You Can Never Tell

by Sarah Warburton

  And the familiar words jumped out: disgraced employee, missing art, real-life Goldfinch?, declined to press charges, and gross misconduct. That was me, the art thief who’d had a change of heart, the girl who was lucky she wasn’t in jail. I didn’t have a conviction, but I did have an arrest warrant. Even dismissed charges were part of your permanent record. I looked guilty, even though I wasn’t. I will find a job. So much for that affirmation.

  Could I just go back to my maiden name or pretend to be someone else? Sure, if I also wanted to drop evidence of my degree, my work history, any of the things necessary to actually get a job in my field. Either I was myself—with the skills and experience and baggage of my past—or I was no one. At least I wasn’t a liar. Not now, and not back then when it all went down.

  I typed another name into the Google search, Aimee McFadden, my former best friend. And among the dozens of hits, I found her like I always did. New posts, new pictures; her life was clicking along right on track. She had everything she wanted.

  She’d just had to ruin me to get it.

  CHAPTER

  2

  ALL THE BOOKS were on the study shelves, our clothes were hanging in the closet, and I was in the car on the way to dinner with one of Michael’s new colleagues. And his wife. They lived in the same planned community as us, Bluebonnet Skies, but in a different neighborhood that would take us twenty minutes to reach. Plenty of time for me to freak out.

  I will make new friends.

  Fear bubbled in my stomach, and I glanced at Michael. Under the passing streetlights, his face looked relaxed, happy even. I didn’t tell him I was freaking out. No special key or self-help book or magic phrase could make my issues disappear like a magician whisking away a cloth. All the white rabbits in my brain were dug in and panicking.

  But Michael liked his job; he was excited about it. When my future plans exploded back in Jersey, I had holed up in our apartment like I was waiting out the apocalypse. One of us had to troubleshoot the life we were living, and I clearly hadn’t been up to it. So he contacted a headhunter.

  Michael had picked up a nice Sangiovese to bring with us, and I clenched the neck of the bottle like I was throttling it. We were here because of me, because I had trusted the wrong person. Now I had to make it work. I would meet these people, and we would have a lovely evening. But first I had to prepare.

  “So it’s Elizabeth and …”

  “Wyatt. Like Wyatt Earp,” Michael answered.

  “Very Texas.”

  His lips quirked up. “Except they’re from Canada. I think I’ve only met three actual Texans since I walked into the building.”

  “And what does she do?”

  “I’m not sure. Since they’re here on his visa, I don’t know if she’s allowed to work. But she can tell you about the spousal support system.”

  “Sounds governmental. The SSS.”

  “The Social Security Service.” Then the humor ebbed from his face, and he reached over to pat my knee. “You’re going to be fine. These are nice people. They want to meet you.”

  “Right.” I couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t Wyatt and Elizabeth that worried me.

  All the houses in the neighborhood were brick and stucco, set on tiny manicured lawns. We pulled into the driveway of one almost indistinguishable from our own. The neck of the wine bottle was slick from my tight grip.

  Maybe this was what we needed, couple friends. But that was just another reminder that it had been my best friend, my choice, that ruined everything. I slipped a hand into Michael’s, and he gave it a little squeeze before ringing the doorbell.

  Everything in the foyer was fast and familiar—shaking hands, slipping off our shoes, you have a lovely home, thank you for the wine—and then we were ushered into the kitchen, where barstools were arranged around a central island. There was a little grill in the middle surrounded by plates of veggies and sliced meat.

  Elizabeth tucked a strand of smooth blond hair behind her ear. “I thought we’d do indoor hibachi.”

  “Sounds good,” Michael said, and I nodded.

  “Let me give you the five-cent tour.” Wyatt winked in a way that said he was playing at being a grown-up, just like we were. A fraction of tension left my shoulders.

  Their house had been designed by the same builder as ours, the same builder as everyone else’s in the whole planned community, but theirs was two stories to our one. We dutifully followed Wyatt around the first floor, where the kitchen connected to the formal dining room, and up the stairs, where a spare bedroom had the same “pre-nursery” look our extra bedroom did.

  Then we trooped back down. Wyatt invited Michael out into the garage, where he was experimenting with brewing his own beer, and they disappeared, leaving me with Elizabeth.

  The thing about making friends is that you need a person with some rough edges. It’s like Velcro. If there aren’t any little hooks, you’ll slide right off. Standing here with a stranger felt like being a kid when your mom goes to visit a friend and they send you into the backyard to “play” with whatever other child happens to be there. A two-year age difference, a gender gap, even a girl who likes video games while you still like dolls and you’ll both end up staring at each other in mild disappointment and silent boredom.

  So I started cataloging all the little things about Elizabeth, looking for an entry. Her nails weren’t polished, just short and sensible. She’d hit the sweet spot between casual and “making an effort” with slinky black trousers, no-show socks, and a scoop-neck fitted tee in royal blue. A trio of rings hung from a silver chain around her neck. She caught me looking and lifted one up to show me. “Do you like it? My two best friends each have one.” The golden rings looked handcrafted—one yellow, one white, one rose gold. It’s hokey, I told myself, like the grown-up version of a braided friendship bracelet.

  But I couldn’t help reaching out and stroking the cool metal. “Beautiful. Do you get to see your friends often?”

  She smiled, one of those women with a natural grin, and said, “We catch up over Christmas, and we try to do a girls’ trip once a year. But my friend Meagan just had a baby, and I think scheduling’s going to get trickier. We’re always FaceTiming and texting. You’ve got to have other women in your corner, you know?” She opened a drawer, took out an oven mitt, and slipped it on.

  “Yes,” I agreed, but I wasn’t really listening. Those women were on the dark side of the moon in Canada. I was right here, perfect friend material. I leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to look casual.

  Elizabeth opened the oven and slid out a baking sheet with something wrapped in foil. Setting it down, she asked, “So, have you thought about what you’ll be doing? I mean, while Michael’s at work?”

  “I’m not thinking about that yet. Still getting adjusted after the move.” What I didn’t say was that thoughts of the future sent me spiraling into the pain of the past. I couldn’t get a job because of what happened, not without lying. I couldn’t make plans without risking a panic attack. My mind was a rat in a maze with an electric shock at every dead end. I spent every minute “not-thinking” about things.

  Now my silence had gone on too long, but Elizabeth let me off the hook. As she deftly unwrapped the foil, revealing browned rolls, she said, “You should take your time getting settled. But when you’re ready, there are lots of galleries in EaDo, the arts district ‘east of downtown.’ Didn’t you work in a museum?”

  The expression on my face felt like a grimace, but I hoped it was appropriate. “Yes. And you, what do you do?”

  She smiled, lifting the entire mass of rolls into a waiting bread basket, then flipping the end of an embroidered linen towel over the neat stack. “I was with an interior design firm in Toronto, but I haven’t picked anything up here in Houston. I got an offer from a place downtown, but the commute would have killed me. I’m thinking about starting something out here, picking up a few small design jobs, taking things slowly.”

  “So you’re allowed to
work here?” I blurted out, then my cheeks grew hot. “I mean, with Wyatt’s visa and everything?”

  To my relief, she laughed. “I am. At least right now. They changed the rules, but they could always change them back.”

  How similar was interior design to art history? Maybe I could go into business with Elizabeth. As I followed her to the table, I noticed details like her cookbooks, bright, vibrant, and arranged so the contrasting colors were next to each other—lemon yellow, cilantro green, tomato red, white with cobalt-blue letters—and a polished wooden bowl of oranges on the counter just far enough away to seem casually placed. If there had been an orange cookbook instead of a yellow one, would Elizabeth have put lemons in the bowl?

  She set the bread on the table and turned around, taking in my empty wineglass. “Let me top you up.”

  The tannins were puckering the back of my throat, but I nodded and let her take my glass. “Thank you.” I had to say something else, something interesting. “Did you grow up around here?” Stupid. I knew she was Canadian. We had literally just discussed the visa situation. “I mean, had you ever been to the States before?”

  As she deftly twisted the wine stopper out of the bottle, she said, “I grew up outside of Manitoba. This is the furthest south I’ve ever lived, but we visited Disneyland once, when I was little. How about you? Where’s your family?”

  This was the world’s most boring conversation, and I was losing her. There’s a chemistry to friendship, you have to be in flow, and I was so much in my own head that I couldn’t relax.

  “Northeast.”

  She nodded, handing me my glass, and we stood there in silence, not a comfortable one, for just a moment too long. Then she said, “Let’s call the boys and eat.”

  * * *

  The dinner itself was fine. Since Michael and Wyatt were both there, we had enough conversation without a big effort from me. They talked about work—Michael’s favorite topic—and the neighborhood, and some women’s group called the Bluebonnets. We learned about changes in the homeowners’ association and about Elizabeth and Wyatt’s passion for camping and skiing.

  Elizabeth was skilled at steering Wyatt away from engineering and back to more general topics. I used to excel at that dance, roping Michael into interacting with people at art exhibitions and museum galas. Then we’d go to dinner with a bunch of engineers, and I’d be the life of the party. That Kacy seemed like a different person now.

  I caught Michael glancing at me from the corner of his eye. I wasn’t participating enough, and he’d noticed. There was a momentary lull, so I asked a surefire winner. “How did you two meet?”

  And it worked. Wyatt looked to Elizabeth, waiting for her to take the lead. She rested her hand on his arm, and the gesture had a graceful yet practiced look. “We met at university. McGill in Montreal. I was working on a degree in design with a minor in accounting, and he was in the electrical engineering program.” She paused and I saw her fingers tighten on Wyatt’s arm, signaling his turn to speak.

  He said, “In addition to the degree requirements, I had to take an elective from a list of ‘complementary studies.’ Maybe it was the same for you?”

  Michael laughed. “I had a whole bunch of required ‘nonengineering classes.’ Americans believe in general education. Freshman comp was the worst experience of my life.”

  Worst experience of my life. I didn’t look at him, but every cell in my body froze. He was joking—it was a throwaway phrase, I knew that; my rational mind argued his case. But on a visceral level, the worst experience of my life had been the past year. Hadn’t it been his worst experience too? Or at least worse than any first-year composition class, even one that featured poetry writing and performance?

  Wyatt grinned. “Things could have been worse for me, that’s what you’re saying. So, I was taking a course on the sociology of something—”

  “The sociology of work and industry,” Elizabeth took over. “It was kind of about the history of the workplace as technology and industry changes. I was already thinking about going into corporate interior design. I sat down next to a cute guy who was taking notes on his laptop like his life depended on it. By the end of the first class, he had this look of absolute panic on his face, so I introduced myself and asked if he wanted to study together.”

  “When a cute girl offers to translate whatever the hell sociology means, you say yes,” Wyatt added.

  “And I kept him.” Elizabeth gave his arm another little squeeze before letting it go and picking up her fork. She speared a thin strip of beef, which sizzled as it hit the cast-iron grill. “How about the two of you?”

  “Online,” I said, before Michael could open his mouth. “We met online.”

  I remembered the details of his profile like the facts on my own driver’s license. About me: Above-average intelligence and below-average social time. About you: Hoping for same. Perfect date: Ask what we’d like to do, Research and get to know each other, Imagine the possibilities, Plan for the future, Create it together, Test for weakness, Improve every day.

  Ask. Research. Imagine. Plan. Create. Test. Improve. Now I knew it as the “Engineering Design Cycle,” but then it had seemed like this guy had the answers I needed, a way to impose order on my crazy life. His profile picture was just the top of his face, like he was peeking over a wall into the frame. It was so weird. But I liked his eyes. And I’d just been on twenty thousand dates with assholes who translated “Love adventure … where shall we go?” as “Totally slutty … let’s do it in your car.”

  On our first date, we met at a gastropub, and as soon as I saw Michael, all my nerves melted away. It was so easy. Whatever pseudoromantic ideas I’d had about butterflies in my stomach and the fizziness of falling in love vanished in the enveloping warmth of the absolute comfort I felt with him. On our very first date I forgot to be nervous. I ate my fries and his too, and he never looked away from my face. Later I couldn’t remember what we talked about. I only remembered feeling like I’d been holding my breath for months and it was finally safe to exhale.

  I didn’t feel that way now.

  Our toasting forks had long handles capped with wooden knobs at one end and three prongs like tiny pitchforks at the other. There was a platter with strips of beef, bell peppers, onions, jalapeños, and some thick white strips of cheese.

  “Halloumi,” Elizabeth explained. “A good cheese for grilling.” We speared the food and set it on the hibachi between us. The air above the grill wobbled in the heat.

  This wasn’t the kind of food you ate when you were hungry; this was a meal for conversation, a thoughtful choice to share with a couple you’d like to get to know. Wyatt and Michael seemed perfectly matched—nice guys who were also electrical engineers, problem solvers with even tempers who wouldn’t get bogged down in social nuance or drama.

  After a few tries, I speared a bell pepper and let it slide onto the grill. This would have been such fun if I’d been able to relax. We’d talk, I’d make a joke, and we’d all laugh, throwing our heads back. After all, we were two carefree couples—young, good jobs, nice homes, no kids. But I was so unsure, doubting every social instinct I’d ever had.

  I stabbed a strip of beef, but then it didn’t slide off the fork onto the grill. I gave it a shake, and my hand hit the edge of the hot surface. Only for a second, not enough for a real burn, but the fork and beef went flying, right onto Elizabeth. It was a nightmare. She was splattered with marinade, and we were all asking if she was okay.

  “I’m fine, just fine.” She waved us away and scooped up the beef, still impaled on that freaking fork. Then she looked at me, and I could have sworn I saw real concern in her eyes. “Kacy, how’s your hand? Do you need some aloe?”

  I could have said yes, let her find some burn ointment, apologized for her shirt, and we’d have been talking and taking care of each other. This could have been the moment when we started to become friends, real friends.

  “No, no, I’m fine. Excuse me.” I pushed back from
the table, unable to look at Michael’s worried face or meet Elizabeth’s eyes. On Wyatt’s tour, I’d seen a bathroom, and I prayed I would get there before the first sob broke free. I could feel it, swelling under my breastbone, worse than any burn, blurring my vision even as my hand found the doorknob, and I didn’t have time to turn on the bathroom light before I was crying hard, so hard my legs couldn’t hold me up.

  I slid down the closed door until I sat with my back against it, alone. My body ached with this sorrow, sobs rattling my core. I was broken, really broken. If Michael had met me today, we wouldn’t be married. I couldn’t make a friend, not today, not ever. I wasn’t failing just at finding work; I was failing at life. No magic affirmation could hide the truth, and no pill was strong enough to cure me.

  Worst of all? Sooner or later, I would have to leave this bathroom.

  C2C TRANSCRIPT

  2

  Helen: So, this is a case I’ve been wanting to do for a while. It takes place in a suburb of Houston, somewhere you wouldn’t expect anything bad to happen.

  Julia: But we know awful things can happen anywhere.

  Helen: Sad but true. Sugar Land was voted one of the best places to live in the country. Best place to raise a family. A little more conservative than Houston—affluent, middle class—but if you thought it’s all cowboy hats and big hair, you’d be wrong. Sure, there’s big oil money, but it’s extremely international, with companies pulling in talent from countries around the world. I found that in 2011 Fort Bend County, where Sugar Land is located, was ranked the fourth most diverse county in the United States. And the area is resilient, coming back from natural disasters like hurricanes and flooding.

  Julia: I like the words international and diverse more than the words natural disaster. You’re telling me this is one of the best places to raise a family?