Page 19 of Once Upon a Lie

His stare is vacant, and I adjust the collar of my button-down with a tug of worry. If the rest of this crowd is as averse to sarcasm as Stanley is, I’m going to have quite the rough go.

Dom always says it’s my coping mechanism, and if he had a psychology degree, I’d probably believe him. Since he doesn’t, I like to refer to it as personality.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Stanley. How about you come on in and make yourself comfortable.” I gesture for him to step inside. “Other guests should be arriving shortly, I imagine.”

He barely clears the threshold before he frowns. “Bit humid in here.”

“I’ll check the thermostat. See if I can cool it down a bit.”

“Humidity is a separate issue from temperature. Much more complex. You probably need to call Ken Fortune of Fortune Heating and Cooling,” he says. “Rita’s husband.”

“Right. Rita mentioned Ken, the Nashville Legend of HVAC. I’ll definitely make a note to call him this week.”

“That’s a good move, but don’t be surprised if it takes a couple of weeks for him to make it out. He’s very popular.”

He’s famous. He’s a celebrity. He flies a helicopter. The lore surrounding this Ken guy is the size of Paul Bunyan, and I won’t be surprised if he’s the key nut that cracks open Tommy Cordone’s gunrunning empire at this point.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll come tonight,” Stanley adds as he sets his Tupperware of hummus down on the island next to the assortment of snacks and drinks I grabbed from the supermarket earlier. They’re all still in the original packaging—I’m not an expert in food displays—but it’s at the very least a sign of party-host goodwill. “Not sure, though.”

“Maybe he’ll fly in on his helicopter,” I tease.

Stanley levels me with a constipated gape. “Rita would never allow it. Against HOA code.”

Yikes. “Get a drink and some apps, Stanley. Make yourself at home.”

Stanley nods and thankfully grabs a plate and starts filling it up with food.

As the next guest arrives, the mood shifts dramatically.

“Hi, neighbor! I’m Callie from 1205! I thought I’d add some color to the snack table,” she says, her high ponytail bobbing up and down as she smiles and giggles and holds up a tray of cupcakes with pink frosting. She is a ball of fucking energy, and I have the urge to put my hands on both of her shoulders to ensure she doesn’t send herself to the fucking moon.

“Thank you,” I tell her, taking the tray of sugary delights carefully. “These look delicious.”

“Oh my gosh, this is so exciting! We never have parties here! Rita says it ruins the quiet energy of the building.”

I mentally pencil in some time to look into the possibility of Rita Fortune being an underground cult leader. If the country’s biggest gunrunner is based in Nashville, the next Charles Manson could be too. So far, everyone I’ve met from this building is drinking from the goddamn HOA Kool-Aid with gusto—maybe it’s by force.

“Glad you could make it, Callie,” I tell her and guide her toward where Stanley stands munching on carrots from a FoodCity-prepared veggie tray. He’s literally taken every single carrot I had for the party tonight, but I don’t comment on it. The man can eat as many carrots as he wants if it means I’m out of the quirky loop of conversation with him.

“Help yourself to whatever you want, Callie.”

“Thank you!” she exclaims. I honestly think this might be the most excitable person I’ve ever met in my life. “Oh!” she gasps. “I saw Jillian and Denny in the elevator this morning, and they said they’re coming!”

“Fantastic news,” I say, simultaneously smiling and taking a few discreet steps back so she’s not outright screaming into my face as she talks. “Anyone else say they’re coming?” Valentina Cordone, perhaps?

“Not sure.” Callie shrugs as she grabs a plate and starts filling it with food. Not carrots, obviously.

“I brought the hummus. Goes great with carrots,” Stanley updates her as I head to answer the next knock at the door, purportedly to rub the unavailability of said carrots in her face.

Denny from 1106 strolls in wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops and looking like a California surfer dude who got accidentally dropped off in the middle of Tennessee. He’s got a six-pack of beer on his hip and sunglasses resting in his blond hair. “So, you’re Maddox, huh?” he questions after I introduce myself. “Thought your name was Matthews.”

“It’s Maddox,” I say. “Shane Maddox. Nice to meet you, Denny.”

Stanley calls from the kitchen, “Told you it was Maddox, Denny!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Denny mutters before leaning closer to me to whisper, “Just FYI, Stanley’s got a weird obsession with mailboxes. He’s what you’d call a mailbox peeper.”

I furrow my brow and lean in closer. “He’s a what now?”