Page 12 of Everyone Is Lying to You

“Okay. Love you so much.”

“Love you so much too.”

I’d never explained what happened between Bex and me to my family. It didn’t make sense to me so how could it make sense to them? She was a fleeting memory to Emily, just a college girl who gave her a padded bra and some dank weed when she was fifteen.

There’s a crew of ladies waiting by the elevator, four of them in the same flower print beach cover-ups, each holding a Stanley Cup the size of a newborn baby. Peter has a theory that everyone these days is overhydrated and it’s leading to their brains drowning in idiocy. “I drank nothing but beer and weak tea for three years in university and I passed all my exams with flying colors,” he says every time a teacher chastises us for forgetting the two water bottles required for each child for day care.

These women clutching their half-gallons of water have clearly been indulging in something else at the pool bar and have lost their ability to use their indoor voices.

“She’s so smug.”

“She thinks she’s better than all of us.”

“I heard she got a boob job and a tummy tuck after that last baby.”

“She’s wearing those sunglasses to hide her eye job. They’ve been looking a little bit droopy lately.”

“So were her boobs.”

The women cackle like crows. One of my favorite facts that Nora tells me on repeat from her animal encyclopedia that she can’t quite read yet is that a group of crows is called a murder. A group of ravens is called an unkindness. Both are fitting here.

Still, I lean in a little closer. I love gossip and shit talk about strangers.

“I’ve heard her marriage is on the rocks.”

“Can you blame that poor husband of hers? She seems like such an ice queen. I don’t understand how she has such a huge audience. She hardly speaks.”

“You heard about him and Veronica…”

“For a while I thought BarefootMamaLove was created by AI.”

As a shadow approaches behind us the murder of cackling crows grows strangely quiet.

When I turn, I realize exactly who they’re shit talking about.

I didn’t think I would feel strangely protective of Bex after all this time. My mom friends and I have talked enough crap about her Instagram account over the past couple of years even though they don’t know about my direct connection to her. It’s just one of those cultural things that moms talk about, like whether or not Brad and Angelina really hooked up before he was separated from Jennifer Aniston or whether Ronan Farrow is Frank Sinatra’s kid.

The most recent texts from them had a list of questions they wanted answered and conspiracy theories they wanted laid to rest.

Does she have a nanny?

Does she have an army of nannies?

Will she tell you what that fancy oven in her kitchen cost? If not, get a good picture of it. I’ll figure it out. I have sources.

Has she gotten fillers?

Is she taller than Gray? Does he stand on things in family photos?

And then from Kelly, who is a staunch @BarefootMamaLove defender, the one person on our group text who tells us she falls asleep watching Bex’s videos because they are peaceful and she wishes her life were that simple and easy. Kelly has three questions and a request for me.

What does she smell like, what mascara does she use, what’s her secret meatloaf ball recipe, and can you get me a set of her matching mommy and me gardening aprons that sold out last month. Please and thank you.

When we were in college Bex smelled like Clinique Happy perfume and Parliament Lights. Now I sniff the air for the familiar scent, but only get a nostril of cedar and tangerines from the essential oils being pumped into the lobby.

Seeing her in the flesh and knowing she heard what these crows just said about her, I want to rush over and give her a massive hug and then tell these ladies to fuck off.

My old friend is wearing sunglasses indoors, whichispretty affected, but whatever. She probably just got back from the pool and it sort of gives off some sexy and mysterious Jack Nicholson vibes.

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