the end of June, Low Morrison came into my gift shop with her résumé. She’d been there before, browsing through the items, paying particular attention to the pottery section. She was hard not to notice—over six feet tall with a bushel of dark red hair and pale, almost translucent skin. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t place her. I observed her with my nerves on edge, afraid she’d break something. She just seemed so gangly and awkward. But then I saw her pick up one of Freya’s cerulean-blue dishes. She handled the piece delicately, almost lovingly.
On this visit, she strode directly to the counter. “Hi. I’m Low Morrison. I’d like to apply for a summer job,” she said.
I hadn’t advertised for a shop assistant, but I hoped I was going to need one. I’d opened my store last fall, when the tourist season was in decline. Retail was new to me, and I was nervous. Opening off-season gave me a chance to ease into the business before the summer’s tourist boom. Covering rent over the slow winter months was not ideal, but thanks to our savings and my husband’s recent book advance, it was possible. And I knew the shop would be a success. I had carefully curated my merchandise, supporting local artisans and other Pacific Northwest designers. My price point was high-end but within reason for the clientele I was sure to attract. I’d done my research into the tourist market.