Page 84 of Once Upon a Lie

I sink onto the edge of my bed and slip off my heels with a sigh, setting them to the side before contorting myself to reach to the zipper at the back of my dress. When I manage to get it down, I take the halter over my head, put it back on the hanger I left lying on the top of my bed, and place it back in my closet with quiet steps. My throat feels thick with ridiculous tears, and I fight them with everything I have.

The last thing I need is to start crying like I’m never going to see Shane or go on a date with him again when it’s just a simple delay. There’ll be plenty of opportunities for dates and nights spent together, and we’ve only been getting to know each other for a month.

I seriously need to calm down. I’m not usually this emotional.

Considering myself in the mirror, I laugh at how ridiculous I look now, all done up like a call girl in my sweats. I shake my head and flick off the light in my closet, silencing the image of me in the full-length mirror and heading back for my vanity to work in reverse.

Notifications from the condo group chat ping like crazy from my phone on the nightstand, but I ignore them. They’re usually good for at least a laugh or two thanks to the eccentricities of the residents, but I’m not in the mood to laugh right now.

All I feel like doing is moping.

With the help of a makeup wipe and a hair tie, I take myself from done up to down home and then make the trudge up the stairwell to the next floor to break the news to Shane.

The stairwell door falls closed behind me with a bang, and its echo and vibration hit me square in my chest. Honestly, it’s about as loud as the way the news from my dad felt—like a bomb.

My fist feels heavy as my knuckles connect with the brown, stained wood of his door, and I roll my neck from side to side to crack it as I wait for him to arrive. His footsteps are quick and audible, and I can picture him moving at a jog to see me. Excited. Just like I used to be.

As the door swings open, things only get worse. I swear, his eyes are so bright with eagerness, my stomach clenches.

“Hey! I was just about to come down.” He takes me in, his smile growing. “You look great.”

The wild part is he’s not even being facetious. I’ve spent the gross majority of the time we’ve been getting to know one another either in sweats or covered in bagel dough, and he always looks at me like I both raise and set the sun. Like I circle the earth day and night putting out the stars myself. Like I’m one of the seven wonders of the world.

Tonight, I was looking forward to the chance to really impress him.

I chuckle, but it’s sad. “Yeah, well, thanks. But I promise I would have looked better . . . I just . . . I have bad news.” The admission feels thick on my tongue, and my mind races, trying to come up with a way to get out of the paperwork shit for just one more night.

“Are you okay?” he asks, worried, his survey of me newly bolstered by looking for injury. I get it, I suppose. He is the protective type.

“I’m fine. Really. No sliced fingers or anything. I just, unfortunately, have to cancel our date.”

“Oh. Okay.” He waves it off. “No problem. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ve been putting off getting my paperwork in order for my quarterly tax filing, and my dad called to tell me I have to have it all ready by tomorrow.”

He runs a hand through his perfect brown hair. “He does your books?”

I nod, and then shrug, shaking my head. “Well, not him. His accountant people or whatever. He’s got so many on staff for his company, I get the benefit of not having to pay any fees.”

He considers me for a long moment before crossing his arms over his chest and smiling. “Need any help?”

“Are you serious? You’re . . . volunteering for tax paperwork sorting?”

“I’m volunteering to spend time with you,” he corrects, and happiness and hope return in one fell swoop.

Maybe tonight isn’t lost after all.

29

Shane

8:30 p.m.

The Hole Story is dark, and Teeny unlocks the front door and lets us both inside. I hear the click of the lock sliding back into place as she secures it again and wait by the orange and blue chairs that are upside down on one of the front tables while she resets the code for the alarm.

As it beeps and calls out to assure us it’s secure again, she waves me toward the back. I follow along past the turquoise bookshelves, running my eyes over the covers of her eclectic mix of new and old books alike until we’re behind the counter and moving through the kitchen. She turns on the bright lights overhead, and a shimmer emanates from the silver worktables in front of the oversize graphite-color mixers.

It’s the first time I’ve seen back here, and it feels a little like peeling a layer back on Valentina. And the fucked-up part is, it doesn’t feel like surveillance—it feels like intimacy.