There, that sounds nice and innocuous. Not a violation of patient privacy, either, since neither is my patient, and I’ve revealed nothing about Griffin and Soph’s issues.
Lana pounces anyway. “Seriously?” She makes a big show of fanning herself. “Griffin’s a hottie. Divorced dad, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Lauren answers for me with a grin. “Viewers are going to eat him up. He’s got great camera presence. Gabe and I were talking about fixing him up with Tasha in the hair salon or maybe Amy the police chief or what about—”
“So, this dinner.” I blurt the words way too loudly, then snatch something off a hanger without looking at it. “Is this okay?”
Lauren stares like I’ve just thrown my bra at her. “A leather jacket?”
Lana bounces off the bed before I can shove it back on the rack. “Wait, no—this could be good. You’d wear a red bra underneath and leave it unzipped down to here with—”
“No.” I shove the jacket back on the rack, wishing like hell I’d grabbed something else. “No fashion choices that reveal underwear. I don’t even have sexy underwear.” I burned it all the day Shrink to the Stars was cancelled after four episodes, but my sisters don’t need to know that.
Lauren slides gracefully off the edge of my mattress. “You could always go commando if you’re lacking sexy underwear.”
Closing my eyes, I tell myself to count to ten. Also, not to kill my sisters. It’s not their fault we’re so completely different. They’re confident and sexy and comfortable in their own skin, while I’m…well, not.
When I open my eyes, Lauren’s holding a shimmery blue top I vaguely recall wearing to last year’s daytime Emmys. “How about this?”
“Oooh, yes!” Lana grabs a pair of dark-washed jeans off the shelf beside the door. “With jeans and black boots.”
“I don’t have black boots,” I point out.
Lana looks at Lauren. “What about those Louboutins you got on our girls’ trip to New York last year?”
Lauren’s nodding before I can point out I wasn’t part of any girls’ trip. “Yeah. Middle shelf in my closet. Can you go grab them while I help with her makeup?”
As Lana strides out the door, I start to protest that I don’t need help or makeup.
But the truth is that I could use both. Besides, I’m out of practice with this. I know the basics of applying lipstick and mascara, but the trickier stuff I’ve always left to professionals.
Lauren studies me with a critical eye as I wriggle into the jeans and top. “Very nice,” she says. “You look good with a little more meat on your bones.”
“Uh—thanks?”
“It’s a compliment.” She grabs my arm and drags me toward the bathroom. “We were all living like emaciated praying mantises in Hollywood. It’s about fucking time we eat a cheeseburger or twelve.”
“Can’t argue with that.” To be honest, I never guessed my sisters shared my irritation with Hollywood beauty standards. They seemed like such naturals in that environment.
“What time are you due for dinner?” She flips down the toilet lid and gestures for me to sit.
I hesitate, then obey. “Six thirty. Why?”
“We don’t have time to go crazy with your hair, but I can at least do your face.” She studies my complexion, tipping my face from side to side. “When’s the last time you had a brow wax?”
I resist the urge to glare. “I’m reclaiming my identity.”
“You’re reclaiming a position on the International Unibrow Squad.” She rummages in my drawer and comes up with a pair of tweezers. “Hold still.”
“Ow!”
I reach for my brow as she goes in for another pluck, but Lauren slaps my hand away. “Relax, I’m good at this. It’ll just take a second.”
I consider arguing, but the truth is that I don’t mind. How long has it been since I did any sort of bonding with my sisters? With a sigh, I settle in and let Lauren go to work.
Should I make small talk? I can’t think of one damn thing to say as she finishes my left eyebrow and goes to work on the right.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Nick Armbrust looks like the top candidate to build the new cabins.”
Her arm stiffens, and she stops plucking. “Great.”
All right, bad idea. I presumed she might want to talk with her psychologist sister about the challenges of working closely with her ex. Apparently not.
“Do you have a brown eyeliner?” She rummages through my drawer, coming up with a black one. “This will work. Close your eyes.”
I follow her direction, holding my breath for good measure. The bang of the front door signals Lana’s return, and moments later she swoops into the room bearing boots.
“Here we go.” She sets them on the counter next to Lauren, then boosts herself up beside them. “I grabbed your Burberry scarf, too, since you said I could borrow it for filming tomorrow.”
Lauren finishes lining my left eye and moves to the right. “If you get food on it, I’ll use it to tie you up and drag you behind my car.”
They keep bantering as Lauren finishes up my makeup and goes to work on my hair. I’m here, I’m part of this experience, and I’m even at the center of it in a way.
But not for the first time, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in.
It’s six-twenty-eight when I find myself on Griffin Walsh’s front porch. The upside of running Human Resources for our self-contained community is that I never need directions to anyone’s home. I assigned this cabin to Griffin, choosing a two-bedroom unit close to the brewery. The sun is sinking below the ridgeline as I inhale some slowly warming spring breeze, watching for the clock to strike six thirty so I’m not the jerk who shows up early.
The door flies open, and I nearly drop the box I’m gripping.
“Whoa there.” Griffin swoops in and catches it while I set down the bottle of wine I’ve brought. “Is this your crochet stuff?”
“Some of it.” Guilt grabs me by the ankle as I recall the conversation with my sisters as I headed out the door to come here.
“What’s in the box?” Lana chirped as she and Lauren walked me down the path leading away from my cabin.
“Nothing.” I gripped the cardboard tighter, looking straight ahead. “I picked out some self-help books for Griffin.”
Technically, not a lie. I did give Griffin self-help books. As he leads me into the dining room, I see them spread out on the table with Soph holding my dog-eared copy of “101 Conversation Starters to Try with Your Teen Daughter.”
She looks up and flashes a bright smile. “Hey, Mari.” She frowns. “Wait. Do I call you Dr. Judson?”
“Mari would be perfect.” I set the box of crocheted goods on the table and extract the box of brownies I grabbed at the café. “How’s the book?”
She shrugs and flips it closed, not bothering to mark her spot. “Okay, I guess. They make it sound so hard.”
“Talking to girls, you mean?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean it’s not like teenage girls are monsters or something.”