The Better Liar(34)

“Hi, uh…” I said, stuffing my change in my pocket.

“Lindy,” she supplied, shifting her purse straps on her shoulder. “Serrano, now. Sorry, it’s so weird to run into you.”

I tried not to let my confusion show on my face. An old customer? A friend? I couldn’t place her; she was Asian, with a wide, apple-cheeked face, an upturned nose, long soft bangs.

“Lindy,” I repeated, going for a smile.

She didn’t like that. “You don’t remember me,” she said, her nose wrinkling a bit.

The cashier interrupted. “Ladies.”

“Oh—just these,” Lindy said, pushing a couple of Cokes toward the register. She turned her attention back to me. “I’m Nancy Courtenay’s sister. I didn’t think we would see you around Albuquerque again, Robin.”

Understanding broke over me like an egg.

“Oh, right,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you at first. How are you?”

She opened her wallet to pay the cashier, then looked back at me a bit warily. I tilted my head, and she answered in a rush, “I’m good. I’m good. How are you?”

I felt strangely elated.

“I didn’t think I would come back,” I said, leaning on the counter. “How’s Nancy doing these days?”

    Lindy’s face tightened. “She’s a police officer,” she said. “She’s married, so.” There was a defensive tinge to her tone.

“Married!” I echoed. “Wow. To who?”

“That’s not…” Lindy paused and collected her change, scooped up the Cokes, and headed for the door. “It happened a while ago. Are you married?”

“Me?” I hurried after her. “No, no. I guess I never met the right one.”

We were outside now. I felt my face heat up. Lindy said, “How come you’re in town?”

“Oh, um, my sister had a baby,” I told her.

“Congratulations,” Lindy said, thin-lipped. I watched her face avidly; it was like playing a game of hot and cold. She had relaxed a little as we left the store. I decided to reverse course.

“So, I’d love to see Nancy while I’m here,” I said, walking with her toward her SUV. “Catch up, you know.”

“Well,” Lindy said, trailing off while she stuck her arm in her purse and fished for her keys. Getting hotter.

“Could you give me her number, maybe?” I pressed.

Lindy found her keys and pressed the button too many times, making her car honk. A voice yelled in delight from the backseat. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, not looking at me. “Nancy lives her life the way she’s going to, and I don’t think you need to go around shaking her up again.”

I could tell she was struggling to remain polite. “It was ten years ago,” I said, leaning on Lindy’s car. “Wasn’t it?”

“I have kids in the car,” Lindy said stiffly.

I didn’t know what that had to do with anything. “I just want to see how she’s doing,” I said, smiling. “Since we used to be really close.”

Lindy blinked several times, too fast, then yanked the driver’s-side door open, pressed the button to roll up all the windows, and stepped back, slamming the door. The sound of her kids’ chatter disappeared. She leaned toward me and said in a rapid-fire mumble, “I have accepted what Nancy wants to do because she is my sister. But don’t think I have forgotten that this all started when you began hanging out with Nancy and telling her she was your little girlfriend. You treated her like shit. She doesn’t need to see you again, and I certainly won’t be telling her that you’re back in town. Go find somebody else’s family to screw up, please, Robin.”

    She got into her car and drove away in a determinedly sedate fashion, not making eye contact through the windshield. I stood where she had left me for a few seconds and then a great big smile crept over my face, and I laughed too hard and had to sit down on the curb.



* * *



—

I hadn’t expected to run into anyone like that. Leslie had kept me locked up in the house, and maybe this was why: so I would play the version of Robin she wanted me to be, and not the one Lindy had known, the kind of person you hoped never to run into at the gas station.

But if Lindy didn’t want me to talk to Nancy, she shouldn’t have told me so much about her. Thanks to our surprise conversation, I knew that Nancy Courtenay still lived in Albuquerque, and that she was a police officer.

My burner phone didn’t have Internet, only call and text, and I couldn’t return to Leslie’s yet. I went back out to the curb and finger-combed my hair, rubbed underneath my eyes to smear my makeup—only a little, just enough to suggest tears. Then I waited, smoking.

An old man passed me, then another. The second one stopped. “You need help, sweetheart?”

I could see his phone hanging from a holster on his belt. Old-fashioned, flip top. “No,” I said flatly, and looked away until he went inside.

A family with two toddlers passed through, and a couple of middle-aged women. Finally a teenage boy walked up on foot. He had his phone out already, a smartphone in a bright orange case. I stubbed out my cigarette and arranged myself on the curb, knock-kneed. “Hi,” I said when he got close enough to hear me.