Page 2 of Count My Lies

“My pleasure, Harper,” I say. “I hope your foot feels better soon.”

She offers me a tentative smile, staring up at me with her big brown eyes. Then she looks back at her dad. “Can I finish building my castle?”

Jay nods, smiling, and she slides off the bench to a scattering of sand toys on the ground.

He looks back to me. “I’m Jay, by the way,” he says, standing up and extending his hand to me. He’s taller than I expected, well over six feet.

“Nice to meet you, Jay,” I say. When we shake, there’s a current. At least, I feel one. He didn’t have to introduce himself, but he did. That’s something.

There’s a pause, then he says, “Everyone’s a liar, right?”

My heart stops beating, lodges itself in my throat. “What?” I manage.How could he—?

Jay smiles, then gestures toward my hand, dangling by my side. I’m still holding my book, the one I was reading when I first heard Harper wailing, my fingers tucked between the pages where I left off. It’s a well-worn paperback copy ofMurder on the Orient Express, the edges of the cover curled up, soft with wear. “Sorry.” He grimaces apologetically. “Did I spoil it? It looks like you’ve read it before. I just assumed—”

“Oh.” I let out a little laugh, exhaling in relief. “No, it’s probably my tenth time. You’ve read it, too?”

Jay nods. “I loved the detective, Hercule Poirot. My parents gave me a box set of the series for my twelfth birthday. I always tried to solve the case before he did. But I never could.” He shakes his head ruefully.

I laugh. “My favorite Agatha Christie isAnd Then There Were None. The ending was—” I make an explosion noise. “Whoa. I never saw it coming.”

“I haven’t read that one. It’s that good?”

“I could bring you my copy,” I offer. “Do you come here a lot? I’m usually here a few times a week.” I hold my breath and feel my heartbeat accelerate. I’m probably overstepping. I often do.

But here’s the truth. I know this isn’t their first time at this park. I’ve seen them here before. Twice, actually, earlier this week. I’d been hoping for another sighting today, pleased when I saw them approaching. Harper’s crying really did catch my attention, but I’d also been keeping an eye on them as I leafed through my book, glancing up every few pages or so, watching her on the monkey bars, the swing.

That first day, Tuesday, I noticed Jay before I noticed Harper. I’m pretty sure all the women at the park did. Not only because he was one of the few men here, but because he looks like he belongs on a movie set in LA, not on a playground in the heart of Brooklyn.

Like I told him, I’m here most days, ducking out of work for an afternoon breather, so I’m familiar with the regulars. I often see the same kids with the same nannies, the same groups of moms sitting next to each other, chatting on the benches as their offspring bound through the playground, shrieking. I like this park, how happy everyone seems, the sunlit patches of grass, the smell of the honeysucklebushes that line the perimeter. It’s busy even in the colder months, the kids bundled up, their cheeks rosy.

“That’d be great,” Jay says, responding to my offer, “but my wife is usually the one who brings Harper here. I had the week off, so I’ve been the one on park duty. It’s back to the grind on Monday.”

When he says “my wife,” my heart sinks, which makes me feel even stupider than I already do. What, did I think this was the start of a romantic comedy, that I’m Liv Tyler inJersey Girl? I know it’s an outdated reference, but what woman doesn’t fantasize about a widowed Ben Affleck finding comfort in their arms, grief-stricken and vulnerable? A motherless little girl gazing up at them adoringly? Yes, it’s a little morbid, but I can’t be the only one. Oh god, am I?

“I’ll tell her to look for you next time she’s here,” Jay says. “Apparently, this is Harper’s new favorite park.”

I force a broad smile as if the thought of meeting his undoubtedly beautiful wife fills me with unbridled joy. “Great,” I say, hoping to sound chipper. “I’m usually here around this time. Maybe I could bring the book to her.”

Here’s how I know I’m not pretty. No married man would tell his wife about the gorgeous, single woman he befriended at the park. Not unless his IQ was below functioning, or he was hoping to be smothered in his sleep later that very night. And Jay doesn’t appear to be stupid, or to have a death wish.

But I’m not surprised. I know I’m not the sort of woman who is a threat to other women. My nose is slightly too large, jaw angular. On good days, I tell myself that I’m handsome, like one of those black-and-white movie actresses, strong-featured. Greta Garbo, maybe, if the lights are low. And I don’t do myself any favors. I know I could spend more time on my appearance; I don’t have to look quite as schlubby as I do.

I could dress better, for one, but instead I wear what’s comfortable, clothes I’ve had for years that should have been donated—or tossed—ages ago: high-waisted jeans with holes in the knees, button-up flannels, oversized, stretched-out sweaters. Thanks to the ebb and flow of fashion, it might actually be cool if it was intentional—or if it wasn’t paired with half-brushed buns and cheap, plastic-framed glasses, scuffed sneakers. I do have contacts (and a hairbrush), but most mornings I’m running late, scrambling out the door partially dressed, just-burnt toast crammed in my mouth; the contacts (and hair brushing) usually fall to the wayside.

It’s not that I don’t have nicer clothes—I do—I just haven’t had a good reason to wear them recently. Because instead of cardigans and slacks, I wear scrubs to work. Mauve-colored, to be specific. My boss, Lena, handed them to me on my first day with a proud smile. She picked the shade herself.

I’m not a nurse, but a nail technician at a small, boutique day spa that offers seventy-five-dollar manicures and pedicures, sugar waxing, and a three-page menu of signature facials. Nurse, nail tech, what’s the difference, really? Oh, right, everything. The chasm between fixing a broken arm and a broken acrylic is wide and deep.

Currently, along with the scrubs, I’m wearing the aforementioned plastic glasses, a pair of gold studs, and a chain-link choker I grabbed on my way out.

I touch my hand to the necklace. I found it at a little shop I passed on my way home from work a few weeks ago. I’d stopped in to kill time, not intending to buy anything, but as I walked by the checkout counter, I noticed it through the glass case, the gold glinting. The salesgirl offered to put it around my neck so I could see how it looked. It fit perfectly. The chain was delicate, tiny links woven together,with, right at the base of my neck, one tiny iridescent pearl. I paid for it and wore it out. When Natasha, my coworker, commented on it the next day, I told her it was a family heirloom, passed down from my grandmother.

But—prepare to be shocked—even with the earrings and choker, I’m no ten. Jay’s wife probably looks more like Liv Tyler than I ever will. The Daisy to his Gatsby. Lithe, with high cheekbones. Full lips, curls spilling down her back. No frizz in sight.

“Five more minutes, Harp.” Jay stoops to touch the top of the little girl’s head. She nods absent-mindedly. She seems to have forgotten about her bee sting and is now playing happily by our feet, pouring sand from a shovel into a bucket, then tipping the bucket upside down.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I should go—I’m due back at work in less than ten minutes—but Jay is far more interesting than what waits for me there. And he said he only has five more minutes. If I walk quickly, I’ll be able to make it back on time. So instead of leaving, I say, “You said you had the week off?”

---