“Uh-huh.” If there was a phone cord to wind, Rainy would have wound it around her finger. She was familiar with this particular timber of his voice.

“You’re going to wear that black dress I like—”

“It’s a baby shower,” she reminded him.

“You’re an artist, so you get to wear black. When you get there, you’re going to talk to Viola and Samantha—they’ll look for you, too, because they like you more than any of the others—”

“That’s not true,” Rainy cut in again.

“Hush, this is my story.”

She stifled a laugh while Grant kept talking. “You’ll wander over to the drinks table and make yourself a double without anyone noticing, then, bravely, you’ll manage small talk with Tara, who will ask where I am even though she knows, then she’ll make a comment about your dress and how she’s not brave enough to break the rules of fashion to wear black to a baby shower.”

Rainy lost it at this point, the laughter escaping her throat in ripples. That was exactly what Tara would do.

“Braithe will, of course, rescue you. She’ll see what I see with the dress, and she’ll grab your arm and make you go with her to the drinks table.”

She knew all this was true. Grant couldn’t have written a better script.

“After a few shots with the Baby Tigers, you’ll be ready for the big rocking chair presentation—”

Rainy groaned at this part. Shots with them wasn’t what she was groaning about, though; it was the rocking chair she’d made for Viola. Rainy loved making art; she just didn’t love being around for people’s reaction to it. The oohs and aahs, the questions that came about the process, she hated all of it. She didn’t want to talk about what she made.

“Anxiety,” a therapist had once told her, “comes in all shapes and sizes.”

“You’ll grin and bear it, and it won’t be as bad as you thought because Viola will be so, so happy. You made her a chair with your bare hands, like a beast.”

They were both laughing now, Grant unable to continue. When they caught their breath, Rainy was the first to speak.

“I love you, and I love that you can do that.”

“S’why you keep me around, baby.”

She got dressed, dreading her afternoon. The promise of a quiet workday forgotten, she resolved herself to another night of vapid social fanfare. There would be even more of them there tonight. Her only consolation was how much she liked Viola. Supporting her on her special night was easy; making small talk with twenty-plus women was not.