The Season by Jonah Lisa Dyer Page B

her long, curly red hair piled on top of her head, she looked extra fabulous. All three displayed that easy gracious manner that simply cannot be faked or bought. It is either encoded in your DNA, or it is not. Sadly, I had missed that sequence.
    Until now I had escaped any brouhaha over my appearance by staying inside our scrum, but we were moving inexorably forward toward the hosts, approaching fullexposure. Mom licked her lips, and her mouth twitched in a half-smile/half-grimace that subtly betrayed her anxiety. Hunter squeezed my hand, and once again I turned my face slightly in an effort, if only for a few seconds more, to delay the reckoning.
    And then Ann Foster appeared behind Abby.
    Screw me
, I thought, and the urge to turn and run gripped me. But boxed in by guests I stumbled forward. Aunt Camille caught sight of Mom, and Abby saw Julia.
    â€œJulia!” she cried, happy to see a truly familiar face. Julia stepped forward and they hugged. Abby embraced Mom.
    â€œAbby, this is amazing. You look gorgeous,” Julia said. Abby beamed.
    â€œThanks. It was all Mom’s idea.” That made sense. Aunt Camille had unerring judgment, and she had clearly thought hard about the best venue for Abby’s substantial “assets.”
    Julia and Mom moved on to Aunt Camille, and Abby searched for me. Behind her, Ann’s eyes narrowed as she sensed something not quite right about my face.
    Oh, what the hell
, I thought, and stepped forward.
    â€œAbby, congratulations!” Abby’s face dimmed as she stared at my eye.
    â€œOh my God, Megan. What happened to you?” she asked, truly concerned. I considered the truth, tried a few one-liners out in my head, saw Ann cock her head, hoping for some adequate explanation.
    â€œI, I—well, I’m so sorry, I got—”
    â€œShe was carjacked. By a gang.”
    I think if I, or really anyone but Hunter, had said it, everyone would have burst out laughing. But he was so ploddingly sincere, so clearly incapable of humor on such a grand scale, that it simply had to be true.
    â€œDid you go to the police?” Abby asked, aghast.
    A voice inside my head screamed,
Don’t do this!
I knew I should reverse course, pronto, and clear up this vulgar, offensive lie. Delay could only lead deeper into the swamp. Still, I couldn’t help myself.
    â€œI . . . not yet,” I stammered.
    The wine and Vicodin clouded my judgment. In fact, mixing wine and Vicodin was bad judgment. I probably did have a concussion. Whatever the explanation, in the moment I just smiled and went with it.
    Ann Foster didn’t believe it for an instant. She practically had steam blasting from her nostrils, but she wasn’t going to question me publicly.
    â€œOh you poor girl,” Aunt Camille said as she hugged me.
    â€œIf they find them,” Uncle Dan advised, “you can sue for damages. It’s civil as well as criminal.” I nodded, disgusting person that I was.
    Fortunately, other guests pressed up behind us, and I shuffled on with some last hugs and final looks of concern. Hunter, my brave defender, had stood by me gallantly, and I sensed him mentally tick off the box for “loyal” on his partnershipapplication.
    â€œI need a drink,” I said. Three or four hundred people filled the room, and it took some doing to squeeze through. We passed the bandstand, now piping out “The Boogie- Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B,” and bellied up to the bar. The bartender winced when he saw my eye.
    â€œYes, ma’am?” he asked.
    â€œTequila. And leave the bottle.” He raised his eyebrows—
seriously?
    â€œKidding,” I said. “Just a white wine please.”
    â€œAnd for you, sir?”
    â€œChivas and soda.”
    Hunter smiled at me. I smiled back, and looked around. Behind the bar hung a large antique mirror. In the mirror, to my right, stood a tall, broad-shouldered guy with wavy brown hair,