Claire laughed. “You know we are.”
Isabel Parker-Green had money and a lot of it. Her first husband had family money, which passed to Isabel after he died, and her second husband, Delilah’s father, had been a pretty successful architect in Seattle before he moved to Bright Falls. He opened up a small boutique office here, which Isabel promptly sold (and possibly cursed) after he died. She was all about charities and philanthropy, but Claire always got the impression it was for the clout, rather than the actual do-gooding.
Isabel liked control, liked beauty and power, and she made sure Astrid knew it.
Back when Claire first met Astrid, the other girl had constantly clung to her mother, desperate for affection and attention. Claire supposed she understood it. Astrid’s stepfather had just died, and Isabel was locked in her own grief, and she could tell Astrid was terrified her mother would leave her too. But as the years went on and Isabel not only lavished Astrid with attention but nearly smothered her with it, Claire remembered countless nights in high school with Astrid crying into Iris’s lap while Claire rubbed her back, words like I hate her and Can’t she just leave me alone? stuttering through Astrid’s sobs.
Since coming back from college and getting her own place, Astrid and Isabel’s relationship had mellowed, but it wasn’t what Claire would call close. It was civil. Polite. Still, Claire caught that look in Astrid’s eye sometimes, the need to impress, to please.
“Just think,” Iris said, waving her glass at the crowd. “By this time tomorrow, it’ll just be the three of us with copious amounts of wine at a five-star-rated spa.”
Next to Claire, Delilah cleared her throat. “I should get some shots before dinner,” she said before trailing off to a darker corner, setting her drink on the nearby table, and kneeling down to get out her camera.
“Iris,” Claire said, smacking her friend on the arm.
“Ow. What?”
“You said the three of us. Delilah’s going too.”
Iris’s mouth parted, but then she shrugged. “I doubt she actually wants to. Astrid’s paying her. It’s a job.”
“Easy, Iris,” Grant said.
“Oh, come on,” Iris said. “The woman would rather chew on broken glass than be here. It’s obvious.”
Claire shook her head, her stomach clenching as she glanced at Delilah again. All she saw was her back, bare shoulders, and tattoos, but the other woman’s posture seemed tight.
“I knew it,” Iris said.
Claire turned to find both Iris and Grant staring at her. “What?”
“You’re into her,” Iris said.
“I am not.”
Iris waved her hand over Claire. “The dress, walking in with her. You like her.”
Claire tugged on one of the dress’s shoulder straps while Iris smiled triumphantly. She’d ordered the garment months ago from one of her favorite vintage clothing sites, drawn in by the way she knew it would make her hourglass figure look even curvier. The designer called it a wiggle dress, because you had to literally wiggle it on, and had named it “Vixen.” Claire wasn’t sure she’d ever have the occasion—or the courage—to wear it, but tonight seemed like a good chance. It was classy and sexy at the same time.
Not that she was going for sexy.
“I like this dress, Ris,” she said. “I wore it for me.”
Iris’s smile fell. “Honey, of course you did. I’m just saying—”
“And just because I’m being nice to someone and not acting like a total bitch doesn’t mean I’m into them.”
This time, Iris’s mouth dropped open. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, you sort of are,” Grant said.
“Hey,” Iris said, hitting him on the chest. He released an oof sound, capturing Iris’s hand and slipping his fingers between hers.
Iris let him, her expression growing pensive as she looked at Claire. “Okay, fine, I’m not a huge fan. Neither were you the last time I checked. She barely even spoke to Astrid growing up, or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget,” Claire said, but she turned away, watching as Delilah wove through the crowd snapping pictures, drawing everyone’s gaze as she went.
* * *
DINNER WAS MOSTLY uneventful. Claire sat next to Iris near the end of the long table the caterers had set up in the backyard, tiki torches lighting the area, and ate her mushroom risotto and organic green bean salad while everyone in Isabel’s posh circle asked Astrid and Spencer about their honeymoon, where they were going to live, how many kids they were going to have.
Astrid answered it all with a smile, Spencer’s arm tight around her shoulder the entire time. He even ate his food like that, cutting into his lemon-pepper chicken with his fork one-handed. When Astrid deflected the kids question, however—“Oh, I don’t know, we’re not in any rush”—Spencer laughed long and loud, like Astrid was a stand-up comedian putting on a show, and said, “Three boys, as soon as we settle down in Seattle.”
Everyone oohed and aahed at this, as though the idea of Astrid popping out three white boys into this white-boy world was just the cutest. But Claire’s mind caught on the word Seattle way more than three boys.
She turned to Iris, her mouth open, but Iris looked just as confused, her eyes pinned on Astrid.
“What the fuck?” Iris whispered, but Astrid probably knew Iris well enough to know what she was mouthing in her direction. Their best friend’s face went crimson, a truly miserable expression settling on her features. She mouthed back, I’m sorry, which only meant it was all true.
“He’s taking her to Seattle?” Claire asked.
“I . . . I don’t know,” Iris said.
“Why wouldn’t she tell us?”
“Probably because she knew we’d freak the fuck out.”
“She hates Seattle,” Claire said. “The crowds, the grit mixing with all that rain. It’s her worst nightmare. She barely survived Berkeley during college.”
A chilled white wine had replaced the champagne once the meal started, and Claire slugged back the rest of her second glass. God, she was going to need a stronger liver to get through this wedding.
Seattle. It wasn’t that far away, about four hours by car, but still. Seattle wasn’t Bright Falls, and Bright Falls was where Astrid’s whole life was. Her business, her friends, her family.
“Completely odious,” Iris whispered next to her, and Claire didn’t have to ask what—or rather, who—she was talking about.