Page 18 of Reckless Liar

“I have no doubt.”

“Honestly, I don’t care what I do. I just want to leave. Why didn’t you leave after college?”

We stopped in front of her car. The car’s fading paint chips were larger than the last time I saw it. I picked at a small spot, scraping the beige paint with my fingernail. “Max was here. I came back for him.”

“But he could’ve gone anywhere, too. I don’t know why he never left either.”

I shrugged, pulling my coat tighter around me. “I don’t know. Probably in part because you were here, and he wanted to look out for you. This was his comfort zone. I don’t have an answer for why we didn’t go.”

Eloise flexed her jaw. “I’m getting away. At this point, I don’t care what happens with my mom. I don’t need to be her keeper anymore.”

“No, you don’t. Max wanted you to leave. He talked about it all the time. Said you got the brains in the family. You have the drive, the talent.”

“I miss him.” It wasn’t a sorrowful statement, just a fact.

I grasped her hand in mine. “I know. Me too. Every day.”

We held each other for a moment as the wind picked up, a biting December chill swirling around us. “If I come over before the dance, will you do my hair? I can’t afford to go to a salon like the other girls.”

“Of course. I’d love to.” I pulled her close, hugging her tight. I loved her with everything I had, and I hoped she could feel it.

Chapter eight

“No one.” -Max to Ana when she asked who was on the phone, age nineteen.

Istoodinfrontof the bathroom mirror, adjusting my new dress over my thighs. The Spanx Scarlett swore I needed under this dress made my stomach feel tight and my constricted breathing. Scarlett insisted if wore a dress from the new spring collection before she put it on the floor, I had to wear it the right way. She made a big speech about being a walking advert.

In the lobby, Xander, Emma and Scarlett were getting us a table at Rêve de Vin. Scarlett tried to talk us out of such a swanky place, but we insisted. She deserved a big night out for her birthday.

I frowned at my reflection. Even though I’d tried to curl my hair before we left the house, my hair was flat. The wind from Xander’s truck to the entrance of the restaurant was enough to blow away any semblance of a wave. I reapplied my lipstick to give myself a boost.

I enjoyed dressing up, despite complaining about the tight undergarments. It felt nice to wear something pretty—to do my hair and wear heels. And I liked Xander’s low whistle when I came out of my room. For the first time in a year, I regained a part of myself I hadn’t realized I’d lost.

We ordered different dishes and shared with each other, polishing off a bottle of wine. Scarlett was quick to order another one for the table. Xander retold his favorite story about Scarlett, when at the age of sixteen, she fell off a park swing, breaking her arm, and then tried to tell everyone she broke it in a wakeboarding accident. Halfway through dinner, I realized how happy I was. The thought made me stop mid-thought.

I was happy. I laughed at jokes and told stories about work. Since Max died, I hadn’t had such a happy moment.

Scarlett and Emma left before us. Scarlett had an early morning doing inventory the next day. She leaned in and gave us both kisses on the cheek after Xander and I took care of the bill. She offered to pay, but we all shot her down. We wouldn’t allow her to pay on her birthday.

I stood in the anteroom of the restaurant, tipsy from the wine, as I waited for Xander to get his truck. He insisted I wait for him and not walk to the icy parking lot in my heels.

“Hey, Ana.”

I turned around to see Max’s friend, Peter Jorgensen, standing next to the hostess booth. Beside him was a girl who didn’t look old enough to vote. It figured. Peter always liked them younger.

“Peter!” I chirped, my voice choking into a high squeak.

“How are you? Come give me a hug.” He opened his arms. I didn’t really want to hug him, but I couldn’t see a way to refuse. I leaned in with my upper body, keeping my feet back. He hugged me close, and I could smell the weed that always clung to his clothes.

“Long time no see, huh?” he remarked.

“Yeah, it has been.”

“How long would you say?”

It’s been eleven months and seventeen days since Max died.

“A year, probably.”

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