Page 47 of Count My Lies

I’d spent hours in the weeks before on the phone with various travel agents making sure we were in a house next to another young family with kids. Many of the rental companies wouldn’t give me any information about other occupants, but eventually I found Gina, who was more than willing to help, once she learned about the commission she’d earn on the booking, given that I was happy to pay a premium for whatever rental she found for me. Money, I’ve known for a long time, will motivate people to do almost anything.

“I found the perfect house,” Gina says when she answers. “There will be a family next door the whole time you’re there, two kids, four and six. Three bedrooms, just like you asked. Across the street fromthe beach. It just popped up, thanks to a last minute cancellation. It’s a little more expensive than—”

“Let’s book it,” I say. I don’t care about the price.

There’s the sound of a keyboard clicking on the other end of the line. “Done!” Gina announces.

I hang up, take a long, celebratory sip of my wine. It’s happening.

21

The next morning, when I get back from dropping Harper off at school, I get a text from Sloane:When should I drop the license by?

Now?I write back.If you’re free.The sooner I get it, the better.

Thirty minutes later, I open the door for her. She doesn’t look good. Her hair is still glossy, skin clear, but her eyes are bloodshot, purple-rimmed, and bagged as if she hasn’t slept. She probably hasn’t, worried about how she was going to explain that the name on the license wasn’t the one she’d told me, worried I might recognize it.

“Come on in,” I say. “Want a coffee?” It’s clear she needs one.

But she shakes her head no. She reaches into her back pocket and hands me her license. “Here,” she says, almost shoving it into my hand.

“Thanks.” I glance down at it. When I see the photo, I forget about the name discrepancy. Her picture is hysterically bad. Her mouth is half-open as if she’s about to speak, lips sort of pursed, teeth showing. She’s combed her hair into a bun on top of her head, but it’s flopped to one side and she’s missed a piece near the front. She looks pale,really pale, likely an effect of the harsh DMV lighting, but startling nonetheless, and one eye appears much smaller than the other. On the whole, it’s one of the worst driver’s licenses I’ve seen.

I choke back a laugh. “Wow!” I say. “Just wow!”

“What?” Sloane says. She sounds on the verge of panic.

I angle the license toward her, tapping my finger on the photo. She cringes. “Oh god. I forgot how bad it is. I’ve trained myself never to look at it lest I drop dead of embarrassment. I look like an extra fromThe Walking Dead. More brains, please.” She rolls her eyes into the back of her head, sticks her tongue out.

I snort. Like I said, she makes me laugh. Then I look back down. “Oh,” I say, pretending to have just noticed something. “Your name, it says…” I look up at her quizzically.

“Oh, right.” Sloane makes a noise that I think is supposed to be a chuckle. “I was a weird kid.”

I cock my head, not sure where she’s going with this.

She rolls her eyes. “For some reason, I told everyone to call me Caitlin when I was little. I thought it was pretty, I guess. And it stuck. Obviously.” She lets out a high-pitched giggle, rubs at the back of her neck. “Like I said, I was weird.” The corner of her mouth twitches as she gnaws on the inside of her lip. These are her tells: a hand to her neck, a twitch of her lip. Sometimes she shifts in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her ankles.

She watches nervously for my reaction, whether I’ll care, whether her real name rings a bell.

I wait a beat before answering, afraid I might start laughing if I speak. That’s the best she could come up with? How fucking lame. Frankly, I’m disappointed; I expected more from her. Finally, I’m able to say, “Well, I pretended to be a cat for most of first grade, whichmade me just as popular as you’d imagine, so you weren’t the only weird one.” I didn’t. My mother would have had me institutionalized.

I see Sloane’s shoulders drop in relief. She grins back at me.

Then I cast my eyes down toward the countertop. I begin to move my hands back and forth over the smooth marble, hoping I look uneasy. “Can I talk to you about something?” I ask.

There’s one more thing I need from her. Something big.

“Sure,” Sloane says slowly, searching my face, puzzled, unsure of what is coming.

I give her a smile. “Will you sit?” I motion to the couch.

We move into the living room, taking a seat facing each other. Around us, the house is quiet. I wait to speak, letting the tension build between us.

“What’s going on?” Sloane finally asks, her voice an octave higher than usual. She wipes her palms nervously on her pant legs.

“Well.” I clear my throat, take a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you—if anything happens to me, tous, I mean, Jay and me, we were wondering if you’d take guardianship of Harper.” I keep my eyes on hers, don’t blink.

For a minute, she stares at me blankly. “Guardianship?” Sloane shakes her head. “You want me to take guardianship of Harper?”

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