Page 20 of Count My Lies

Most of my workout clothes are old and musty-smelling, but I find a pair of barely worn black joggers in the back of my closet that I pair with a loose T-shirt, knotted up on one side. I put on my New Balances, wishing they were a little less worn-out, less scuffed. Then I tuck my hair into a baseball cap, tie a hoodie around my waist. I consider putting in my contacts, but when I glance at my phone, I realize—shit—I don’t have the time, so I grab my purse and head toward the door.

Fifteen minutes later, I spot Violet at the entrance to the park. She waves when she sees me. I wave back and pick up my pace.

Her dark hair is pulled into a high, bouncy ponytail, a few loose strands on the back of her neck, bangs brushed to one side. Like me,she’s in a pair of running shoes—though hers are newer—but she’s better dressed, wearing ribbed high-waisted leggings and a matching stomach-baring sports bra, horseshoe logo winking.

“Hi!” she says when I get close. “Thanks again for meeting me here. I feel like I never exercise anymore, so I’ve been trying to fit it in where I can. Jay bought me a Peloton last Christmas, but I use it more as a clothes rack.”

“What’s ex-er-cise?” I joke, drawing out the syllables like I’m saying it for the first time. Violet laughs and I feel a little rush.

Frankly, a little exercise would do me well, too. I’m not overweight—or particularly thin—just an average build, a little pudgy around the waist, a bit of a jiggle in my thighs, unlike Violet, who’s lithe and long-legged. I could probably stand to lose a few pounds, but I loathe the gym. I hate the sweat-masked Lysol smell, the stuffy air, the women with their pristine Nikes and tanned, flat midriffs. I don’t need to feel more schlubby than I already do, thank you very much. Actually, I considered buying a Peloton, too, but when I saw the exorbitant price tag, that bubble burst. The thought of using a three-thousand-dollar gift as a glorified hanger is so ridiculous I almost laugh.

“I’ve actually been meaning to get back into it myself,” I say. “I used to run track in college.” It’s a nice addition to my list of lies: one, my name is Caitlin; two, I am a nurse; three, my mother has lupus; four, I am a runner. I like the way it sounds.

“I ran in high school, too!” Violet says. “Cross-country.”

I smile back, pretending to be delighted at the coincidence.Shit.“I loved it, but I tore a ligament in my knee just before graduation. I haven’t been able to do it since. So walking’s perfect for me, actually.” The last thing I want is for her to suggest we jog together instead. The thought alone is horrifying.

“Great!” she says. “I thought we could head to the water then up toward Brooklyn Bridge Park. How does that sound?”

I shrug. “Sounds good to me.”

We start to walk, faster than I’d anticipated. To keep up, I do a little half jog every few steps or so. Soon, I start to feel beads of sweat prick at my hairline, my breathing becoming heavier.

“I’m more out of shape than I thought,” I say sheepishly, doing my best to keep from panting. Violet smiles at me encouragingly, but doesn’t slow down.

After a few minutes, we settle into a comfortable pace, making small talk as we walk, mostly chatting about Harper, about her schedule, her likes and dislikes, eating habits Violet thinks I should know about—like how the only fruit she’ll eat is strawberries and how she loves yogurt but only vanilla-flavored.

I manage to slip in a casual question about Jay here and there, learn that he has one older sister, three nieces, that he’s always wanted to live in New York. “I wasn’t so sure about raising Harper here,” Violet says, “but he talked me into it. Jay can talk anyone into anything.” She smiles, rolling her eyes affectionately.

By the time we reach the park, the sun is high in the sky, a blazing, bright ball. The temperature is already in the low eighties, the day sticky, hot, even for April. I’m sweaty, my T-shirt damp under my arms, against my back.

Violet looks as fresh as she did when we started the walk. Her face has the slightest tinge of pink, but she’s otherwise untouched by the heat.

We slow, strolling toward a bench at the edge of the water. We don’t sit, instead standing behind the bench, using its back for balance as we do a few light stretches, heels drawn up behind us, thenbending over into a tabletop position. I’m not quite out of breath anymore, but close.

“How do you make this look so easy?” I ask. “I look like I just ran a marathon. I’m a mess!” I pull my wet shirt away from my body, billowing it to get some air, hoping to cool down.

“It’s an illusion,” Violet says, laughing. “I’m barely holding it together. Underneath it all I’m a disaster.”

“You? Sure.” I wrinkle my face in disbelief.

She shakes her head. “This”—she motions to herself—“takes a lot of work.”

“You’re kidding.” I raise an eyebrow, a skill I proudly mastered in the long hours I spent alone as a kid, bored in front of the bathroom mirror.

“I’m not. This took me an hour this morning with the flat iron.” She points up at her glossy ponytail. “Left alone it’s like a rat’s nest. The cat-sized kind that live in the sewer.”

“I doubtthatvery much,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“My bangs alone take fifteen minutes. And without concealer, you could pack a whole wardrobe in the bags under my eyes. More suitcases than bags. And not the carry-on kind. Really, it’s that bad.” She groans. “And don’t forget the eyebrows.”

“Eyebrows?” I ask, genuinely curious. “What do you do to youreyebrows?” I study them. They’re thick and well shaped, but look natural. I’ve thought little about mine, save for plucking them every once in a blue moon when I notice a too-long hair. They’re fairly sparse, not particularly noticeable, though it didn’t occur to me todoanything about it.

“Trimming, penciling, brushing,” she says. When she sees my face, she laughs. “I’ll show you. I’ll do yours. It actually makes a big difference.”

I roll my eyes again, smiling. It’s something beautiful women say to ingratiate themselves to average-looking people. She’s exaggerating, I’m sure. She probably looks red-carpet-ready when she wakes up—skin dewy, dark eyes bright, eyebrows or no eyebrows. Venus de Milo doesn’t need makeup, and neither does Violet.

“Really!” Violet says. “I look like a gremlin without brows. Which is why I set my alarm for five thirty every morning.”

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