Lies You Never Told Me(19)

“What?” He shakes his head a little, like he’s getting cobwebs out of his face.

“That’s my line.” I clasp my hands on my knees and give him a small smile. “It’s okay, Mr. Hunter. Let’s just get back to the reading.”

He studies my face, a crease down the middle of his forehead. “Elyse . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell anyone.” I pick up my script again. “It’s no big deal. Frankie and I have kissed about fifty times now, running this scene.”

It’s not the same and we both know it. But the tension is already dissipating. The wig heads are back to being wig heads. The heater kicks on overhead, and just that little bit of ambient noise seems to calm him.

“Well. Let’s shift gears, then. Maybe move on to act three.” He moves back to where he dropped his clipboard, picks it up and rifles through the script. “I was curious what you think about her relationship with the nurse.”

We work for another hour or so, talking about motivations, practicing the cadence of the lines. He’s careful to keep his distance this time, moving to the vanity chair. I stay on the steamer trunk. We both make notes in the margins of our scripts. It’s all very professional.

But my lips still feel the kiss, its fading pressure, its hunger. And I’m not sure I want to forget it.





NINE


    Gabe




“Gabe! Merry Christmas! Pancakes!”

Monday morning I come into the kitchen to see Vivi smeared with maple syrup. Rowdy licks the floor at the base of her special high chair, searching for scraps of fallen pancake. His thick yellow fur looks distinctly sticky.

My mom looks up from the stove, spatula in hand. She gives a distracted smile, a strand of graying hair falling into her eyes, and I’m struck by how tired she looks.

“Morning, Gabe. Sit down, have some breakfast.”

“Morning.” I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. She’s wearing one of her long floral hippie skirts, and there’s a smear of pancake batter on her forehead. “I can’t, I’ve got to run. Caleb and Irene are waiting.”

She looks a little hurt. I feel a pang of guilt; she must have made the pancakes special for me. She thinks I’m torn up about the breakup and that I’m just trying to be stoic. The truth is, I feel better than I have in weeks.

“Maybe I’ll grab a little one for the road,” I amend, picking up a silver-dollar-sized pancake and taking a bite. It’s perfect, buttery and soft.

“Can you still take Vivi to therapy after school? I hate to ask, but I’ve got a deadline, and Dad’s got a faculty meeting today.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I say. Mom’s worked as a freelance web designer since Vivi was born; it’s great, because it’s flexible, but it also means she’s always either hustling for work, working, or taking care of us. She’s spread pretty thin.

“Thanks, kiddo.” She’s already got the thousand-yard stare, the far-off look that means she’s thinking about what she has to do with the rest of her day. “I really appreciate it.”

Caleb’s Jeep is at the curb, Irene in the front passenger seat. She passes me a bag of breakfast tacos over the console as I climb in the back.

“There’s bacon, egg, and cheese, and an avocado and migas,” she says. “Extra sustenance for the trials ahead.”

“Thanks,” I say, rummaging gratefully in the bag. The smell of peppers and eggs fills the car. Caleb’s motor coughs and then roars to life, and we jerk away from the curb.

“You hear anything from Sasha yesterday?” Caleb meets my eyes in the rearview. I shake my head.

“No. But apparently the story is that she dumped me at the party. She’s all over Facebook going on about how great it feels to be free, about how nothing’s dragging her down anymore.” I take a bite of my taco and close my eyes in pleasure. “Mmm. Migas.”

Irene hoots. “Oh yeah. Feels so great to lose the old ball and chain. So great you break into his house and throw yourself at him like a thirsty bitch.”

“I still can’t believe she did that, man,” Caleb says, shaking his head.

“It’s not that unexpected,” Irene says. “I’m surprised she didn’t put your dog in a stewpot.”

“Come on, she’s dramatic, but she’s not crazy crazy,” I say. I watch out the window at the Greenbelt whipping past, the treetops tinged with autumn rust. I know I should be at least a little on guard—Sasha can make life really nasty if she’s mad. But I’m just relieved to be done with her. Here in the light of day, with Run the Jewels thrumming low on the stereo and my friends ribbing me from the front seat, it’s easy to feel like the whole thing was kind of ridiculous. Almost funny, even.

“You ought to tell your parents she broke in so they can get the locks changed,” Irene says.

“They’ve got enough on their plate right now,” I say. “I don’t want to freak them out.”

“Better that than more nighttime visits from your friendly neighborhood succubus,” Irene says.

“Nah . . . she’s done. It was her last-ditch effort.” I finish the first taco and crumple the foil into a little ball just as we pull into the junior parking lot.