Page 23 of Count My Lies

She must have followed me in, catching the door before it had had a chance to close, quiet as a mouse. “Ms. Caraway?” she says again.

I start to shake my head but think better of it. I don’t want to make things worse than they already are. “Yes,” I say cautiously. “Can I help you?”

She nods. She removes her cap and takes a step closer, tucking the hat under her arm. Her dark hair is parted down the middle and slicked back into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She doesn’t wear any makeup, but not because she doesn’t need it. Her nose and forehead are oily, olive skin peppered with faded acne marks, some pocked. Despite this, she’s not unattractive. Her eyes are a dark brown, deep-set and almond-shaped with long lashes, lips full. She’s younger than I am, maybe late twenties, curvy in the right places.

She clears her throat. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the other day.”

The other day.The other day.I’d known that’s what this was about, but hearing her say it out loud makes me queasy, a metallic taste rising at the back of my throat. I start to sweat.

“At Rose & Honey,” she continues. “You had an encounter with Ms. McIntyre?” She asks as if it’s a question, but we both know it isn’t.

I imagine Allison leaving the spa, going right to the police station, still shaking. She would have wanted to speak with a supervisor, her arms folded across her chest, foot tapping.

The foyer is quiet. I think I can hear the sound of TV in our apartment behind the closed door, but I might be imagining it. The officer stares at me, waiting. I wonder if she was the one who talked to Allison when she went to the station. Finally, I say, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No one is saying you did,” she says calmly. “Like I said, I’mjust here to ask a few questions. Were you aware Ms. McIntyre had booked an appointment?”

I shake my head. “No. I didn’t know she was coming in. I didn’t know until I saw her.”

“And what did you do when you realized it was her?”

“Nothing! She left in a rush. I didn’t have a chance to do—or say—anything.”

The officer studies me carefully, then nods. “You do understand that the terms of the order say that there is to be no contact with Ms. McIntyre? No communication whatsoever.”

I press my lips together. The order. The restraining order. There’s a dull, throbbing pain in my chest. “I know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t plan this.”

“Which is why it won’t be reported as a violation.” I can’t tell if she thinks it should be. Has she read the report? I know how it looks. Me, sloppy with a too-big hoodie, smudged glasses, and Allison, neat as a pin, chiseled features, hair like a sunset. I’m not the sympathetic character in this story.

I bite down hard on my lower lip. “Then why are you here?” I ask. But I know the answer. Because Allison had made a scene; because someone had promised,We’ll talk to her.

“Just as a reminder. The order requires a distance of one hundred yards. It’s important that you adhere to these parameters.”

“Ihavebeen.” My voice rises an octave. I know what the order says. I have a copy, shoved into the back of a drawer in my bedroom. “Shecame into the spa!She’sthe one who violated the order. Not me.”

“I understand,” she says. She looks at me, her eyes full of pity, and I want to scream.

“It’s not what you think.” I can feel my vocal cords straining. Iknow I sound defensive, pathetic, even, but I can’t help it. I want her to know she’s wrong, that it isn’t what it looks like. “It was all just a big misunderstanding.”

She nods slowly. “It always is. Have a good evening, ma’am.” She puts her cap back on and starts toward the door. She’s stiff, no sway in her step, as if on a tightrope. One misstep and she’ll plummet. I wonder if she practices walking that way, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, her spine rigid.

I stand there, watching her leave. When she’s gone, I turn and put my key back in the lock. My hand is shaking. I wipe a tear from my eye with the sleeve of my hoodie. I don’t want my mom to see me cry.

After a moment, I exhale, then walk into the living room. My mother is in her recliner, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. There’s an iced tea on the side table next to her, the glass sweating with condensation.

“Who was that? I heard voices,” she says, turning her attention from the television. She shifts in her chair, then resettles.

“Gabby, from upstairs,” I say. “She was telling me how she broke up with her boyfriend again. She caught him with someone else.”

My mom rolls her eyes and looks back toward the TV. She can’t stand Gabby.

I know I said I don’t lie to my mother. That wasn’t exactly the truth, either.

On Monday morning, the day before I’m supposed to start at the Lockharts, I text Violet, telling her I’m looking forward to the next day. When she doesn’t respond right away, I text again, just with asmiley emoji, but there’s still no answer. Not five minutes later, not ten, not an hour.

Without my job at the spa, I have nothing to keep me busy. No distractions other than the drone of the TV in the living room. By midafternoon, I’ve picked up my phone a thousand times to see if I missed a text, but the screen is blank. I can’t stop fidgeting. Should I text her again, in case she missed the first two? I erase every message I type. With every passing hour, I grow more anxious. I turn off my phone, shove it in my nightstand, leave, then return to my bedroom only minutes later to power it back on. No new messages.

Was it something I said? I replay our conversations over and over again. She seemed fine when we parted after our walk, smiling and waving as she retreated down the sidewalk. Maybe she just hadn’t enjoyed our time together. Maybe she was upset I hadn’t accepted her coffee invitation. Maybe she didn’t think I was a good fit for Harper.

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