Page 25 of Count My Lies

A moment later she opens her eyes. She sees me, standing there in the doorframe, and grins, her performance momentarily paused. Shespreads her arms out wide and calls out, “Welcome to New York!” Then the chorus begins and she resumes singing, her eyes on mine, about how the city has been waiting for me. And right now, in their kitchen, it feels like it has. This New York, the one with Violet in it, is different than the one I’ve lived in for the last fifteen years. It’s new and special, and finally, I belong here.

As Violet sings, she picks up a matching saltshaker and dances toward me, the shaker outstretched. I’d planned on asking her if everything was okay, worried about her after what I’d seen yesterday afternoon, but here, now, she’s radiant. She seems more than okay.

I drop my bag on the floor and take the shaker from her. I hesitate, only for a second, then start singing, too. We both know all the words. We dance around, shimmying and swaying to the beat, singing into our microphones, the music so loud you can’t hear either of us.

When the song ends, Violet yells to Alexa to lower the volume, then drops into a kitchen chair and lifts the hair off the back of her neck, fanning herself with her other hand.

“Sit,” she says, and I do, my heart thumping from the dancing, in a seat across from hers. We’re both breathing heavily, grinning at each other, delighted with ourselves.

“Some days just call for a dance party,” she says.

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Actually, it was something I did when I worked at the preschool. Every so often when the mood seemed off, I’d turn the music up and all the kids would dance crazily around the room until they collapsed on the rug in giggles. It would reset our whole day. I want to tell Violet about it, but don’t. I can’t.

“Harper should be home any minute. One of the other moms offered to walk her home today. Coffee?” she asks, and I nod.

She gets up, returning with two cups, setting one in front of eachof us on the table. “I played that song every day when we moved here,” she says. “Embarrassing, right?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “But I’m a huge Taylor Swift fan.”

“Right.” She smiles. “You said that the first day we met at the park. That’s how I knew we’d be friends.”

I beam, tickled that she remembers our first conversation.

She looks me right in the eye. “I know I’ve said this before, but I really haven’t made many friends since we moved. It’s nice to finally have one. I’m so glad we met.”

I feel a blossom of warmth in my chest. She said I’m her friend. Not her nanny. Her friend.

“Me too,” I say. She has no idea how glad. I study her, tucking my hair behind one ear like she’s done, sitting up a little straighter.

“You’ve lived here for a long time; you must know a lot of people.” Violet blows on her coffee, then takes a sip.

I press my lips together, nodding slowly. “Sure, I guess.” I used to know more. I was friends with a lot of the other teachers at the preschool. We’d go to brunch on the weekends or someone would host everyone for a Sunday dinner, but after I got fired, that doesn’t happen anymore. “But since my mom got sick, I’ve sort of been keeping to myself.”

Violet nods. “What about dating? Are you single? Seeing anyone?”

I consider making up a boyfriend, but decide it’s too risky. If we become close, like I hope we will, she’ll want to meet him, go out to dinner on a double date. I’ll have to make up excuses about why he can never join us or how he’s away—again—on a business trip.

“Single,” I say.

“Single in New York, the dream,” she says longingly. “At least, it was for me. Well, high school me, thanks toSex and the City.”

“Oh god,” I groan. “You have no idea what it’s like out there now.” I give her a pained expression. “Tinder has ruined everything. It’s the bane of my existence.”

It’s an exaggeration. Actually, it keeps things interesting. I have a dating profile—a few of them, truthfully, all with various pictures of other women I’ve found online, women that I’m sure will catch the eye of the kind of man I’d be interested in—on several of the apps, Tinder included. It’s one of my favorite things to do on a Friday night, sweatpants-clad on the couch with a bowl of ice cream, flicking through the available men, reading their (occasionally successful) attempts to be witty. I’ll send a like or a heart to the ones that I find especially clever and wait for the ding of a new message alert. It’s fun, having guys tell me how beautiful I am, exchanging charged texts into the early morning hours.

Occasionally, I’ll use a profile with my real picture, meet up with someone for dinner or coffee, but the dates are usually awkward, filled with stilted conversation. Every once in a while, they’ll end with a make-out session on the sidewalk or mediocre sex on his futon, but there’s almost never a second date. They don’t ask, and if they did, I’d probably turn them down.

I tell myself it’ll be different when I have a better job, or when I finally get my own place. Maybe I’ll have a shot at the kind of guys who want to date me when I’m pretending to be someone else.

“Is it weird that I’m a little jealous?” Violet says, laughing. “Jay and I started dating right before Tinder launched. I’ve always wished that I could try it, at least once.”

“Yes,” I answer, nodding emphatically. “Very, very weird. Considering. You’ve seen your husband, right? Do you need your eyes checked?”

Violet buries her head in her hands in mock embarrassment, her dark hair shaking. “You’re right,” she says, muffled. She sits back up and sighs. “We just got married so young, you know, that sometimes I feel like I missed out on all the fun.” Absent-mindedly, she brushes at her bangs, coiling a strand around her finger. “And now I’m a mom with stretch marks.”

I smile. I highly doubt she has stretch marks. “You didn’t miss out on anything,” I say. “I promise you. Unless you like the idea of pervy come-ons and unsolicited pictures of male genitalia flooding your phone.”

“That’s not a myth?”

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