Chapter 7
Andi
I wake up to two alarming texts. The first is from Laine.
Laine: Hey! The friendliest reminder that the deadline to RSVP to the wedding is next week. We’d love to have you there. XO -L
Ugh. That feeling. The dread that always gathers in my gut on the rare occasion her name pops up on my screen.
These days, my friendship with Laine consists of a few texts back and forth with some variation of We must hang out soon!
! with many exclamation points and emojis, but ultimately no follow-up.
In fact, I found out about her and Hunter’s engagement last year via social media.
And two months ago, it came in the mail in the form of thick cardstock with a loopy script font, which read:
The presence of your company is requested for the wedding of
Laine Hall and Hunter Williams
Frankly, I was shocked to be invited. I still haven’t RSVP’d, despite the wedding being in less than two months. In Mexico.
I’d rather have uncontrollable, explosive diarrhea at a fancy foreign dignitary event than travel to a Mexican resort to celebrate their nuptials among an intimate group of family and close friends.
But if I say no, I look bitter. Declining would also solidify the end of our friendship, and I don’t know if I have the heart to make it official, despite the writing on the wall.
So I do the mature thing: avoid it entirely and move on to Gretchen’s text.
Gretchen: See me in my office this morning when you arrive. It’s URGENT.
The aggressive use of caps lock gives me pause.
That’s odd. These days, Gretchen isn’t normally awake until around ten, which gives me plenty of time to get her clothes steamed and coffee and breakfast ready. When she texts, she’s intensely specific about what she wants. This vague and ominous text gives me nothing.
Heart hammering in double time, I throw on a wrinkled pencil skirt and cardigan from the pile on my floor, toss my hair into a quick bun, and hightail it to work on foot with no makeup. This will have to do.
I burst through the employee entrance twenty minutes later, rain-soaked hair sticking to my forehead. The door leads into the staff kitchen, where the household workers congregate for breaks.
The voice of Noella, one of the nannies, roots me in place by the door. “It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.”
“I always thought she had a crush on Eric. Guess it wasn’t so innocent,” says a softer voice I recognize as that of Ann, the head chef.
“Do you think she’ll get fired for this?” Noella asks.
Whoa. Something big must have gone down.
Normally, I keep close tabs on the news cycle.
It’s my job to stay informed. To know exactly what Eric and Gretchen are talking about at any given time.
But after the whirlwind of last night’s impromptu restaurant gesture, I went to bed early and didn’t have a chance to scroll through the headlines this morning.
I poke my head around the corner like a gopher, curious. “Hi,” I squeak, removing my coat before I start sweating profusely from the humidity. The temperature in this old house only knows two extremes, arctic chill or Satan’s asshole, and right now, it’s the latter.
Noella and Ann simultaneously jump at my presence.
They let my greeting hang, gaping at me in silence, like I’m a sinister ghost of prime ministers past or something.
Normally, they’re friendly with me—more so Noella, who provides daily updates on her foster cats.
She jumps at the chance to talk to adults whenever she can, since she spends most of her time with the Nichols kids.
Ann, on the other hand, hates me and my entire essence since the time I mistook her lactose-free string cheese in the communal fridge for my own.
Ever since, she’s labeled all her food items in bold blood-red Sharpie.
“Who are we talking about?” I ask, trying again.
Ann just eyes me up and down from behind her wire-framed glasses, lips pressed together as though she’s trying to hold in a laugh. I place my hand over my mouth, auto-assuming there’s something on my face, or food in my teeth.
Clearly, I was too abrupt and accidentally interrupted a private conversation.
I’ve never been great at reading people, especially when they’re in groups.
Inevitably I always feel like the odd one out.
The one who gets the least amount of eye contact.
The one who awkwardly stands there, nodding, like a bystander to the conversation.
I’ve always preferred one-on-one friendships because of that.
“Glad you’re both having a good day.” Before I can embarrass myself more, I scurry to the bathroom to do a mirror check before going to Gretchen’s office, only to find nothing on my face or in my teeth.
I’m trembling by the time I arrive at her office.
Gretchen glares at me in the hallway before my direct view to her is disrupted by Eric, who’s just leaving.
He inches past me in the doorway without so much as a passing glance.
Odd, especially after our heart-to-heart last night.
He’s a busy man, but he usually at least says hi to me.
Maybe he’s embarrassed about crying in front of me?
When I enter, Gretchen gives me an icy look that could freeze a large nation. She’s not an overly warm and fuzzy person, but she’s never been this cold to me. Not even after I accidentally spilled coffee on one of her favorite cashmere sweaters in my first month.
As I round her oak desk, it’s clear we’re not alone. In the chair on the far right is Bethany, director of media relations, with the box-dyed red hair that always looks a shade of purple.
“We have a serious situation.” Gretchen’s abrupt, clipped tone isn’t lost on me. What the hell is going on?
“A situation?”
“A PR nightmare,” Bethany says, enunciating with precision. She shifts her whole body toward me, the toes of her blue matte heels dragging against the carpet.
“What can I do?” I ask instinctually. As a PA, remedying the situation is always my first priority, even before understanding what the situation actually is.
“Maybe you can tell us,” Bethany says cryptically.
I rack my brain, trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong, but come up with nothing.
Maybe Nolan told someone we knew each other?
Not that it should be a big deal, since nothing happened between us.
Besides, everyone on the Hill knows one another (and sleeps together, occasionally). “What’s going on?”
Gretchen turns her desktop monitor to me. The screen is opened to multiple internet tabs, all of which appear to be media articles.
I suck in a shaky breath, mentally prepping myself to read headlines about Eric and Gretchen splitting up, or maybe even divorcing. Did things go that south since last night’s failed anniversary dinner? Maybe that’s why Eric was in such a mood.
But the articles aren’t about Gretchen and Eric. They’re about Eric and…me.