Okay here we go...lets see what happens this week.
Grace wasn’t letting her friend off that easy. With an oath, she pushed Lucky’s feet off Mrs. Simonson’s coffee table and veered around it to follow Harper into the kitchen, stroking up a full head of steam and ready to blow by the time she pushed through the swinging door. “All right, Harper. Let’s have it. Right here. Right now. Just you and me. Why don’t you tell me what I did to piss you off?”
Truman, Lucky and Owen all exchanged glances before they simultaneously jumped up and rushed after Grace. Skidding to a halt outside the swinging door, Truman raised his forefinger to his lips before the three turned their attention to the occupants in the kitchen.
Harper spun from the fridge where she was methodically removing the items she needed for hot chocolate. “Let’s have what? Can’t you for once just do what I ask you to do? Go and tell them what I told you that day in the parking lot. But don’t forget to mention the parts that you didn’t believe.”
Grace stood in front the swinging door, confusion marking her brow as she stared at Harper in disbelief. “Who are you? What have you done with my best friend?”
Slamming the fridge shut, Harper stalked across the kitchen to retrieve a sauce pan. “Who am I? You're one to talk. And stop patronizing me. It’s always seriously irritated the hell out of me the way you do that.”
Not giving an inch-because to do so would mean falling into a heap on the kitchen floor and curling into a fetal position until the pain of Harper’s hateful words melted away-Grace walked over and snatched the sauce pan from Harper, forcing the other girl to look at her. “Exactly what part of the story did I not believe, Harper? The part where you had to go the ladies room? No, the part where Mr. Haas said you could use the bathroom in his bedroom. No, no, wait. I know! It must have been the part where he tried to kiss you, and you defended yourself. Was that the part I didn’t believe?”
Grace’s anger bloomed like a giant funnel cloud, and any moment, Harper expected her to start spinning around the kitchen. Slamming the pot on the stove, Grace hissed, “I believed every word you said to me in the parking lot. I have always believed you. What I had a problem with was the parts of the story you left out.”
Twirling toward the stove in an attempt to shield her eyes from Grace, Harper snapped, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay. Let’s start with something easier than. Why don’t we start with earlier that night, how you came over and wanted to borrow some stuff from my closet. My black mini. My favorite pink sweater. And let’s not forget my Jimmy Choo’s. Ringing any bells yet?”
“Who is Jimmy Choo?” Lucky whispered to Owen.
“Shh,” Owen and Tru hissed.
“Only the fact that it is totally ridiculous that you have a pair of boots that cost over a thousand dollars,” Harper practically screamed as she ripped open a drawer and pulled out a wooden spoon.
“That didn’t seem to bother you that night. In fact you were fairly cooing over them as you stared at yourself in the mirror,” Grace flung back.
“I looked like a hooker, and you know it. I don’t know why I let you talk me into the hair and make-up. Maybe if I hadn’t, nothing would have…” Harper’s free hand shot up to cover her mouth, as if she could take the words back.
Grace faltered, then froze, her anger disintegrating on the ugly words. “What exactly are you trying to say, Harper?”
“Oh, Grace,” Harper cried. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Truman pushed himself up, ready to head into the kitchen, wanting to put an end to the verbal sparring that was ripping at the seams of a life-long friendship. Owen shot a hand out to stop him, shaking his head, silently telling Truman to stay put. “This may be the only way we find out what really happened,” he whispered.
Nodding, Truman leaned his forehead against the wall, dialing back into what was taking place on the other side of the kitchen door.
“How did you mean it? Since nothing happened, what is it exactly that could have been prevented if only I hadn’t talked you into hair and make-up?” Her voice was ice cold, and Harper felt the chill, all the way to the bone.
Tossing the wooden spoon in the vicinity of the sink and missing, Harper took the heel of her hand and smacked herself in the forehead three times. Shuffling her feet like an old man, she moved toward the kitchen table and fell into the closest chair. Folding her arms across the smooth wooden surface, she laid face down praying for some divine intervention, anything to steer the conversation back to where it was before when she was justified in her anger.
Sadly nothing happened, except the ticking of her mother’s prized rooster clock getting louder in the face of Grace’s silence. Maybe, if she just stayed still, Grace would give up and go home. Realizing how unrealistic that was, Harper cautiously raised her head and found Grace standing like a statue at the other end of the table.
Catching Harper’s eye, she forced her words out through a gravel filled throat, “You blame me for whatever it is that happened that night? Is that it? You think it’s my fault?”
Stretching her arms straight out with her palms up, her eyes landing on the wooden spoon, she sighed and said, “No.”
“That might sound more convincing if you looked me in the eye when you said it. But you’ve never been any good at lying to me, have you?”
Sitting straight up in the chair, Harper looked at Grace and said, “This has nothing to do with what happened at the party and everything to do with the letter.”
Completely undone, Grace asked, “What letter?”
You know the drill...tell us what you think.