Victoria fucking Miller is here. I plaster a fake smile at my high-school—is there a stronger word fornemesis? I expel a breath. That was a long time ago. Jones women are above petty behavior toward others. Usually. But, this snake is an exception.
“Do I know—oh, Victoria. I almost didn’t recognize you. Nice to see you…here.” I study her pixie hairstyle, a deeper red than I remember. She’s wearing thick rimmed glasses that practically cover her face, a dress as orange as her skin, and a purse dangling from the crook of her elbow. The only thing missing is the teacup Pomeranian.
“What’s it been? Half a decade?” Her nails-on-a-chalkboard voice is one thing that hasn’t changed over the years. “I was hoping to bump into you sooner than later. We heard you would be here.” She flaunts a smile like she’d one-upped me, and I tilt my head in confusion. “We’re practically VIP and privy to insider information.”
She introduces Caroline and me to her wife, Lauren, standing next to her. A fit woman with strong cheekbones and fair skin. Wait a damn minute. Victoria Miller. Not straight? And OUT? The same person who declared all senior year that my sister was stalking her when a teacher caught them kissing? Quite the paradox.
Victoria eyes Caroline down then up. “Hi. Are you Basil’s assistant or—?”
“Vicky.” I know she hates being called that. “My wife and I are enjoying our honeymoon. The gold package…with the soundproof walls.”
“Noted. So are we. We’ve been coming here for years. It’s unfortunate when prestigious vacation islands start opening up to the general public.” Victoria’s grin turns cunning. “Excuse us. We girl-bossed too hard at the beach and need to rest. Let’s go, baby.”
Lauren—Barbie’s sister—appears to be just as dumbfounded as Caroline. I glare at the back of her head until they’re out of sight. I couldn’t stand Victoria Miller when we were kids, and seeing her again reminds me how much I still loathe her presence. Sure, grudges are petty, but that was my twin sister she hurt. I’ll never forget Hazel’s tears the day she told me what happened or her hopelessness as the rumor mill churned in the months following. I’m convinced every villain origin story starts with Victoria.
Under different circumstances, I would have reminded—more likeburied—Vicky with accolades Hazel and I have gained over the last decade, jogging her memory and warning her to never challenge a Jones again, but I have more important things in my life to address. She’s not worth my time.
Since decking Icky Vicky in the face is frowned upon, I cross my arms over my chest and mutter louder than I intended, “We’re two unashamed women doingverylesbian things together. Bitch.”
Without another word, I march outside, disregarding Caroline’s shocked expression altogether.
* * *
We don’t exchangewords during our short walk to the hibachi restaurant. I have no clue how to recover from my “Doing very lesbian things” line. Plus, I despise small talk as much as I do meetings that should’ve been an email. I shift my focus away from Caroline—who occupied my mind all night—and bask in the island’s festivities. I adjust my sunhat to shield my eyes from the rays as I peer down the shore. An intense beach volleyball game is in progress. The ball bounces back and forth over the net until someone spikes it and scores. Cheers and high fives get passed around. Further down, several women are lazily suntanning, a task I’m looking forward to.
When we reach our destination, Caroline pauses in front of the entrance doors. “Mind telling me what that was about back there?”
“I do mind.”
“Okay…” She pulls the door open. “Let’s go do one of my favorite ‘very lesbian things’: eating. After you.” As I pass through the entrance, she adds, “And if anyone asks, you have a seaweed allergy.”
My arms drop in exasperation. “If you actually read the itinerary, you would’ve known that I love spicy tuna rolls. Now, you're telling me I can’t—you know what? Never mind.” I end my rant and walk inside.
When we reach our table in the dim back corner, Lynn, the more animated of the Blakemans, tackles Caroline into a hug before shaking my hand. Why don’t I get that type of reaction? I’m huggable, aren’t I? I take Mae’s outstretched hand and firmly shake it. Being able to elicit a subtle smile from her makes me forget about the effortless relationship between my fake wife and Lynn. Once we’re seated around the flat-top grill, the waitress takes our drink orders and disappears to the back.
For the last few months, I’ve mostly interacted with Mae. Now, I’m putting as much distance as possible between Caroline and Lynn, hoping they won’t gettoochatty, as my mission requires this meeting to go smoothly. The last thing I need is us fumbling over relationship details. Caroline comments about the number of women chefs, and Lynn tells us this is the only women-owned, women-run hibachi restaurant in the world. Caroline and I exchange satisfied smiles, appreciating the multitude of awards the establishment has achieved.
Just as I open my mouth to speak, Lynn asks what everyone is ordering and pulls her glasses from her shirt pocket—her quirky, but somehow-manages-to-work-for-her black button-down shirt covered with tiny tacos.
“I think I’ll try something new today,” Lynn says, putting down her napkin on her lap. “Perhaps the salmon.”
“You say that every time, love,” Mae chimes in.
“Today is the day.”
Mae chuckles, then leans over to me, whispering, “Watch, she’ll get the shrimp yaki noodles and the lamb lollipop appetizer. If you can convince her otherwise, I'll give you an insider tip on our next project. One that requiresthree timesmore wine.”
I cough. Did I hear that right? The expression on Mae’s face tells me she’s deadly serious. This is the type of information—leverage—I need to obtain. I straighten my back and watch Lynn close the menu with a content smile.
“You’re on,” I challenge her daring lipstick grin. I know it’s a test, one I intend to win. This reminds me of the time I watched a man bet my mother a patch of land over a round of golf. I was sixteen and into my fourth year of golf lessons. I had a love-hate relationship with the sport, because although competing and winning against Victoria Miller in school never got old, accompanying my mother on business trips did. I’ll never forget her smile as she handed me the club to play in her place. After my victory, on the way home, she told me, “Confucius said, ‘Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance.’ Well, I say, give it to a woman.” A rare mother-daughter moment. That day, I made a vow to sustain a Jones level of power and confidence. On my eighteenth birthday, she gifted me the land.All these years later andit’s still sitting stagnant in California for no reason except principle.
Lynn's words snaps me back to the conversation. “I know, but I’ve been meaning to try the choo chee salmon for a while now.”
“That dish sounds fantastic, Mrs. Blakeman.” I poke my head forward. “I’ll join you in ordering that. We can compare notes.” I despise curry, but everyone has a price.
“Absolutely.” Lynn nods. “This is what breaking bread is all about. Unity and creating new experiences together.”
Caroline’s arm keeps brushing against mine, probably because we’re crammed into the corner seats, or at least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself. Recalling that we’re a couple on our honeymoon, I let myself lean closer and melt into her warmth. I can’t determine her facial expression when she glances toward me. I offer a quick smile, hoping she plays the part. Hesitantly, she lifts her arm and rests it on the back of my chair.
