Lies You Never Told Me(27)

His chair creaks softly as he shifts his weight too. And then it’s like every connection in my brain lights up at once, a Christmas tree surging to life, twinkling and brilliant, because his hand brushes against mine, our skin touches, and everything in the world vanishes but that tiny point of contact.

On stage the actors are yelling at each other about something, but I don’t care. His hand draws gently away again, and I’m left wondering if it was an accident or not. My head spins. He’s never once looked my way. His eyes are locked on the stage.

But it felt so much like a caress. Deliberate and soft and gentle.

As if from far away, I hear Garcin’s famous one-liner: “Hell is other people!” Soon the audience is clapping and whistling. The actors step forward to bow. The warmth between us dissipates as Mr. Hunter gets to his feet, applauding.

The house lights go up. Mr. Hunter turns to say something to Nessa, who’s sitting on the other side of him. I fight down a surge of jealousy. Why won’t he just look at me?

“That was amazing,” Brynn says breathlessly.

“Yeah, great,” I say, distracted. She doesn’t notice. We stand up and start crowding toward the exits. “Crap, I left my purse.”

I turn around, and walk right into Mr. Hunter. His hands land on my hips.

For just a moment, I think I see a flash of longing in his eyes.

Then he smiles, jerking his hands away. “Sorry about that,” he says, bluntly cheerful. “You startled me.”

“It’s . . . okay.” I straighten up. I’ve been praying for his gaze all day. Now it moves over my face, making me visible, beautiful.

“Sorry, I just need to get my purse.”

He steps back so I can squeeze by, and when I turn around he’s gone, along with the rest of my friends, out to the lobby. I stand there for a moment, letting my heart slow its manic staccato flutter.

I don’t know anymore what’s real and what’s my imagination, what’s a kiss and what’s a performance. I don’t know if I’m just hoping, wishing, for him to think I’m special. For him to look at me and touch me and want me. But I can’t deny one thing, not even to myself.

I want it to be real.





THIRTEEN


    Gabe




I don’t have any classes with Sasha this semester, but I still know her schedule. So Monday after lunch I wait outside her figure-drawing class until I see her coming down the hall.

I’m acting against every bit of good advice I’ve ever gotten, including my own. But I’ve thought about it all weekend. Breaking into my room to freak me out was one thing. Stalking my little sister—and Catherine—is another. I can’t let it go.

She smiles when she sees me, but she doesn’t pick up her pace. When she gets to the door of the classroom it looks for a minute like she’s going to saunter right past me. I grab her arm; when her eyes widen I realize I’m squeezing harder than I meant to. I let go.

“Knock it off with the Snaps,” I growl.

She cocks her head. “What’s your problem?”

“Don’t be cute,” I say. I fight to keep my voice steady. The sight of her arched brows makes me want to push her away as hard as I can. “Leave my friends and my family alone, Sasha.”

She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I grit my teeth. “Whatever. If I hear from you again I’m going to the cops.”

She shakes her head, looking almost sad. “Gabe, come on, there’s no need for this. I’m totally over it, okay? I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone new. So whoever’s messing with you . . . it’s not me.”

“You’re so over it you break into my house?” I say.

She glances away.

“That was . . . not cool. I was drunk, I was upset. You blindsided me. I’m sorry I freaked you out.”

Now I’m the one who’s blindsided. I’ve never heard Sasha apologize for anything.

She peers almost shyly up at me, through a canopy of lashes. “Anyway. I’m over it now. And . . . I’d like it if we could be friends.”

She looks so earnest—and I want to believe her. I want this to be over.

But I also don’t trust her.

“Fat chance,” I say. I adjust my baseball cap, take a few steps backward. “Just stay away from us.”

I turn away before she can answer.



* * *



? ? ?

    “Yummy!” Vivi says, her eyes wide as the waiter sets a steaming plate of cheese enchiladas in front of her.

“Yummy indeed. Now be careful, mija, it’s hot.” Dad leans over to tuck a napkin into the front of Vivi’s shirt. “Let it sit for a minute.”

We’re at my sister’s favorite restaurant, El Rancho, to celebrate her sixth birthday. The faux-hacienda is packed, as always, the air thrumming with conversation and music. Every now and then a loud groan erupts from the crowd watching soccer at the bar. I keep catching my dad’s eyes flitting over to the TV. Mexico’s playing tonight, so if the margaritas keep coming we might be in for some truly foul Spanish swear words. Dad’s lived in the States his entire life, but his own father used to play for the Liga MX, the top-tier soccer league in Mexico, before he and my grandma moved to L.A., so it’s safe to say he’s a total fanatic.