“If she’s anything like this one,” Preston said, nuzzling Ava’s neck, “she’s busy daydreaming about the big day.”
Ava squealed. The reaction made me nauseous.
The last thing I wanted to do was embark on a double date. We’d invited the others to join, but Marlowe was still dodging calls in the wake of the dress fitting, and Constance had reached the point in pregnancy where being around a bunch of drunk people was torture.
The Social Club was an invitation-only bar on the Upper East Side. Patterned wallpaper in a creamy dark green shade, low-hanging lamps that swung sporadically when patrons got too clumsy, billiard tables in the back. Preston scored his membership back in his MLB days and wasalways eager for an excuse to show off his credentials. It became a go-to spot when couples went out, and tonight we were celebrating.
“Here’s to your final work trip,” Preston said, clinking his glass against Oliver’s. “No more traveling salesman.”
“That’s the plan.” Oliver beamed, squeezing my waist once again. “After the wedding, we’ll have a fresh start in California, take the brand to new heights.”
“I’m sure California will keep you both busy.” Ava made a mock crying face, fanning her fingers at me. “I only wish you weren’t moving so far away!”
“It’s not forever,” I said, my lower lip trembling. Instead of imagining our chic wedding in two months’ time or what new career prospects lay ahead or the dreamy Los Angeles weather, all I could think about were the syringes and insulin I’d found in our closet.
There are multiple reasons he could have had them in his possession. Maybe he acquired extra syringes for Marmee’s sake or mistakenly brought back a vial after one of the many visits to her house. It’s possible the items were related to Danielle, too, old remnants from their life together. He’d lived with the woman for years; it’s natural he’d have access to her medical supplies.
Still, sinister thoughts swarmed like angry wasps buzzing inside my brain. What if those syringes were somehow connected to Danielle’s death? Her mother insisted Danielle had died from an insulin overdose. I found the very thing that killed her stuffed into the back of our closet, the recency of the discovery making me shudder.
You’ll never have to worry about her again.
Familiar shame swam through me. This was my fiancé I was thinking about. My best friend. Oliver was the most serious relationship I’d ever had, and I was throwing all that history out the window, for what? A conversation with the grieving mother of his ex-wife? A pack of syringes stuffed into the back of our closet? In recent days, I’d been scrutinizing Oliver’s past without any care or consideration for the consequences.
The photograph that remained singed into my memory was ofOliver’s first wedding day, the bride and groom exiting the church doors. Big smiles, bright eyes, pellets of rice dancing in the air around them. No one would look at the couple in that photo and imagine their story would end in divorce, or, more tragically, that the bride would die when she was in her thirties.
After scanning the photos and information I’d uncovered, I couldn’t help thinking of how multifaceted Danielle appeared to be. Creative and adventurous and independent. Nothing like the sad, mentally ill woman Oliver had described.
People often have a type. Blond or curly-haired or petite.
Oliver’s type, it seemed, was wealthy women who came from small families.
Of course, that’s the cynical analysis, something an amateur sleuth might develop in an old film. Oliver could have fallen in love with two women from overlapping backgrounds. That didn’t prove anything nefarious.
I recalled Danielle’s demeanor when she cornered me at the coffee shop. The urgency in her eyes, the desperation in her voice.
“Tippi, join me at the bar?” Ava said, pushing at Preston to move out of the booth.
“Sure,” I said, grateful for an escape. It wasn’t until we walked away from the table that I finally felt like I could breathe.
“Are you okay?” Ava asked, as we settled at the far end of the bar. “You’re acting weird.”
I pushed the hair off my shoulders, inhaled deeply through my nose. “I’m not trying to be. Oliver leaves for Atlanta in the morning. I keep thinking of everything I’ll need to get done while he’s gone.”
“Are you sure something else isn’t bothering you?”
Ava’s face was open, patient. Searching for truth. In that moment, I felt she wanted to know more, but the opportunity passed.
“Let’s take one more shot,” she continued, signaling the bartender. “Loosen you up a bit.”
“Fine, but then let’s close out. I’m ready for bed.”
She ordered two shots of tequila and presented her name to close the tab. Most of my friends in their thirties were like me, ready for pajamasby nine o’clock. Ava and Preston were always ready to party. As much as they talked about wanting to start a family, sometimes I wondered how children would fit into their cosmopolitan lifestyle.
Looking back at our table, I spotted Oliver and Preston deep in conversation. The former swung back and released a hearty guffaw while the latter bent forward, laughing. Weeks ago, a night like this would have served as another confirmation that Oliver fit into my world effortlessly.
Now, whenever I looked at him, the knot in my stomach tangled under tension.
I thought of Oliver’s reaction after he learned Danielle had contacted me, and then again when I confronted him with news of her death. He’d said Danielle’s mother had broken the news to him; meanwhile, she insisted they hadn’t spoken for years. I kept asking myself, if Danielle’s mother didn’t tell him Danielle died, how did he find out?
