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

Wow. This guy thinks he’s the shit.

The other three, well they trail along after him like afterthoughts. The ‘yes’ men, donning the official uniform of “Mr. One-Night Stand:” tight shirts, bleached teeth, and matching shit-eating grins. I bet two out of three of them have rib tats.

Except the straggler.

I eyeball the guy shuffling behind them, my green gaze fixating on him, latching on with fascination; not only is he deliberately lagging behind, he looks damn uncomfortable. This one… he’s a complete paradox.

Dark, tousled hair, The Straggler effortlessly dons a gingham plaid shirt, neatly tucked under a preppy blue sweater vest, and a belted pair of navy khakis. His only concession to casual: rolled shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows.

All he’s missing is a bow tie.

Honestly? The poor guy looks like he’s just arrived from the office; a tax attorney’s office, I speculate. Or a cubicle at a technology company. Yeah, definitely computer programming.

Or insurance sales.

Wait, no. The internal revenue service.

I bet he’s an auditor; that sounds boring.

I’m not trying to be being mean, but the guy is wearing khakis and a sweater vest in a bar on a weekend, for heaven’s sake. He’s practically begging me to judge him.

To the upwardly mobile, wearing a plaid shirt to a bar during the workweek would be just fine; but not on a Saturday. Unless of course, he happens to be from the deep south—maybe Georgia or South Carolina? Don’t they wear bow ties down there? Yeah. They do.

I study him further and after some serious contemplation, concede that The Straggler pulls off the stuffy look just fine.

And did I mention his glasses?

Kind of adorkable.

He pushes those tortoise shell rims up the bridge of a straight nose on an average face, crosses his average arms across an average chest, and I watch as he tips his head towards the ceiling and murmurs to himself.

Adam’s apple bobbing, I read his lips: I’m in hell.

Nope. I’m not eyeballing the guy because I’m interested; I’m eyeballing him because he’s so obviously miserable.

Is it sick that I’m enjoying his discomfort? Ugh, what is wrong with me?

Smirking, I bring the bowl of my wineglass to my lips, concealing the smile growing there as the guys approach, confidently, like a pack of vultures. Swallowing a chuckle, I gulp my wine.

“Hey, I think I recognize that guy,” Tabitha says, her eyes squinting at The Straggler, then snapping her fingers. “Ha! Yes, I do. I’m pretty sure that’s Collin’s friend Dex. Dexter Ryan? I think.”

Dexter.

I turn the name around inside my head, testing it out.

How nerdy.

But it fits.

And I like it.





All my friends are falling in love and it sucks.

Don’t get me wrong; I love them all and I’m happy for them, but sometimes it would be nice to call them up and have them be readily available. Up for anything, including an impromptu night out.

Or a night in.

These days, it takes days—if not weeks, to coordinate the simplest get together. Why? Because none of my friends can plan something without asking their significant other. “Let me check with Collin…” or “I think we have plans, but let me ask…” or “Collin’s coming home that night from his business trip and I want to be here when he gets back…”

If I wasn’t so damn happy for my friends, I would feel sorry for myself.

Okay, fine. I do feel sorry for myself.

And how will I rectify that? By drowning my self-wallowing emotions in the form of buttery popcorn and movie theater chocolate, of course.

Trust me: it works every time. It’s foolproof, if not fleeting, but at the moment, I don’t care.

Alone in the lobby, I clutch my movie stub and stand patiently in line at the concession stand, staring up at the glowing menu board, debating between adding butter to my popcorn. Do I want SnowCaps or Bunch of Crunch? Twenty ounces of soda, or thirty?

Unhurriedly, since I’m a good fifteen minutes early, I watch as the teenagers behind the glass counters avoid smashing into each other as they grab treats, food, and fill beverage cups. Ring customers up.

I cringe as a young man with spiky hair drops a cardboard tray of freshly nuked White Castle burgers to the tile floor, his shoulders slumping in dismay at his error.

Poor kid.

Reaching the front of the line, I tap my folded twenty-dollar bill on the glass counter, watching as he quickly fills a new box with the tiny burgers for the guy in the next line over, as a manager swoops in with a broom to sweep up the mess behind him.

Already having mentally placed my order, I absentmindedly cast a sidelong glance around the concession stand lines, taking in the people. Couple after couple. Small groups of teenagers. Families. Sci-Fi nerds coming to see a re-mastered version of a classic. Customer after customer steps up to the counter to order munchies and drinks, and I’m ready to repeat my order when a lone figure in an expensive blue coat catches my wandering eyes.

I do a double take.

Wait. I think I recognize that guy. Is that…

It is.

Dexter.

Dexter Ryan.

Collin Keller’s good friend from the other night.

We hardly spoke that night at Ripley’s Wine Bar, but I’m good with faces and would recognize him anywhere. I mean, seriously, who could forget the guy wearing a sweater vest at a bar on a Saturday night?