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Biggest Regret
When I hangup with Stephen, I have to take a moment before joining the party. He didn’t tell me anything new—that what I’m doing doesn’t make sense—but it was a jolt back into reality. Sometimes it takes a friend’s reasoning to clear your headspace and remind you what an idiot you’re being.
Not that it changes anything. I’m still going to make the best of my time here and hopefully find something else for the article.
Before I have a chance to think about it any harder, or about my jeans in a sea of silk and chiffon, someone calls for me. “Scarlett!”
Magnolia.
“Down here.” She’s standing in a circle of women.
I take a sip of my mimosa, fighting the urge to down it, and throw on a fake smile. Descend the stairs and head in their direction. I’m only a couple strides away when she swings her arm wide like a mother hen welcoming me into her warmth. But she doesn’t actually touch me as I take my place in the circle.
Eyes rake over me, taking stock. Who is this underdressed woman? The party planner? The help?
I straighten in response. “Sorry I’m underdressed, Magnolia,” I whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. I scan the small circle for Ruby, and when my eyes snag on her, I allow them to linger. Then tear them away. If I catch her snickering, I might chuck my glass at her.
Magnolia tsks. “No need for apologies, dear. You look lovely.”
Now both of us are being fake. I’m sure she’s cringing inside beneath her perfume and pearls.
Like a true politician.
I give her an appreciative smile anyway.
“This is Scarlett, everyone,” she announces.
They all respond with various forms of salutation.
I nod my acknowledgement.
The lady to my left sticks out her age-spotted hand with slick red polish. “Betsy Mayfield,” she says sweetly.
I give it a gentle shake. “Nice to meet you. Scarlett…” I pause. Panic. “…Jones,” I lie.
Way to be smooth. Wasn’t I the one who was all about nailing down the details last night?
Betsy didn’t seem to notice my little stumble.
“And I’m Alice Mayfield,” a girl in a powder blue dress says. She looks like she could be her granddaughter, judging by their matching grey eyes and slender noses. She’s middle school age, maybe. These days it’s hard to tell.
I nod at her, then try to ignore what’s hurling back into memory—Jake’s grandmother’s crazy ramblings last night about me watching out for a woman in a blue dress.
She’s a baby, not a woman.
What am I saying? It’s not real…
“The Mayfields are some of our oldest family friends,” Magnolia explains.
“Lovely to meet you both.”
“And I’m Dr. Sharon Grier,” a woman says beside them, not much older than me. She’s wearing a pink power suit with a skirt, has legs for days, and a riot of blonde curls swallow her shoulders. She tips her mimosa toward Ruby. “Another family friend.”
The woman between her and Ruby is the tallest of us, her boobs something out of a plastic surgeon’s textbook. She chose a long emerald dress to rival her irises, the deep V in front accentuated with an ornate gold brooch. Gold hoop earrings. Sweeping lashes. Glossy, perfectly wavy hair.
I’d totally hate her if she didn’t have a genuine smile and kind eyes. “I’m Farrah,” she says, and shakes my hand like Mrs. Betsy Mayfield. Farrah’s eyes drift to Magnolia. “Magnolia’s niece.”
“Oh,” I say, genuinely perking. The way a real girlfriend would do when meeting a new family member. I don’t overthink it. “Nice to meet you.”
