Page 131 of False God

My tone is deceptively calm as I answer, “No.”

Lili clicks her tongue. “I’m sure Beatrice would have loved a trip to New York.”

My confusion—and irritation—grows. “I wouldn’t know. Since I didn’t ask her.”

She hums, then drains the glass she’s holding, her hand falling back to her side.

The dress she’s wearing is black with a white cityscape that’s unmistakably New York. I’m not sure if she meant it as a reminder, but it serves as one. This is her home. And her parents are moving here, only strengthening her ties to it.

I came all this way to chase after a woman who will always live on this side of the Atlantic and who—if her annoyance is anything to go by—doesn’t evenwantto see me.

“What are you doing here?” Lili asks, echoing my thoughts.

She finally turns to face me, the force of her beauty hitting me full-on. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Full lips.

It’s the same thrill as jumping off a cliff—an adrenaline rush, followed by a hard landing.

I’ve seen her naked. Seen her laugh. Seen her dance. Seen her swim. Seen her scowl.

But I’ve never seen her cry before.

I think I imagined it at first. But then another droplet of water streaks down her cheek, hesitating, then falling to the brick patio.

Lili sniffs. Blinks rapidly before handing her empty glass off to a passing waiter.

It feels like I’m talking around a mouthful of gravel as I ask her what’s wrong. Is she upset about … us? Is something else going on? I’m completely confused, but I don’t think admitting that is going to help anything.

She repeats, “What are you doing here, Charlie?” rather than answering my question.

I opt for the simplest answer. “I got an invitation.”

Lili mutters, “Asher,” under her breath, confirming my suspicions about who sent it. Her eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

I stare at her. “What are you talking about? I texted you.”

She didn’t answer, so I assumed she was mad at me. That only strengthened my resolve to see her in person. I never assumed she didn’t receive it.

Pink streaks her cheeks. “I-I didn’t get it. I delete texts from numbers I don’t have saved.”

For some reason, I think she’s lying. Not about not getting my text, but something else. She’s fiddling with her bracelets, the way she does when she’s nervous or unsure.

“Theo sent it to me,” I tell her, like that’s necessary information.

It should be. My conversation with him went something like this:

ME:I need a favor.

THEO:Hey! Sure. What is it?

ME:Don’t ask any questions, please.

THEO:Got it.

ME:Can you send me Lili’s phone number?

THEO:I don’t have her number.

ME:Your wife does.

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