Lies You Never Told Me(6)

My phone rings. It’s my dad.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, unfolding my legs out from under the table.

Sasha watches me with narrowed eyes. “While you’re up, get me an iced skinny mocha, no whip.”

I nod distractedly. I hope my relief doesn’t show as I walk away from them. I don’t know if I can listen to another round of recycled gossip.

“Hey, Dad,” I say into the receiver, once I’m out of earshot. “What’s up?”

But it’s not Dad. It’s my little sister’s voice that comes blaring out of the phone. “Gabe!” Vivi shouts. “Merry Christmas!”

Okay, so it’s October—we’re nowhere close to Christmas. But who cares? Vivi’s almost six, and because she has Down syndrome, her development is a little delayed. But that doesn’t mean she’s stupid. Who can resist a kid who thinks it’s Christmas every time she gets to talk to someone she loves?

“Merry Christmas!” I boom, in my best Santa Claus voice. “What’s up, kid?”

The giggle that comes through the phone line is pure gold.

“I wearing tutu!” she squeals.

“Tutu? You mean, like, you’re too-too cute?” Not my best work, but she’s a pretty easy audience.

She shrieks with laughter, and there’s the sound of the phone hitting something. A moment later, my dad picks up.

“She wouldn’t wait until tonight to put it on. I’m doing my best to steer her away from messy snacks, but I don’t know how long this will last.” Dad’s tone is joking, but I can also hear the exhaustion in it. Turning Vivi away from something she wants to do is a serious undertaking.

“Told you you should get two dance outfits for her,” I say. “One for eating peanut butter, one for performance.”

“Thanks for the I-told-you-so. You’ll be home by three, right? We need to be at the theater by three thirty. Don’t be late.”

I hang up the phone. A moment later I get a photo. Vivi grins toothily in her pale pink leotard, a stiff ridge of tulle around her waist. Next to her is her service dog, Rowdy; she’s been trying to teach him how to pirouette.

Pink. Nice. That won’t show every single stain, I text to my dad.

He texts me back a crying face. I roll my eyes. PhDs aren’t supposed to use emojis. Neither are dads, for that matter.

I glance back at Sasha. She thinks I’m spending the whole day with her; I’d forgotten about the dance recital. I realize abruptly that my shoulders are tense, my jaw gritted, and I force myself to relax. She loves Vivi—so maybe it’ll be fine. But the truth is, I never know exactly how she’ll react to things.

The food court is packed with people snacking on tilapia tacos, bánh mì sliders, chipotle cheese fries, Day-Glo snow cones. The coffee cart is at the other end of the lot, in the shade of a cluster of post oaks. I order the drink from the tattooed barista and stand to the side while she disappears into the truck to make it.

I lean back against the trailer, idly thinking about how I can best break the news to avoid a shitfit. Hey, Dad reminded me of a thing I’ve gotta do. I don’t want to, but I’ll be in big trouble if I don’t. Or maybe: Come on, Sasha, do it for Vivi. She’s so totally obsessed with you, it’d mean the world. No one ever went wrong banking on Sasha’s vanity.

Then I see something that brings me up short.

There, at a table just a few feet away, is the girl who saved my life.

The sight of her rockets through my brain like a firecracker. A moment ago, I couldn’t have described her with any certainty; my memories of that night are murky and shapeless. But now it’s like some dark corner of my mind lights up with recognition.

She’s alone, crouched over a heavy textbook. Her cheekbones are sharp, her skin wan next to a dark sheaf of hair. Her scuffed purple Keds are the only colorful part about her—otherwise she wears cheap jeans, a black tank top. For a moment I second-guess myself. It can’t actually be her. The night of the accident, it was too dark to make much out, and my brain had just been through a blender. For all I know, my savior was a seven-foot-tall dude in a bunny suit and I’m just remembering wrong.

I watch for a moment, take in the way her toe taps slightly along with whatever she’s listening to on her headphones. Then she looks up from her book and meets my eyes, and all doubts are gone. Her eyes widen, and her whole body seems to recoil in a short, sharp gasp.

She looks away again quickly, but I’m already sure of it. It’s her.

Slowly, half-afraid I’ll startle her like some woodland creature, I step toward her table. “Uh . . . hi,” I say. Suddenly I’m not sure how to start. What’s the proper icebreaker for meeting a person who saved your life?

She pulls one earbud out, but leaves the other in. I sit down across from her, giving a smile I hope is charming. “I think . . . I think you might be the girl who helped me after my accident a few weeks back. It was over on Briarcliff—a hit-and-run?”

“Sorry. Wrong person.” She shoves the earbud back in, looks determinedly down at her book. But she’s lying. I can tell. Her mouth is a straight line, but her eyes are wide and almost frightened. I reach across the table and touch her hand to get her attention.

She jerks her hand away like she’s been burned. Her pencil falls to the ground.