Page 13 of Everyone Is Lying to You

“Hey, Cricket, it’s good to see you,” she says politely to one of the women.

“Hey, Rebecca,” Cricket says too enthusiastically. Despite her nastiness, it’s clear she wants Bex to like her. “You look great. How are things? Is everything great? I’m so happy to be here. Are you? Everything is just so transformative and invigorating and great.”

It’s a lot of great. I would almost feel bad for Cricket if I hadn’t already decided she was a massive bitch.

“So great…Lizzie.” Bex turns to me and she smiles, what looks like a real smile, not the forced one she was giving these women just seconds earlier.

Something swells inside me. It’s not dissimilar to the feeling I get when I’m at the playground with my children and I see any other kid start to cry or get hurt. My mom instinct creeps in and I want to run to comfort the strange child, even the worst of them, even the ones who are otherwise total little bastards who throw sand in your face and spit in the sandbox. If one of them is in pain I’m compelled to do my best to help.

That’s what I do now. I wrap Bex in a massive hug and look pointedly at the other women so that they know I know exactly who they were talking about.

“It’ssogood to see you,” I say. Even with her sunglasses on she looks grateful and melts into my body with such need that I feel embarrassed for her.

Once we’re alone in the elevator, Bex slumps against the back mirror and takes off her sunglasses to rub her eyes. I notice a light purple bruise under her left eye, the kind that’s impossible to perfectly hide with makeup. I know this because my mom tried for years before my dad passed away.

“There should be a German word for sneaking up on someone just as they’re saying the worst things about you,” she murmurs, instantly flooring me.

In college we learned from an Austrian hallmate that there was a German word for someone you immediately want to slap when you start talking to them—Backpfeifengesicht. This immediately became our favorite inside joke. We were endlessly searching for German words for strange things, and if one didn’t exist, we would invent our own. There should be a German word for a guy who gets much cuter after three vodka sodas, for the freedom and giddiness you feel when someone cancels plans at the last second and you have a free afternoon to yourself, a German word for the grossness of discovering you put a new tampon in but haven’t taken the old one out.

“Or a German word for how two shots of tequila and a THC gummy make you believe you’re whispering shit talk to your friends instead of broadcasting it to the whole room,” I say in theelevator. If this is where she wants us to start, right back in our shared intimacies, I can match her.

She giggles.

“Or for women who think massive water bottles are a fashion accessory. Did you just get here?” she asks, making direct eye contact with me so that I can’t look away from her bruise.

“Yeah. About half an hour ago. My plane was delayed.”

“Do you have plans for tonight?”

“There’s a welcome circle, right?”

“Did you want to go to that?”

“Not at all.” I don’t feel like lying to her.

“Me neither,” she says. “It’s a lot of self-congratulatory selfie-taking and a circle jerk of brand placement.”

Her tone and crass words catch me off guard. Much like the women talking about her outside the elevator I realize that I haven’t heard Bex’s real voice in years. Her videos have captions. She hardly speaks. But it’s all done in a way that I hadn’t noticed. I’d felt like she was speaking directly to the camera for the years I have peered at her on the phone, but now I realize it was all a sleight of hand. I heard the words in my head and not out loud. Her real voice is as low and gravelly as it ever was. Her tone is perfectly tinged with sarcasm and skepticism. She is the same girl I fell in love with during that first week of college. She’s still in there.

We arrive at my room before I even realize she was walking me here all along.

“Can I come in and sit down? Maybe we could order a drink?” she asks almost shyly.

The familiarity continues to be jarring.Why did you ditch me?I scream in my head, despite how ridiculous it sounds to my adult brain.Why haven’t I seen you in nearly fifteen years?

“Sure,” I say, remembering she’s the one who paid for the room, and that has to give her some privileges. Once we walk in, I realize I will be sleeping in a mountain-view suite with a massive king bedroom, a sitting area, and a balcony the size of my nursery that leads out to a private infinity plunge pool.

“Wow, Bex. Thanks for booking this.”

She waves her hand in the air like it’s nothing, which I guess it is for her, and a twinge of jealousy tightens my throat.

“I didn’t book it. The conference offered as many rooms as I wanted if I would do the keynote talk tomorrow.”

“Yeah, about that. Why are you doing it?” I sling my suitcase onto the bed, but don’t unzip it. I’m embarrassed at the early-morning packing job I did in the dark so I wouldn’t wake Peter. My clothes are balled up in little bundles. I have no idea if the underwear I threw in is clean or dirty.

“The conference? Or the keynote?”

“Both, I guess. You don’t do that many of these, right?”

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