Page 15 of Count My Lies

I turn my thoughts back to Violet. “Let’s do this again sometime,” she said. Had she meant it? Or was it just something she’d said to be polite, a thoughtless offering, tossed out without a second thought?

No, she liked me. She wouldn’t have asked me to stay after dinner if she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have asked all those personal questions. Through the darkness, I smile. She wants to be friends with me as much as I want to be friends with her. I’m not wrong. Not this time.

7

I brace myself when I walk into work the next morning, silently rehearsing what I’m going to say about yesterday. About Allison. I don’t knowwhoshe was, I’ve decided to claim, donning a perplexed look, my face a well of confusion. Itwasdisturbing, I’ll agree, which is why I left. It’s a reach, but disgruntled clients aren’t entirely unheard-of; every so often there will be an outburst, a dispute over the bill, dissatisfaction with a service, a perceived slight, and voices will rise, hostile and accusatory. Then the scene fades. It’s over and the spa readjusts, settles back into its normal din. This doesn’t have to be any different from any of those other times. Who says it isn’t?

Chloe looks up from the computer when I enter the spa, a customer-ready sunshine smile on her face. When she sees it’s me, there’s a shift. Her smile falters. She seems nervous, eyeing me cautiously, like a deer in the middle of the road, staring into bright white high beams.

“Lena—?” I start, and Chloe shakes her head. “She’s not here. I don’t think she’s coming in today. She mentioned something about her sister being in town this week.”

I nod, relieved. I’d forgotten about her sister’s visit. Lena had been talking about it for weeks. It would be the first time they’d seen each other in almost two years. Something about an issue with her visa.

I offer Chloe an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” I say. “About yesterday. I think that woman must have thought I was someone else. It really freaked me out.”

“That wascrazy,” Chloe says. She seems to relax, her nervousness dissipating.

“Iknow.” I lower my voice and take a step closer to the reception desk. “That’s New York for you. Chock-full of lunatics.”

Chloe nods, agreeing. “She made a last-minute appointment. Said she’d been referred. If I had known—”

“You couldn’t have,” I say, interrupting her. “Let’s just forget about it.” I thumb toward my station. “I’m going to get set up.”

I smile at Chloe, pleased she believed my retelling of the afternoon, then go to grab my kit.

Already, the spa is loud and noisy. We’re booked with back-to-back appointments all morning, women wanting their fingers and toes to be just the right shade of pastel pink, fire-engine red. I should be focused. But I’m not. I’m distracted, reaching into my purse to check my phone, waiting for a message to appear, putting it into my pocket, taking it out again. I stare at the screen as if I can manifest her name if I try hard enough. I’m a broken record, my mind snagged on last night’s dinner, the evening playing and replaying, over and over.

By eleven, my stomach is in knots. I’ve had to redo two of the nails of the woman in front of me after I smudged her polish as I fidgeted, jiggling my leg as I worked.Why hasn’t she texted yet?

And then it vibrates, my phone buzzing against my thigh in my front pocket. I reach for it and grin when I see the alert. It’s a message from her. From Violet. A rush of elation floods through me. I quickly unlock my phone and open the text, scanning quickly.

Hi!it reads.So much fun last night, thanks for coming! I think you left your jacket here—a red flannel? Want me to drop it by your place?

I smile, my stomach fluttering. I wasn’t sure how long it would take Violet to find the shirt. I was starting to wonder if she’d even know it was mine. Before I left their house, I untied it from my waist, just as she turned to walk me out, her back to me, leaving it balled in the corner of the sofa, half tucked under a knitted throw pillow. It wasn’t obvious, a flash of red—the sleeve—barely visible.

Okay, I know how it sounds, I do, but I needed a reason for her to text me. Sure, she said she’d love it if I babysat for her, but I’m not the only person who lies. And people get busy—work, kids, errands that pop up unexpectedly—before you know it, it’s been a week, then two, a month, then six. She planned to call, but instead, I’d dissolve into her memory until I was blurry, out of focus, and then, even if she squinted, I’d be hard to make out.Who?she’d ask if Jay mentioned me, then—oh, right, the nurse. What was her name?

I couldn’t let that happen. She was too interesting, too nice. I didn’t want her to slip through my fingers. So I found a way she wouldn’t.

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman in the chair, then turn off the nail lamp and hurry into the back. I need some space to figure out how to reply.

In the break room, I study my phone, biting a fingernail as I compose my response. I type and delete, type and delete. I want to get it just right.

Finally, I press send. My message says:Oh, sorry about that! Can I pick it up tomorrow morning? Maybe we could grab coffee?

I don’t have to be at work until eleven, so we’d have several hours to pick up where we left off. I hold my breath, waiting for her response. My lungs begin to burn. Then a message. I release the air, a smile spreading across my face.

When I read it, my face falls.Actually, tomorrow morning Harper has a doctor’s appointment.

Then my phone lights up again.Meet in the afternoon instead? Does 1ish work? Same park?

I do a silent cheer.Yes!I write back.I’d love to. See you tomorrow!One p.m. is smack in the middle of my shift, but I can’t say no. Not now, not at the beginning of the friendship, when it’s so fragile it could disappear with the slightest breath, like a dandelion, naked in the wind. No, “no” wasn’t an option. I’ll figure something out. Beg Natasha to cover for me or fake a phone call midmorning.It’s my mom, I could say, pale-faced,she needs me.

I return my phone to the front pocket of my scrubs and hurry back to the woman I’d left waiting. She gives me an irritated sigh when I sit down, her eyes flicking to the clock on the wall, but I don’t care. I smile broadly at her, apologize for the delay. In fact, I can’t stop smiling. Not even when I get a ten-percent tip instead of my usual twenty. It was worth it.

“You’re in a good mood,” Natasha says when we have a break, a rare moment when both our chairs are empty.

I nod, grinning. “That guy just texted, the one that I went out with last week. He said he wants to take me out again tomorrow night.”

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