Page 11 of Count My Lies

“Perfect.” She pulls out a can, shuts the fridge, and grabs two champagne glasses from the cabinet behind her. The can snaps loudly when she opens it, a sharp, crisp crack. Carefully, she fills the glasses, foam rising.

“My favorite ginger ale,” she says. “No one would ever know it’s not champagne.”

She smiles and hands me a glass. “Cheers.”

I touch my glass to hers, then bring the rim to my lips. It’s sugar sweet, a little spicy. “Delicious,” I say.

“Right?” Violet says. “It’s my signature move, actually: ordering ginger ale at a bar, asking for it in a champagne glass.” She scrunches up her nose. “Ihatetelling people I don’t drink. Saying no is never good enough, is it? They always want to knowwhyyou’re not drinking, like if you turn down a drink there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

I nod emphatically. “Totally.” I rarely go out with friends, but she’s right, on the occasions I do, I make something up—I’m on antibiotics or I went at it a little too hard the night before. The truth—that it gives me hives, giant red puffy splotches the color of overripe cherries—is far less appealing.

“The worst is when they give me a little coy, knowing smile, glancing at my stomach, like they’re in on some stupid secret. Like the only reason on the planet a woman wouldn’t drink is if she’s pregnant.” Violet rolls her eyes.

“So would you hate me if I asked why?” I say, leaning forward on the counter. I can’t help myself. Remember, I told you I was nosy. “I can go first—I’mhighlyallergic. It actually might be worth a glass or two if I didn’t look like a smallpox patient. It turns out people don’tlovebeing in close quarters with Typhoid Mary.” This, unfortunately, is also true. I’d learned this my first weekend in college, when I’d taken a sip of warm beer at a house party and almost instantaneously turned into a tomato; the rate at which people distanced themselves was alarming.

Violet laughs. “Assholes, all of them.” Then, “Oh, fuck!” she cries. She runs to the stove. The water is foaming, bubbling up and out ofthe pot, spilling down the sides. “I’m a terrible cook,” she says, smiling over her shoulder at me helplessly. “But it’ll be edible, I swear.”

I study her as I sip my ginger ale, watching as she glides around the kitchen, her glossy, dark brown hair gleaming, soft waves bouncing. There’s something effortlessly cool about her, even as she flounders.

She turns back toward me and opens her mouth to say something, but before she does, there’s the sound of a door opening and closing. We both look toward the living room.

From where I’m sitting, I can see Jay in the foyer, his hand still on the doorknob. Then he turns, facing the living room. I can see him, but he doesn’t yet see me. There’s that flutter in my chest again. He’s even more handsome than I remember, in a collared shirt and loosened tie, pressed navy khakis, but he wears a clouded expression, his face drawn, not easy and relaxed like it was at the park.

“I’m home,” he calls out.

He shrugs off a brown leather bag and slings it over the stairway banister, walks into the living room. He pauses at Harper’s little table, bends over to give her a kiss, smooths her bangs, then comes into the kitchen.

Violet smiles at him brightly. “Jay, you remember Caitlin, right?”

At this, his face changes, softening around the mouth and eyes. He looks at me and smiles, that same smile from the park—wide, dimpled, full teeth. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. “Of course,” he says. “How could I forget our savior? Guardian angel. Patron saint of the park. Good to see you again, Caitlin.”

I blush. “It was just a bee sting,” I say.

“Well, your expertise was highly appreciated,” Violet says. “You were the hot topic at dinner that night. They both couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Jay’s smile seems to freeze. He hesitates, then says, “She’s right. If you hadn’t come over when you did, Harper wouldn’t have been the only one in tears.”

I give a little laugh. “You’re welcome, then. I’m glad I was able to help.”

He surveys the kitchen, his eyes settling on the champagne flutes in our hands. “I see you’ve already gotten started,” he says, deadpan.

Violet rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly. It’s a silly joke, one that he’s clearly made before. It reminds me of being a kid, ordering a Shirley Temple at dinner, the waiter winking at me conspiratorially—hitting the sauce pretty hard, I see!It’s more charming coming from Jay. “Can I get you a beer?” she asks him.

“I’ll get it,” he answers, crossing the kitchen. I like how he doesn’t fall into that 1950s stereotype, the one that gets off work and plonks into his armchair, accepting—expecting—a cold drink prepared lovingly by his perfectly coiffed, apron-clad wife, though Violet happens to be both.

As he moves toward the fridge, their bodies brush. His back against hers. They both turn, catching each other’s eyes, holding a beat. I look away, feeling both embarrassed and jealous by the intimacy, a brief sharp twinge in my stomach.

Jay pops open his beer and takes a swig, leaning against the countertop next to the stove. Then, he raises the bottle in my direction. I smile and do the same. We both drink.

“Need help?” he asks Violet, and she nods at him gratefully. “The Parmesan, can you grate it? Oh, and grab the serving bowl from the top cabinet, would you? The pasta is ready to toss.”

He complies, setting his beer down and retrieving a large bowl from an upper cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. He sets it downnext to her and picks up the cheese and begins to grate it. As he works, Violet drains the pasta into a colander in the sink, then transfers the noodles into the bowl, ladles in the simmering sauce.

“Okay,” Violet says, surveying the kitchen, hands on her hips. “I think we’re ready to eat! Harper, come wash your hands!”

A few minutes later, we’re all seated, Jay and Violet on either end, me across from Harper. Violet dishes out the pasta while Jay passes around a basket of warm, crispy bread. I take a slice, then offer the basket to Harper, who takes two.

When everyone’s been served, Violet holds up her glass. “Cheers. Thanks for joining us tonight, Caitlin.”

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