Page 132 of Under the Lies

He’s protected me.

He’s made me feel safe and has helped me feel more whole. He took me to my granddad’s when I was too afraid to go by myself.

He’s always seen me when I’ve only ever felt invisible.

Noah leans in, wrapping his fingers around my chin. “Close your mouth, Sayer. It isn’t proper.”

“Neither is this.” I lean on my toes and brush my lips against his neck. I breathe in his scent of clean minty soap, leather, and rich spices.

I pull back to say something, but the words leave my lips, leave my mind as Noah’s mouth crashes on mine. He kisses me like we aren’t in public, touches me like we’re the only two in the room.

He drowns out the worries, the whispers, and I lean into him. Lean into the freedom he’s given me and kiss him like I always wanted to as a lovesick teenager.

I get lost in his lips. My fingers find themselves woven into his hair.

This really isn’t proper. And I really don’t give a damn. Especially as his tongue greets mine.

But all too soon he’s pulling away. “Not yet. Soon, but not yet,” he whispers. Heat simmers behind his glasses. “Stay here, I’m going to get us some more drinks.”

It looks like the last thing he wants, but I understand. We’re here to coax out my sister and if we were to disappear, it’d defeat the purpose of us being here tonight.

Soon, I echo, watching as Noah walks to the bar, leaving me alone.

Alone with the whispers and stares and speculation. My arms wrap around my middle—a shield from the gossip.

Trying to ignore them, I focus on what makes me happy.

Art.

I catch myself staring at the painting Noah showed me, the one about the lovers. He had said it was donated by my parents and while I might have been distracted at the time, what with his roaming hands and whispered words, now with him a healthy distance away from me, I can attest to never seeing that painting before.

Not even in my granddad’s collection, which we inherited most of with his passing.

Noah said they were donated, but he must’ve been confused by which painting was donated by my parents because the lovers one isn’t it.

Or is it?

I go through my memory trying to remember all the paintings they have in their collection and which ones they kept after my granddad’s passing, but between both my parents and granddad, so many paintings came and went through their houses while I was growing up it sometimes felt we were a temporary holding facility.

Mom was always redecorating, and Granddad always had paintings waiting for his clients to pick up.

The more I study the painting, the more I don’t know if my parents donated it.

Why is it bothering me so much?

“What’s that look on your face for?” Noah’s arm winds around my shoulders.

I don’t get the chance to say anything before his grip tightens around my shoulder. Holding me in place. His jaw’s clenched and body ramrod straight.

What…

Following his gaze, I see why.

My parents have returned from their European vacation, walking into the event with an air of superiority.

And they’re staring straight at me.

When I was younger, my father used to get this look on his face. One that didn’t quite convey anger, nor did it scream disappointment. Somehow he had perfected a look that fell in between. I called it his lawyer face since it resembled the expression he usually wore when he was in his office or in court.

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