The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs Read Free Page A

“By the way, Hannah,” she says as I serve up the last piece of cake, “I read some very scary news last week about your neighborhood. Something about a rash of muggings?”
    “Really? I hadn’t heard that.”
    “You should be careful. Apparently Columbia Heights is still very much … shall we say, on the edge .”
    “Oh, I don’t live in Columbia Heights anymore. Adam and I found a place together in Logan Circle about three months ago. We—”
    I catch myself. Adam’s eyes widen in horror and fix on mine.
    “I’m sorry, what?” Sandy says, her eyelids fluttering rapidly. “Did I hear you correctly? You two have been living together?”
    Neither of us says anything.
    Sandy’s voice grows tense. “Adam? Is this true? You’ve been living together—for three months ?”
    Adam clears his throat. “No. Yes. Let me explain…”
    But before he can say anything more, Sandy clenches her jaw and shakes her head and leaps up from the table. Adam chases after her, and then Martin throws his napkin on the table and stomps out of the room after both of them, leaving me in the dining room, alone.
    I stare at the mess of plates and napkins, scattered around the table amid the overturned forks and the slices of uneaten cake. The Prescotts haven’t touched my dessert, and given the hushed tones coming from the next room, they probably never will. I pull my plate closer, saw off a corner of carrot cake, and shovel a forkful into my mouth. The cake is delicious, the best I’ve made in months, bursting with the sweet flavor of cinnamon and carrots and the crunch of caramelized pecans and toasted coconut. It’s a masterpiece, and no one will ever know. I’m sure there are worse ways this evening could have gone, but at the moment, I’ll be damned if I can think of any of them.

CHAPTER
two
    Let’s be honest: the Prescotts were going to find out at some point. All I did was speed up the process.
    And, really, with all of the champagne and red wine, combined with the prospect of sugary frosting and pecan goo, it almost wasn’t my fault. I was distracted. Who hasn’t made a few bad decisions under the spell of sugar and alcohol? Besides, Adam acted like a jerk for most of the evening. I’m hardly the only one at fault.
    But something tells me none of these excuses will fly with my boyfriend, who has ignored me for the remainder of the evening. As he speeds toward the Q Street Bridge, I’m struck by how little he has said since we left his parents. The air-conditioning blasts through the vents in Adam’s Lexus, chilling the interior of the car as we move like a cool, hermetically sealed bubble through the thick, sticky summer air. Even at nine-thirty, the summer sky still holds a faint purple glow, draping the night in a dreamlike veil. Old-fashioned streetlamps dot the sidewalk, surrounded by leafy trees of varying sizes and blooming impatiens. The spires belonging to a series of Dupont Circle town houses loom on the horizon.
    As we approach the bridge, Adam grips the wheel of his Lexus with two tense fists and presses down on the gas pedal. He races up behind a white Prius, a car moving at the speed limit, and rides its tail all the way across. When the opposing lane clears, he jerks the car over the double yellow line, speeds up, passes the Prius, and cuts back in front of it.
    “Asshole,” he says as he gives the driver the finger.
    I have no idea how driving the speed limit makes someone an asshole, and I am inclined to ask, but given Adam’s scarily aggressive tone, I decide not to bother.
    Adam speeds up again as we cross Connecticut Avenue, flying through the very heart of Dupont Circle with its crowded streets and bustling sidewalks, and I clutch my seat and close my eyes, not at all comfortable with these hostile maneuvers, even though I recognize my earlier behavior is likely behind them. Regardless, I’d rather not die tonight.
    But I will concede tonight was a disaster. An indisputable, excruciating