Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(4)

I watch him now, inwardly cringing.

Fine. Outwardly cringing, sinking deeper into my puffer vest; of course I’d bump into someone I knew—even in passing—while I was at the movies alone.

Completely.

Alone.

What were the freaking odds?

Covertly, I watch him from under my long dark lashes, thankful I’m somewhat cleverly disguised in a knit winter hat and non-prescription glasses, and barely distinguishable. At least, I hope so.

Dexter, for his part, looks polished and geeky and smart and oddly kind of…

Sexy.

In a very geeky way.

Ugh.

“Ma’am?”

A voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Ma’am, are you ready to order?” A teenage girl behind the concession counter stares back at me like I’m an oddity. “Ma’am?”

Ma’am? Oh shit, she’s talking to me.

Sporting a bright, azure blue baseball cap with the movie theater logo embroidered on it in white, the girl’s black hair sticks out the bottom in a frizzy, messy bun, tips dyed a shocking yellow. Six earrings line her left ear, one of them a hot pink barbell. Her dull gray eyes are rimmed in heavy black kohl, and she regards me impatiently.

Like I’m a mental person.

“Sorry, I thought you were talking to someone else.”

Black eyebrows raised, her pointer finger hovers above the cash register buttons, ready to strike.

Rattling off my order—the same order every time I come to the movies—it’s not long before another teen behind the booth assists her, dropping a big tub of fluffy, buttery popcorn unceremoniously on the counter.

Each and every kernel for me, and me alone.

Chocolate.

Soda.

As I’m pondering more bad choices, like adding licorice or Swedish Fish, the teenage girl interrupts. “If you order another drink for your friend, you get a discount on both beverages of fifty cents. Your total would be $23.11 instead of $24.11”

Her monotone voice offers me the discount deal; her eyes say she doesn’t give a shit if I take it.

I give a tight lipped smile, tapping my debit card on the glass counter; no way is a twenty-dollar bill going to cover all this food. “There is no friend. It’s just little ‘ol me, thanks.”

Her eyes troll to the colossal popcorn bucket, chocolate and drink. “It’s just you?” She damn near shouts. “Sorry, I mean—just the one beverage?”

Could she be any louder? Could we not broadcast to everyone I’m flying solo at the movies?

I nod, affirmative, wishing she’d lower her voice a few decibels. “Yes, just the one beverage. Wait. I’ll take a bottle of water, too, please.”

Of course, it’s my fault she thought I was part of a couple when I ordered the large with extra butter, box of Snowcaps on the side, and a soda.

I pay, trying to scurry undetected to the condiments, putting both my beverages into a cardboard snack tray, awkwardly juggling it as I pluck a few napkins from the metallic holder. One, two… five napkins.

That should be enough, right?

For good measure, I pluck out two more from the holder because sometimes my butter hands get out of control. I hate having buttery fingerprints.

Still clutching my ticket stub, I attempt to lift it to see which theater my movie is playing in, but fail miserably and have to set everyth—

“Daphne?”

I freeze.

Look up.

Pivot.

Standing behind me in his navy blue pea coat, Dexter Ryan smiles crookedly down at me.

He smoothes his hands down the front of his dark pressed jeans—or is he wiping sweat off his palms?—and pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose.

I take it all in—every inch of him—from the preppy jacket, the glasses, the slight cleft in his chin, up to the black cable knit winter hat when he suddenly removes it. Instead of his hair being flattened by the hat, it’s unruly and a bit tousled. A rich brown, his locks are wavy, shaggy and desperately need a trim.

He finger combs it out of his face.

“It is Daphne, right?” He asks, unsure of himself.

It’s hard to hold back my groan of dismay at being spotted, but I muster up a cheerful, “Yeah. Hi. Dexter?”

He smiles then, his eyes shining behind his dark, tortoiseshell lenses. I mean—I think his eyes are shining. Maybe it’s just the reflection of his glasses?

Those dark eyes dart down to my snacks, the ticket stub grasped between two fingers on my right hand. His brows go up. “Do you need help with anything? Sorry, I’m an idiot; it’s obvious you’re waiting for someone.”

A nervous giggle escapes my lips, only I can’t smack a hand over my mouth to stop it. “Gosh thank you. I don’t need help,” I hurriedly say. “I just have to see which theater I’m in, but I’m having a hard time with…”

All my food.

“It’s just you?” His head cranes around, confused. “I’m sorry, that was rude. Of course it’s not just you. Why would it be?” His deep voice gives a forced, nervous chuckle.

Wow, this is about to get awkward. “Nope, it is just me,” I barely manage to get the words out. “I’m here alone.”

Dexter’s eyes go wide, sending his brows straight into his hairline. His mouth even falls open a little but no sound comes out.