Everything but the Truth Read online

  “Pure brilliance,” I say.

  “Exactly. He stuck with the catalogs for a few decades before opening the online storefront, and it exploded from there.”

  “Do you think he believes in it? In the mission statement on the Web site, that is. About how the goal of the company is to help people help themselves?”

  “He does. I don’t think he could grow the company like he did if he didn’t believe in it.”

  “It’s not such a bad way to spend your life, you know,” I say.

  He sighs. “I know. But this place . . . it runs just fine without me. I don’t matter here.”

  My eyes rove over the blank walls, the perfectly tidy bookshelves, the boring, generic rug. “There’s nothing of you in this room.”

  “I know. I can’t bring myself to decorate an office I don’t even want to occupy in the first place.”

  “Yet, you come here every day,” I state.

  “What would you do if you were me? Pack a bag of supplies and run off to whatever random country looks to be in the worst shape? Write massive checks to charities that already have people on the ground and concrete goals in place? I’m nineteen years old. I don’t know what’s best.”

  He sits down on his desk then reaches over, pulling me to my feet and up against him, so that I’m standing between his legs and his arms are wrapped around my waist. He rests his head on my shoulder and grows quiet.

  “Why don’t you call the group you went to Nepal with? Ask them how they can partner with Buchannan Industries. And if they don’t have ideas, then ask another group and another. Just don’t give up. Don’t just sit in here day after day after day and forget who you want to become.”

  When he kisses me, this time, it’s raw and hungry, and I let him tangle his hands in my hair.

  I kiss him until we’re both breathless, the sun setting behind us.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My favorite place in the world, the antiques store Then and Now, is coated in dust. It’s the place I didn’t tell Malik about when he asked. My theory is that the owner, a surprisingly young guy who sits behind the counter all day reading The Wall Street Journal with his glasses perched at the end of his long, crooked nose, feels that the dust makes all the antiques look older than they actually are. He probably buys the dust in bulk and spends each night flinging it around like some twisted fairy godmother, instantly aging all his merchandise.

  Judging by the near-constant turnover of products in this place, his ploy is working.

  I trail my finger over a blue vase, absently thinking that the gold paint and gem-colored enameling make it looks like a poor man’s version of a Fabergé. I swirl my finger along the design, studying the curves of the vase.

  This was exactly what I needed to get my mind off of . . . everything. An afternoon of antiquing. I can’t really afford to buy anything, at least not without dipping into my college funds, but oh well. It’s still fun to look.

  There’s something vaguely Italian about the vase. I imagine some artist in his tiny studio, the light reflecting off the nearby canals and illuminating his work. He’s hunched over the vase, his eyes narrowed, the paintbrush perfectly still in his hand as he leans in and swirls the bristles across the surface to create the dazzling design.

  Someday I’ll be able to afford treasures like this. I’ll research the history of each piece and display them for everyone to see and admire.

  “Why am I not surprised?” a voice calls out. I twist around so fast, the vase tumbles from my fingertips. Malik bolts forward, sort of skidding on his knees, miraculously catching it before it shatters at my feet.

  I cringe. “Um, thanks? But also not really because you shouldn’t be sneaking up on people like that.”

  “I was not sneaking.”

  “Oh.” I accept the vase from his outstretched hand, turning to set it on the display case beside us. “Wait, why are you here? You probably don’t even like antique stores. Were you looking for me?”

  He grins. “I waved right at you through the front window, but you were lost in thought. I’m on my lunch break and was just heading to grab a bite to eat next door. Then I saw you. You know, standing near the window, in plain view?”

  “Ah. Um, I see.” My cheeks may just burst into flames at any moment.

  “I mean, you are cute, and totally stalkable, but I have your number, so none of that is necessary.”

  I pretend to be super interested in the claw-foot tub on the floor next to us, leaning over to examine the brass fixtures so my hair will swing forward and hide the heat in my cheeks.

  “Join me for lunch,” he says, and it comes out as more of a command than a request, reminding me of just how used to getting his way he is.

  “Oh,” I say, standing up abruptly. Right. Why do I still feel so awkward and dorky? We’ve spent enough time together that I should feel normal. Natural. Not robotic. But that’s the power of Malik. “Um, yeah, sure.”

  “Your enthusiasm is astounding,” he says, deadpan.

  I can’t help it. I laugh, and my nerves fizzle out, and we’re picking up where we left off. “Sorry. Yes. Lunch. Let’s do it.”

  Ten minutes later I’m sipping on a lemonade at the café next to the antique store, out on a deck that overlooks the lake. It’s still weird to live in this area, with all its expensive homes and yacht clubs.

  “That was my favorite place,” I say, breaking the silence.

  “The antique store?”

  “Yeah. Every time I go in there, I find something new. It’s like a free museum.”

  He smiles. “I figured you’d be drawn to a place like that. Kinda looked at home, you know?” He leans back against his chair and stretches his legs out under the table. Our calves touch, but he doesn’t move. He just lets his bare skin rest against mine.

  It’s driving me crazy. In a good way.

  “I’ve decided where mine is,” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  He nods. “It’s you.”

  My heart flutters. “Huh?”

  “My place is you.”

  “But I’m not a place. That doesn’t count.”

  “It does to me. Because you don’t look at me in the same way as everyone else. You don’t want things from me. When I’m with you—wherever we are—I can forget that I’m supposed to be the heir apparent to the Buchannan Empire and just feel like a normal guy.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “My grandpa. My mom. Freaking Time magazine.”

  I narrow my eyes, wondering if that came up in Alex’s search about him. “You were in Time?”

  He nods. “Yeah. Last year they did this focus on ‘the next generation,’ ” he says, using air quotes. “Sons and daughters of influential people. Apparently, I was poised to expand my grandfather’s empire, but my ‘troubling lifestyle,’ ” he says, using the quotes again, “could derail that.”

  “Troubling lifestyle?”

  “Yeah, you know, the old me.” He leans in on his elbows, staring directly into my eyes. “You’re the first person who actually gets it. I’ve told my old friends, but it doesn’t seem to sink in. They grew up like I did. They’re used to the expectations, the lifestyle, and they don’t seem to register the fact that it’s not what I want anymore.”

  “Do you still talk to them?”

  “No. Once I changed, they grew bored of me. They moved on, and I did too. And it finally registered just how superficial my relationships had been. They never cared about me; they just enjoyed the money and the invitations that came with my name.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. It’s nice to meet someone who’s different. Who I can actually trust to tell me the truth, you know?”

  I smile, but I’m sure it appears plastic. He trusts me.

  He shouldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Three days later, I’m sitting on my bed, my feet propped up against the wall, staring at a collage of me and Alex. She’s got a nearly identical one in her room, filled w
ith the same pictures. There’s one of us at the beginning of the fourth grade, our hair in funky curls because we’d decided to get creative with a tiny-barreled curler at her house. The results were far from glamorous. Then there’s one of us at the sixth-grade walkathon, waving peace signs at the camera.

  Us at homecoming junior year, when we went stag.

  Us at prom this year. I went with Hunter Johansson, the only boyfriend I’ve ever had. Alex and Rena went stag, but we all shared a limo that Alex’s parents rented. Hunter Johansson dumped me the next day. I’m pretty sure he lost interest in me the very instant he saw Finley Denton’s cleavage in her sparkling red dress.

  Alex was there to buy me ice cream and tell me he didn’t deserve me. She was there to draw devil horns on him when we got our yearbooks. I don’t know that I loved Hunter, but I guess I thought it was going somewhere. He’s even going to WSU like me, even if he did pick it because it has a reputation as a party school and not because of any particular academic program.

  I stare at Alex’s pretty updo, wondering if that was the moment when things went from ice cream and rom-com marathons to ditching me for Rena. Maybe while I was busy dancing with Hunter, they had some great epiphany of all the things they have in common.

  I mean, I guess I knew things would change after we graduated. Alex and Rena are both going to UW, and I’m not. This isn’t just some regular old summer vacation. At the end of it, we’re going to be hundreds of miles apart.

  But I still thought—

  My door flies open, and I crane my neck around to see Alex waving a copy of US Weekly with so much enthusiasm, she may as well be directing traffic.

  “Your boyfriend is in here,” she says, flinging the magazine at me. It spins through the air, landing open on my bed.

  I twist around, hoping she doesn’t notice that I’ve been staring at the collage, and drop my feet to the floor and pick it up. “I already told you, he’s not my boyfriend. And where have you been lately, by the way? I texted you, like, three times in the last week and you’ve ignored me.”

  “Busy. But anyway, flip to page twenty-two.”

  Butterflies swarm as I flip through the pages, ultimately landing on a “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” feature.

  And there he is, walking down the street with a bulldog at the end of a red leash.

  “I didn’t know he had a dog,” I say, my eyes roving over the bulky white dog. “I wonder where it was when I was at his house. I mean, it’s really big.”

  “That’s what you come back with? I didn’t know he had a dog?”

  “What? I didn’t.” I slap the magazine shut. “He’s never mentioned it. Maybe it’s not his.”

  “Your boyfriend . . .” At my glare, she pauses and sighs. “The guy you went on a date with and are hanging out with is in US Weekly. As in the magazine on every checkout stand in every grocery store. And you’re concerned about whether he has a dog?”

  “I know, I know,” I say, sighing. “This is crazy.”

  “What? No. This is totally awesome! How can you not think so?”

  “Because this isn’t what he wants to be known for. I think.”

  “Huh?”

  “He wants to make a difference in the world, and they’re focused on him walking a freaking dog. That’s all people think of—that he’s cute and he dates movie stars and goes to big parties. But he doesn’t want to be in magazines. Not for this, anyway.”

  Alex whistles and plops down on my bed. “Wow. You’re getting in deep.”

  “I am not,” I say. “It’s a fling. It has to be. He thinks I’m Lucy.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “That’s what it needs to be,” I say, with conviction. “Now that I know him, I realized how much it’s going to hurt him if he finds out I’m lying. Everyone who has ever gotten close to him has betrayed him. If he finds out I’m no better, it’ll destroy him. When I go away to college, we’ll just naturally drift apart, and that will be that.”

  As the words come out, I realize how true they are.

  “You’re sure?” Alex looks at me with concern. “I mean, you kind of sound like you’re getting in a little deeper than a fling.”

  “I’m sure,” I say resolutely. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only logical resolution to this whole thing. “It’s just a fun summer romance. That’s all it’s going to be. He won’t know I lied, and he can move on with his life and focus on his goals.”

  “Okay, so you have, like, six weeks to have fun.” She gives me a wicked smile, and I laugh for the first time since she’s walked into my room.

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “So we just need to be sure your lie isn’t uncovered, then.”

  “Right.”

  Alex lies back on the bed and turns onto her side, tracing her finger over a big violet dot in the pattern of my comforter. “I have an idea.”

  “Um, why do I have a serious sense of dread right now?”

  “My mom has been going nuts buying me all these back-to-school clothes. It’s way more than I can fit in a dorm room, and I swear she thinks I’m going to MIT or Wall Street or something. It’s very . . .” Her voice trails off. “Fancy. And you know me. I’d rather wear stuff from the Sounders pro shop than the mall. We could give you a makeover with my brand-new, totally unwanted wardrobe. You could dress more like him. Make sure he doesn’t pick up on your . . .” Her gaze roams over me. “Differences.”

  “You don’t have to give me your new clothes.”

  Alex stands, and I know her mind’s already made up. “You’ll be doing me a favor. As long as my mom doesn’t see the clothes hanging in my closet in a few weeks, she’ll figure I packed all of it. And then I don’t have to take it. I’ll put my pillows in boxes or something so she doesn’t notice how light I’m packing.” She motions up and down her body. “Come on, you know this is me. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a plaid skirt.”

  She’s wearing a lime green Sounders FC T-shirt, blue jeans, and pink Converse sneakers. “Just come over. My mom’s at work until six. If you don’t like the stuff, don’t take it. Okay?”

  I sigh, climbing up off my bed. “Okay. Let’s go. But you have to drive. My car is almost on empty, and I don’t want to dip into my college fund.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alex beams at me as she pulls under the portico outside Sunrise House, flipping her wavy blond hair over her shoulder. I’m sitting in the passenger seat, pretty much buried in shopping bags, feeling like she’s my fairy godmother. Except instead of a single night, she’s done enough to transform me for six weeks. I can’t wait to wear this stuff in front of Malik. Alex was right—it’s going to help me feel more on his level.

  I don’t know how I’m going to get all this stuff to fit in my sure-to-be-tiny dorm room closet in a few weeks, but I don’t even care.

  “You’re totally going to give Selena Gomez a run for her money,” Alex says as she puts her car in park. “In fact, both of you are short and dark-haired. You should see if she needs a body double.”

  I snicker, giving Alex a pointed look. “I’m sure her manager will be calling at any moment.” I unbuckle my seat belt, reaching into the backseat for the other shopping bags. “I know I already said it, but seriously—thank you. I can’t even believe you don’t want to keep this stuff for yourself.”

  “No biggie. You know how my mom is; always hoping I’m going to magically decide to dress girly at any moment. It’s never going to be my style. Besides, you’d do the same for me, right?”

  We lock eyes, and the urge to say something—to ask her why she’s been ditching me lately—swells. Today has been amazing. Like the friendship we’ve always had, the one I always thought would span decades. Not the one that’s been fizzling away since graduation.

  Since before graduation, really.

  “Whoooooooa, is that what he drives?”

  I glance up from the bag I’m gripping to see a familiar silver sports car glide up to the fron
t entry, stopping next to the valet sign.

  It’s a good thing he’s never asked me to drive, or the fact that I park in the resident garage would give me away.

  And, you know, the flaking paint, the dented fender, and the broken exhaust.

  “Um, yeah,” I say, the butterflies in my stomach taking flight. “At about ninety miles an hour. It’s terrifying.”

  “I mean, that thing must be like a hundred grand, easy.”

  My palms feel sweaty, and I wipe them on my skirt, then cringe at the vague blotches on the gray, recycled T-shirt material. Great. Why did I not put one of these outfits on while I was at Alex’s house?

  When he climbs out of the car, Alex lets out a low whistle. “Wow,” she says, “pictures don’t do him justice.”

  He’s wearing deep-blue jeans that hug his hips, along with a pink button-down with rolled-up sleeves, and glasses. I didn’t know he wore glasses. Then again, maybe he doesn’t. They could be for fashion or whatever.

  They’re dark, chunky frames, and I get a sudden, overwhelming image of him working at the office late at night, bathed in the light of his laptop.

  I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, the dome light clicks on and Alex is getting out of the car and walking toward him while I sit, frozen.

  I hiss out a low breath and climb out too, trying to straighten my skirt as I dash after her. He catches a glimpse of me when he’s halfway to the front doors, and his step falters as his eyes light up. “Lucy,” he says, grinning at me.

  Lucy. Every time he says it, I want to correct it, just to hear the way my name would sound on his lips.

  But no. I’ll never hear it. That’s not part of the plan.

  “Hey, Malik,” I say, accepting his hug. “Um, this is my friend Alex. The one I told you about.”