She squints as she reads the captions over the photos aloud, unwilling to put on the readers that “make her look old.” Deiss plays his part by cooing over my cuteness. But Mom veers wildly off script as she recounts the stories behind the photos.
“This is our old cat, Boots,” Mom says, showing Deiss a picture of the cat she discarded in an effort to keep Paul. “We had to give him up when I broke things off with an old boyfriend. Paul was so devastated to lose Liv that it only seemed right to let him take the cat. I thought having a little four-legged friend might keep him going.”
I almost snort aloud. Paul had no problem going. He practically ran out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
“That was very generous of you,” Deiss says. “It must have been difficult to give up your cat.”
It was. I feel a flare of anger at what we did to keep that rigid, judgmental man in our lives. Maybe it’s my mom’s revisionist history that’s knocked me out of familiar patterns, because I’ve never before let myself be angry at the loss of Boots. It’s been too easy to focus on pity for my mom, how sad it is that nothing she ever does is enough.
But Boots would’ve stayed with her. Plus, I loved him. How was it fair to take away something I loved in a desperate attempt to hold onto yet another man she claimed to love?
I stand up, mumbling something about the bathroom, and slip out of the room. The hallway is dim and dreary. A blown-up photograph of my mother in the tiara she got for winning Miss Brantley smiles at me from behind its frame.
“You should’ve chosen us over them,” I whisper to her younger self.
I don’t know if I’m referring to Boots and me or her and me. Either option works. I wish I could say it to her face, but the timing would be cruel. She’s so desperate to impress Deiss. And there’s nothing she loves more than this part of meeting someone, when she can sparkle brightly enough to distract—when they haven’t yet discovered the flaws that lie beneath that perfect facade.
I walk into my bedroom, easing the door closed behind me. The pink duvet has been fluffed, and the dresser gleams from its recent dusting. The pictures tacked on the wall are messy, though, and they’re all mine. I smile at the one where my hair is stuck to my head like I’ve been slimed. Beside me, Phoebe has a trickle of yellow from her hair down to her chin. Next to her, Deiss is holding up one of the eggs we’d meant to unleash on Simone’s ex but had ended up hurling at each other instead.
I pull it down, wanting something tangible to replace the ones I lost when my condo got emptied out. My smile falls when I discover the picture beneath it. It’s me before prom, wearing the dress Cara Jenkins had lent me. We both knew she’d shoplifted it, even though I pretended to believe her when she said she’d bought it on sale and couldn’t return it. I shouldn’t have been so surprised when she helped herself to my college money. In the picture, I look beautiful and exuberant, as if I hadn’t spent the day terrified that the girls who had been bullying me for years were going to pull some kind of bucket-of-blood Carrie prank on me.
“Liv?” Deiss raps lightly on the door.
I open it, and he presses in, moving me backward with his body. A naughty smile plays at his lips, making my stomach swoop. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to Lucas Deiss looking at me like he wants to consume me.
“Is the history lesson over?” I ask, feeling the backs of my legs press against my bed.
“The visual portion of it, at least.” He slides his arms around my waist. “I think there are more stories in the tank.”
I want to snort at his use of the word stories. He has no idea just how fictional the things he’s just heard are. His stormy blue eyes dip to my mouth as his hand slips up my back. My stomach lurches again. He’s so much. So self-assured and dynamic and real. He doesn’t belong in this house of lies. Neither of us do.
“We should go,” I say, nudging him back.
“Yeah?” His arms drop immediately, leaving my back cold.
“It’s a long drive,” I say.
He nods and turns, heading for the door. Regret surges through me for disappointing him, but he smooths a balm over it when he reaches back for my hand. Our fingers wrap around each other, and I focus on the feeling of connection as I say goodbye to my mom and thank her for the tea.
In the car, I struggle to stay present, but the day has gotten under my skin. The anger about Boots. The lies. The worry that my refusal to tell Deiss that I’ve given away his secret makes me just like my mom. To compensate for my distraction, I smile and agree with everything he says.