Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(21)

A lot.

Enough to steal my number out of Dexter’s phone during the engagement party and message me on the sly behind his back, bless their heartless, black little souls. Was it inappropriate for them to text me without telling their brother? Without a doubt—so inappropriate.

Was it inappropriate for them to invite me to their Mom’s house for their annual birthday cookie bake? So inappropriate.

Do I care?

Um, no.

Why? Because I want to see him again—and if Dexter Ryan isn’t going to make a move on me, I’m not above resorting to my own brand of passive aggressive man-hunting.

Besides, I was invited.

Sure, I’ll probably regret the decision to randomly show up at his mom’s house, but as I reach behind my waist to tie the dainty, yellow polka dot apron strings in a bow, all I can think is the possibility that Dexter will walk through that front door.

I know the twins said they hadn’t told him I was coming, but… a girl can dream. Plus, I’m no expert on twins, but these girls are pretty shady; I’m pretty sure they plan sketchy plots like this on a regular basis.

Mrs. Ryan—Georgia—has all the ingredients set on the counter by the time I arrive; everything pre-measured, eggs counted out, bowls at the ready. She’s even separated the buttercream frosting into three metal mixing bowls, in the twins’ three favorite colors: pink, lavender, and lime green.

Fluttering around the kitchen, Georgia hands me a pot-holder, directing me to check on the twelve sugar cookies shaped like the number sixteen, already in the oven.

They’re a light golden brown and ready to come out.

They smell divine.

“You know, we’ve been baking birthday cookies for the twins for five years,” she explains, sliding one cookie sheet out of the oven and another one in. “We stopped doing cake after their eleventh birthday—the year they got into a huge fight over which flavor; marble or red velvet.”

Amelia laughs. “What a dumb thing to fight about.” I know it’s her because there’s a monogram with her initials on the pocket of her baby blue tee shirt.

I make a mental note: Amelia—blue monogrammed tee shirt and jeans. Lucy: pajama bottoms and tank top.

Got it.

“Tossing sprinkles everywhere,” Lucy adds.

“My husband was furious. Cake all over the kitchen,” Georgia laughs at the memory with a smile, handing me a spatula. “Anyway, we decided that year to make cookies the birthday tradition. Easier and cleaner. Their friends love them during lunch, and I don’t have to listen to the bickering.”

“It’s not bickering,” Amelia disagrees. “It’s—”

“—Debating.”

“Well it’s obnoxious,” their mom says as we start to remove the cookies from the cookie sheets. Mrs. Ryan has a cooling rack on the counter. “Sweetie, would you hand me the wax paper?”

I mentally choose a cookie from the rack, anticipation making my stomach growl.

“She’s talking to you,” Lucy says, nudging me in the ribs with her pointy adolescent elbow. “Wax paper.”

“Oh, sorry!” I apologize, springing into action.

“Shake a tail feather,” Amelia teases. “No slacking on this job. We’re known for our freakishly delicious birthday cookies.”

“Freakishly large.” Lucy smiles, going in to dip her finger in the pale pink frosting. Amelia slaps her hand away, pure disgust etched on her face.

“Stop. That’s gross.”

“Chill out, I washed my hands,” Lucy rolls her eyes. “Hey, did you know Dex always complains because Mom never baked him special cookies—”

“—What did he want with cookies, anyway? He’s a guy.”

“Girls!” Georgia laughs. “I made him cake! Besides, when he was younger, we didn’t have the money. All these ingredients you’re throwing on each other for fun aren’t cheap.”

She’s right; flour and sugar are everywhere, including on me. In my hair, on my clothes. I run a hand down the dainty, vintage apron wrapped around my waist, flattening out the wrinkles.

I love this stupid thing; I wonder if I could get away with wearing an apron on a regular basis as I lean against the counter, fingering several thin, charms on my necklace—one is a tiny, gold wishbone my sister bought me when I graduated from college two years ago, and I’m seldom without it.

When we were younger, my dad was big into duck hunting.

He would come home with the birds (gross, I know) and my mom would dress them for dinner, saving the wishbone for my sister, Morgan, and I to pull apart after our evening meal.

A friendly little competition, if I was lucky enough to snap off the wishbone, I usually said a prayer for stupid, trivial things; new clothes. A cool car. But the older I grew, my wishes became more altruistic; a steady job. Healthy family. Loyal friends.

I adore wishbones, just like I love throwing pennies into a wishing well, and making wishes when the clock strikes eleven-eleven.

Childish? Maybe.

But something so small has always filled me with tremendous hope; and I always hoped for love. No, not hoped—wished. Wished it from the depths of my soul.

Yeah, I get it; we’re living in a world where feminism and female independence is a valuable asset. Two values that women have fought for centuries to obtain—but that doesn’t make me want someone to share my life with any less.