The Dirty Truth

“Thank you,” Elle says to Bettina once we’re settled.

Silence envelops us, punctuated by the occasional tinkle of silverware against china.

“You know, it’s ironic that my October 2018 article was about firsts.” She breaks that silence. “Because this week has been full of firsts for me.”

“And are you embracing those firsts?” I recite one of her lines.

“What do you mean?”

“You ended your article with a sentence about embracing past, present, and future firsts,” I remind her.

“Oh. I don’t remember that line.” She prongs a green bean. “But it sounds like something I’d write.” Elle pauses in contemplation. “It’s inspiring, though, right? I mean, that’s what your readers want to hear. They want to be uplifted. Easily digestible advice from the city girl next door—that’s how Tom always framed my column.”

My jaw tenses. “Yes, Elle. You did your job, and you did it well.”

I offer a figurative pat on the back in the form of an approving nod.

“So aside from your semifictitious advice, was the boy in the story real?” I ask. “Elijah?”

Reaching for her gin and tonic, she sniffs. “Very much so.”

“You still keep in touch?”

Elle takes a sip. “No. But his kid brother is marrying my kid sister next month, so there’ll be ample opportunity for us to catch up.”

Her tone is dry and flat and laced with sarcasm.

“I take it you’re not looking forward to that reunion?” I slice into my chicken and wait for her response.

“Elijah . . . he’s a very charming person. Very persuasive. He has this way about him that makes you forget what a toxic narcissist he is,” she says. “I’ve spent the last twelve years going out of my way to avoid him for that very reason, so no. I’m not looking forward to spending a week in his presence.”

“A week?”

“In my family, weddings are a weeklong endeavor. Lots of dinners and cookouts and brunches and parties and after-parties.” She exhales. “It’ll be every bit as exhausting as it sounds, but it’s the Napier way. When it comes to special events, we only have one mode. We don’t do anything halfway.”

I conjure up a mental image of Elle twirling on some parquet floor in a pastel-blue bridesmaid dress, surrounded by giggling children as she teaches them the proper way to dance the macarena.

Weddings have never been my cup of tea. In fact, I’ve been known to go out of my way to schedule a conflicting travel arrangement if it gets me out of RSVP’ing yes to an invite. But I respect a woman who truly knows how to celebrate.

At least, in my head she does.

Pulling in a generous sip of bourbon, I tell myself that the Elle in my head is likely much different than the woman sitting across from me. Fantasizing about what she does or doesn’t do at a wedding that hasn’t even happened yet serves zero purpose.

“Have you ever been married, West?” she asks between bites of chicken, her voice as casual as if she were asking about tomorrow’s weather forecast.

I resist the urge to remind her my personal life is not small-talk fodder, until I remind myself she isn’t a tabloid journalist, nor does she work for me. She’s simply a woman doing me a generous favor out of the kindness of her heart.

“No.” I take another drink, focusing on the still life painting on the opposite side of the room and pretending I don’t feel the blanketing weight of her stare or the silence of all the additional questions she’d probably kill to ask.

“Ever been engaged?” She follows up with a doozy.

Brazen, this one.

“Once,” I say.

Briefly.

A lifetime ago.

But I keep those details to myself.

“Who ended it?” Elle asks.

“Forgive me for changing the subject, but I imagine your food is getting cold.”

Her full mouth pulls at one corner, and a second later she’s resting her elbow next to her plate and her cheek against her fist as she stares at me in amused wonderment.

“I’m sorry,” she half laughs. “I thought it was crazy before, the idea of you being some doting uncle, but the idea of you being in love? Of wanting to settle down? That’s absolutely wild to me. I cannot wrap my head around it.”

“Fortunately, you don’t need to.” I toss back the remains of my bourbon. “It’s ancient history.”

“You’re like an advent calendar. All these little rooms with little doors and little surprises inside each one.”

“I thought I was a human Fyre Festival. Which is it?”

“Both.” She flashes a slow, teasing grin, and her eyes glint in a way that suggests her gin and tonic is kicking in. “You’re also a padlocked diary, and I have every intention of picking that lock.”

“Good luck with that.”

Many have tried; none have succeeded.

“Challenge accepted,” she counters, flashing a dazzling smile that hitches my breath and dismantles me like a bomb—but only for an instant. “You’re like a three-thousand-piece puzzle. Once I get the frame situated, I’ll start working on the inside. And sooner or later, I’ll have the whole picture.”