Page 25 of Reckless Liar

“Yeah, okay,” he scoffed at me.

“Why would you even remember how big my boobs were?”

“I’m a guy, Ana. Of course, I remember how big your boobs were.” He shook his head at me. “They were small. You didn’t really get them until you were what, sixteen?”

I rolled my eyes. “God, you sound like such a pig right now.”

“I didn’t touch them or anything. I quietly noticed you,” he coughed and took a sip from the bottle between us. “Them. Boobs, I mean. Any girl’s boobs.”

“Oh yeah? What else did you notice about me?” I teased.

“You had nice hair. It was shorter, remember?” He raised his hand up to touch two fingers to the top of my collarbone. “You used to complain that it was too short to put up and you could only use those hair snappy things.”

“Barrettes,” I supplied quietly. His fingers still rested on my collarbone. Warmth radiated from his touch, and I had the urge to lean in closer.

“Yeah, those,” he breathed.

He looked down at his fingers on my bare shoulder. They left warm tracks against my skin as they moved. They moved so slow I could barely feel it, not stopping until they rested in the hollow of my throat. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, instead watching his fingers.

I could feel my heart beating faster; my skin felt tight. I opened my mouth to say something, then bit my lower lip in my teeth, not sure what to say. His hand stilled and his eyes slowly met mine. In the candlelight I could make out the shadow from the scar below his left eye where a child at daycare had thrown a fork at him when he was four. I realized I knew that about him. I knew all the little things, like how there was a quarter sized birthmark on his scalp where a patch of hair grew white-blond curls. I knew the way he filled his bowl of cereal with milk first, then put in the cereal. I knew all these things and now I knew how his fingers felt against my skin.

I thought for a moment his fingers might dip lower and was surprised to realize I wouldn’t push him away. But instead, the pressure gradually eased as he pulled his hand away.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He picked up the whiskey bottle from the floor and I watched as he brought it to his lips. His lower lip was full, partially obscured by a few days’ worth of golden stubble on his chin.

I looked away and grabbed the bottle away from him and took a long slug. “You want to know a secret?”

Xander leaned forward, a smile playing on his lips. “Sure, I’d love to.”

“I hate lilies. Especially stargazer lilies. They shed their pollen all over the place. They’re a church flower, an Easter flower. Lilies smell like a sweet rotting fruit.”

“But Max...”

“Always bought them for me. I know. I never had to heart to tell him I don’t like them.”

“So, what is your favorite flower?”

Tilting my head to the side I considered his question. Max had never asked me what my favorite flower was. He assumed it was the perfect flower to give me at some point because I had lily in my name. But he never asked me. An inexplicable sense of annoyance simmered in my chest. Why had Max never asked? What else did he never know about me—what did I not know about myself?

“Dahlias. I like dahlias.”

Xander’s chin flexed as he watched me. The air between us seemed to grow heavy. Max never knew what flowers I liked, but now Xander did. My hand tingled in my lap. What would he do if I reached between us and took his cheek in my hand? Would he push me away?

My gaze must’ve been too intense because he looked away, rubbing a hand over his face. The scratch of his calloused hand against his stubble was audible in the silence between us.

“I miss him every day, Ana. I do.”

I laid my hand on top of his. He turned his palm up so that I could grip his fingers. “I know you do, Xan.”

“For years, he was the only friend I had. He was the only kid from the neighborhood. He knew what it was like for us. I didn’t have to worry about him judging me for how my house looked, because his house looked the same. We could eat our free lunches together. He got it. He got me; you know?”

“I do.”

Staring at his hand over mine, our skin etiolating in the moonlight, I was struck by how well our hands fit together. “I don’t know what I’d have done this past year without you. But with you here to support me... Just, thank you.”

“Of course. You know, I’d do anything for you,” he said, his voice lower.

He held tight to my hand. I tried to decipher his meaning. They seemed like headier words than we were used to, but we had been drinking, and it was a long day.

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