The Comeback(84)

I fold my arms across my chest and stare at my younger sister as her eyes fill with tears, and I remember now that she’s just a kid, that it’s not her fault everything is so fucked. I remember how she used to stare at the broken limbs of her dolls in her small hands, trying to work out how to put them back together, somehow believing that things were always better when she could control them, even if she ended up breaking the thing she loved. I have to swallow the lump rising at the back of my throat without my permission, and I want to tell her that I understand. That I tend to break things before they can hurt me, too, that I’m sorry, that I have the emotional intelligence of a fucking slug, that it’s probably our mom’s fault, when she stands up roughly.

“I actually feel sorry for you,” Esme says. “Because you lie to yourself every single day, and you lie to everyone else too. Your life is just one big fucking lie, and I wish you weren’t my sister.”

Esme pushes past me roughly, and I watch her walk away even though I know I should stop her. The saddest part is that, unlike me, I know my sister never lies.





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN





I get dressed slowly for my dinner with Dylan, putting on a baby-blue vintage silk shirt with a ruffled neck, a pair of black leather pants and tiny gold hoop earrings. My hair is creamy and smooth, tucked behind my perfect ears. I put on a slick of lip gloss before I leave, and, of course, it’s the only makeup I need. I’ve always looked like someone I’m not, and tonight it’s truer than ever. It’s at its most obvious when I smile, two rows of perfect white teeth promising good, wholesome things I will never be able to fulfill.

Dylan sends a car to pick me up at eight thirty, and I slide in, nodding at the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. I stare out of the tinted window as the city slides away from me, until we arrive on a side street somewhere south of Venice. The car turns up an alley, and we pass the exits of an Ethiopian restaurant and a BDSM store. We pull up behind a third establishment, which has bags of trash covering the parking spaces and red lightbulbs around the back door.

I climb out of the car and push open the heavy wooden door. It is a Mexican restaurant, dimly lit other than multicolored lights strung across the ceiling, and candles scattered across empty tables. Dylan is sitting in a booth in the otherwise empty restaurant, music playing softly through the speakers. He stands up and gives me a kiss on the cheek when I reach the table. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and he’s happy to see me.

I slip into the booth opposite him.

“What’s that smell?” I ask, because he smells different.

“I don’t know. The woman in the store told me it would make me irresistible to all men.” He grins at me, his eyes warm and easy.

“I prefer your normal smell,” I say. Dylan is still smiling but I’m annoyed at myself for being prickly already. I feel hot and guilty after my fight with Esme, but I try to soften the angles of my face, removing the sharp edges from my voice.

“So what’s been happening? What have you done today?” he asks, and then he stops himself. “Actually I already know. Paparazzi are all over you at the moment, huh?”

I shrug. “It’s not so bad.”

Dylan studies me for a second before looking down at the menu. “Did they follow you here?”

“I don’t think so . . .” I lie, not telling him that I already texted Mario the address and that he is waiting to capture a photo of Dylan and me leaving the restaurant together as soon as I send the go-ahead. I realize now that it was a mistake.

“So what is this place? It’s cute,” I say, staring up at the fresco painted on the ceiling. It’s a Day of the Dead scene showing skeletons wearing mariachi costumes and vivid red and purple dresses, painted in thick acrylic.

Dylan looks at me strangely and then he shrugs.

“Just a restaurant I like,” he says.

The server places a plastic bowl of tortilla chips and salsa on the table. I ask for some guacamole as I pull out my phone, scanning the new messages and emails. One from John telling me he is looking forward to our next meeting, and one from Nathan. I put the phone facedown on the red-and-white tablecloth next to my water glass. After a couple of moments, I flip it back again so that I can check the screen subtly from now on, instead of making a big deal out of it.

“Are you okay?” Dylan asks. I turn my phone facedown again.

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know, you seem a little different.” Dylan chooses his words carefully.

“I feel good,” I say, stretching my legs out under the table and flashing him a big smile, the kind I use to shut people up, forgetting that he knows all my sleights of hand. I take a deep breath and start over because even I can’t tell when I’m lying anymore.

“I’m about to be offered a part in this movie, but I can’t work out if it’s going to be awful or not . . .” I say, searching for something honest that isn’t too revealing.

“Want to talk it through?” Dylan says. “I don’t know about the movie, but I know you pretty well.”

“Mmm, yeah, maybe,” I say, checking my phone quickly again. A message from Laurel asking if I was doing okay. “Did you know Laurel is a lesbian?”

Dylan laughs. “Of course—I’ve met Lana. We both have.”