Page 30 of The Last Time I Lied

On the other side of the cabin, Miranda reclines on the top bunk, now dressed in a tight tank top and black shorts so small they barely qualify to be called that. She holds her phone close to her face, doing a faux pout as she takes several pictures.

“You shouldn’t be using your phones,” I say, even though I was guilty of doing the same thing earlier. “Save your batteries.”

Krystal tugs off her earbuds. “What else are we going to do?”

“We could, you know, talk,” I suggest. “You may find it hard to believe, but people actually did that before everyone spent all their time squinting at screens.”

“I saw you talking to Theo after dinner,” Miranda says, her voice wavering between innocence and accusation. “Is he, like, your boyfriend?”

“No. He’s a—”

I truly don’t know what to call Theo. Several different labels apply.

My friend? Not necessarily.

One of my first crushes? Probably.

The person I accused of doing something horrible to Vivian, Natalie, and Allison?

Definitely.

“He’s an acquaintance,” I say.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Sasha asks.

“Not at the moment.”

I have plenty of friends who are boys, most of them gay or too socially awkward to consider a romantic relationship. When I do date someone, it’s not for very long. A lot of men like the idea of being in a relationship with an artist, but few actually get used to the reality of the situation. The odd hours, the self-doubt and stained hands that stink of oil paint more often than not. The last guy I dated—a dorky-cute accountant at a rival ad agency—managed to put up with it for four months before breaking things off.

Lately, my romantic life has consisted of occasional dalliances with a French sculptor when he happens to be in the city on business. We meet for drinks, conversation, sex made more passionate by how infrequent it is.

“Then how do you know Theo?” Krystal says.

“From when I was a camper here.”

Miranda latches on to this news like a shark biting into a baby seal. A wicked grin widens across her face, and her eyes light up. It reminds me so much of Vivian that it causes a strange ache in my heart.

“So you were at Camp Nightingale before?” she says. “Must have been a long time ago.”

Rather than be offended, I smile, impressed by the stealthiness of her insult. She’s a sly one. Vivian would have loved her.

“It was,” I say.

“Did you like it here?” Sasha says as bombastic music rises from her phone and exploding candy pieces reflect off the lenses of her glasses.

“At first. Then not so much.”

“Why did you come back?” Krystal asks.

“To make sure you girls have a better time than I did.”

“What happened?” Miranda says. “Something horrible?”

She leans forward, her phone temporarily discarded as she waits for my answer. It gives me an idea.

“Phones off,” I say. “I mean it.”

All three of them groan. Miranda’s is the most dramatic as she, like the others, switches off her phone. I sit cross-legged on the floor, my back pressed against the edge of my bunk. I pat the spaces on either side of me until the girls do the same.

---