Free White Lies by Jeremy Bates Page B

tomorrow and went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of the expensive Pinot Noir, which was still three-quarters full. She grabbed the romance novel she was reading—a steamy thing about a sex-starved blacksmith and a sex-starved noblewoman—and ran the water for a bath. Unlike the rest of the bungalow, the bathroom had been recently renovated. During the first and only meeting she’d had with the owners, they’d told her they’d removed the partition wall separating the main area from the laundry to open up the small space. The washer and dryer were now in the basement, which was cluttered with a generation or two of forgotten belongings, some of which may be rare and valuable such as the
New York
Times
newspaper she’d seen on top of a stack of dusty, moldy boxes. It was the Sunday, July 20, 1969 edition, the headline proclaiming: “MEN WALK ON MOON: Astronauts Land On A Plain: Collect Rocks, Plant Flag.”
    The present arrangement made it slightly inconvenient for Katrina to wash her clothes, but she thought the tradeoff was worth it. According to an adage she lived by: a small living room was cozy, a small bedroom was practical, but a small bathroom was a nightmare.
    Katrina added to the steaming bathwater two teaspoons of a vanilla-and-lime scented oil she’d purchased on Front Street the other day, lit a few candles, and undressed, tossing her clothes in the hamper in the corner. She slipped into the tub, sighing as the heat seeped into her muscles, all the way to her bones. Very nice. Exactly what she needed. These past two days had been a bit of a mini-rollercoaster, and now that the ride was winding down, it was time to relax. She took a sip of the rich, silky wine, closed her eyes, and thought about Crystal. She was concerned for her little sister.
    After their parents had died, and Crystal, then eight, had moved in with their father’s sister and her husband, Crystal began retreating into herself, becoming more introverted, spending most of her free time by herself rather than with friends. This self-imposed ostracism lasted for much of high school until her senior year when, finally, she began to act more how a seventeen-year-old should act. And much to Katrina’s relief, she went to her prom. Her date had been a goofy-looking fellow in a cheap tux and a splattering of acne, but she’d gone, and that’s all that mattered.
    That summer, between high school and university, she got a job at a seasonal resort, working in the dining room as a waitress with a number of others her age. The resort was on Bainbridge Island, thirty minutes by ferry from Seattle, which meant she had to stay at the staff lodgings. A doctor couldn’t have ordered better therapy, as she was in constant communication with the other staff and guests. By the end of the summer, it seemed as though she’d come out of her shell for good.
    Still, her suggestion she pay Katrina a visit, only days after she started at the university, was not a good sign. Katrina wasn’t goingto delude herself into believing Crystal simply wanted them to spend some quality time together. They’d just seen each other last week when Katrina had driven her to Seattle University and helped her move into her dorm room. No, it seemed her sister was having problems adjusting once again.
    Deciding to have a good talk with Crystal this weekend, Katrina set the matter aside and took another sip of the wine. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: hair tied into a messy bun atop her head, a warm flush to her cheeks. Not bad for thirty-two. But she was in a world where young was better than old and she wasn’t getting any younger. During the six years she and Shawn were together, she had never really given her age much thought. But now, single, she was all too aware of the invisible expiry date she couldn’t necessarily see, but men definitely could. Hypocrites, the bunch of them, she thought. Why