Everything but the Truth Page 11

  Alex beams, extending her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  My face pretty much bursts into flames.

  “Oh?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says. “I mean, Holl—” She catches herself just as my heart does a double beat. “Lucy told me you were super cute, and I was sure a human being could not possibly live up to her descriptions, but hey, you do a pretty good job.”

  It’s all I can do not to elbow her in the ribs.

  He smiles, that casual, self-confident smile that looks just as good in person as it does on the red carpet. “Yeah?”

  “Yep, we went shopping today, and now I’m just dropping her off . . . you know, to visit her grandma.”

  And my mom thought I was a terrible liar.

  He smiles warmly. “That’s nice of you. Are you coming in with us?”

  “Oh, gosh, no. I’m not into . . .” She swallows. “Um, old people.”

  I nearly choke on my laughter, darting a glance away so Malik won’t catch my amusement.

  “I thought I’d just wait for her in the car. Lots of Candy Crush to play, after all,” she says, wiggling her phone.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” he says, glancing over at me. “I can drop you off when you’re done visiting.”

  My mouth goes dry. He can’t drop me off. I’m already home.

  “That’s super nice of you to offer,” Alex rushes. “But seriously, I have no plans whatsoever today, and I am completely stuck on this level. I don’t mind hanging out.”

  By the tone of her voice, I know she realizes her misstep. She’s just laid a trap that we both fell into, and now she’s trying to claw her way out of it.

  “Don’t be silly,” Malik says. “I was actually hoping she could come over to my grandfather’s place, anyway. He’s been asking about her. So it might be a while. You don’t have to wait. It’s no trouble at all.”

  Abort. Abort. Abort.

  “Um, okay . . . uh . . . if you’re sure,” she says, flashing me a frantic look. I’m sure if we both had telepathy, our conversation would look something like, OH NO. WHAT DO I DO? WHAT DO I DO? WHAT DO I DO? “I mean, we don’t want to put you out. . . .”

  “Not at all.” He flashes her one of his most charming smiles. I’m pretty sure she immediately forgets entirely why she’s protesting, because she just smiles blankly back, leaving me to scramble for a way to fix this.

  “Uh, great!” I say as my gears finally start to turn again. “Um, I just need to grab something out of her car, and then I’m all set. Meet you at . . . the front door,” I say. Which seems super stupid, because we’re standing right next to it.

  “Sure.”

  I tug Alex’s elbow, dragging her back toward her car, my insides churning.

  “Shoot,” she whispers, once we’re out of ear shot. “Sorry. I should’ve seen that one coming.”

  We both climb into her car, slamming the doors so we can talk without having to whisper.

  “What am I going to do?” I despair. “Find some random house for him to drop me off at?”

  I pretend to dig into the bags in the backseat so that Malik thinks I’m looking for . . . whatever it is. The tissue paper in the first bag crinkles between my fingers.

  But I don’t miss that he’s staring over here, and at any moment he may decide to walk over and find out what I’m doing sitting in her car.

  “Wait! I have an idea,” Alex says. “Here.” She takes her key chain out of her pocket, sliding a silver key off the ring. “As long as he drops you off before six, no one will be at my house. You can use the key like it’s yours. And then just wait in my room and text me, and then I’ll come get you and bring you back here.”

  Instantly, I picture Alex’s house, a beautifully restored Craftsman in a million-dollar neighborhood.

  It could work.

  “But if I have your key, you can’t go home. What are you going to do for the next couple of hours?”

  “Um, give me your key. I’ll wait for you guys to go in and then sneak this stuff into your apartment and put it all away. I can watch TV for a little while until you text me. And I’ll move my car into the resident garage so Malik doesn’t see it out the window or something.”

  Hesitation sets in. This is all so elaborate. My simple lie isn’t supposed to be so . . . deliberate. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” she says, a grin taking over. “Just go hang out with him and catalog every single thing he says and does and tell me all about it later. A girl needs details if she’s going to live vicariously.”

  I grin as I shove the key into my pocket. “You’re the best.”

  “I know,” she says, leaning across me and popping the door open. “Now go have fun with Prince Charming.”

  I slide out of the car, clicking the door shut behind me. Alex starts it back up and is gone a moment later, and I’m crossing the aggregate patio, wondering why it is I ever questioned our friendship.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My heart climbs into my throat as we step into his grandfather’s apartment, bracing myself for some surly remark the moment he sees me. I pause in the entry, listening to the bubbling of the lion’s head fountain.

  Nothing yet, just the ticking of a clock and the tinkling of the fountain.

  “So . . . was he really asking about me?”

  “Yeah. Ever since the stuff we picked out arrived.”

  “Oh.” Relief. Maybe he won’t bite my head off this time. Maybe he’ll actually welcome me into this space.

  I follow Malik in the living room, then stop when I see Mr. Buchannan.

  He’s standing at the windows, his back to us as he stares out at the lake, his arms crossed and his shoulders stiff. He’s . . . foreboding, like this. It’s as if I can actually see him lording over his domain, his company.

  “Grandpa?”

  When he turns, his eyes land on me. I wait for his expression to shift. I wait for him to scowl or frown. Instead, he almost smiles, the corners of his lips half lifting.

  “Lucy,” he says, his voice is even but has a hint of pleasure. Like maybe he might be happy I’m here.

  “Yeah, hi.” I flash him my warmest, most confident smile, shoving the butterflies down deep. He may be grumpy, but he’s not going to bite.

  “I don’t know what to do with the desk you picked out,” he says, almost . . . kind. “I already have one in my office.”

  “Oh,” I say, brightening. Yes. I can handle this conversation. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be used as a desk. We can repurpose it. What room is it in?”

  “Follow me,” he says, stepping away from the window. He reaches for his cane, then limps past me, back down the hall where his office is. He stops at a doorway across from his home office, pointing inside.

  It’s a surprisingly large space, with an amazing view of the lake. The room is square, probably sixteen feet in each direction, except for where the soaring window is set into the wall, creating an alcove.

  I stare. “Um, you could move those chairs,” I say, motioning to where two seats face each other along the wall. “You could place them near the window. And put that table between them. That way your guest could enjoy the view.”

  The words are out before I think about them. Before I realize he never has guests. To avoid his reaction, I turn in the room, taking in the furniture, including the desk that has been sitting on the wall opposite the chairs, puzzling through the options.

  I clear my throat, hoping he hasn’t picked up my sudden awkwardness. “Instead of using it as a desk, you could stage it as a sideboard. For tea, maybe?” I say, thinking back to the coffee cup that had been sitting on the counter, a discarded tea bag on the saucer. “If you did loose leaf, you could put different varieties of tea in decorative canisters and have everything you need in here. Other than the hot water, obviously. It might not be that practical, but it would look good. And you could have your, uh, guest sit there, by the window, with you. It’s more intimate than the living room
.”

  “I don’t have guests,” he says, but his hand glides over the smooth wood of the desk, as if considering the way it would look as a repurposed sideboard for tea.

  “You could,” I say. “It’s such a shame for this view to go un—”

  “No.”

  I tip my head to the side, studying the thin line of his lips, the set of his shoulders.

  He’s not as gruff as he first appears. He’s . . . guarded.

  It seems odd for a man of his accomplishments to care what others think of him, but he does. I realize that he doesn’t dislike people at all. He just has a wall up. A mile-high wall.

  He’s not the iron man I thought he was.

  “Henrietta likes tea,” I offer. “I could invite her over sometime.”

  Something glimmers in his eyes. He’s considering it.

  But then he just says, “No, but I like your idea for the desk. It’ll work.”

  I bite back my protest, squashing the urge to convince him that Henrietta would be a worthy friend, and nod. “Maybe Malik and I can find some pretty canisters and pick up some tea for you. It could look really good, if we stage it right.”

  His nod is curt, and he leaves the room abruptly, without another word.

  Malik smiles. “We’ll wear him down eventually.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. That’s the most he’s talked to anyone outside the family in weeks. And it was his idea, to ask you what you thought. He likes you.”

  I snort. “That’s what it looks like when he likes someone?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah. Sometimes he straight up ignores people. Acts like they’re not in the room.”

  I walk to the window, letting my fingers trail along the fabric of the two chairs sitting in the sunlight. “Has he always been this way?”

  “No. I guess when people betray you, it changes you, you know? He’s not the same as he used to be.”

  “Oh,” I say, my mouth going dry.

  Add yet another reason Malik can never find out who I really am.

  Three hours later, I’m glancing nervously at my phone, checking the time. It’s past six. Malik and I spent the time arranging some of the smaller stuff that arrived under the silent watch of Charles, whose only acknowledgment of our actions came from the occasional approving nod when he liked how I put things.

  Charles. I think of him as Charles now. That’s sort of weird. But I can’t think of him as some fancy-shmancy CEO anymore. He’s just Malik’s grandpa.

  And now I’m screwed. Alex’s mom is going to be home by the time we get there. What if Malik tries to walk me to the door? And Alex’s mom is there and calls me Holiday . . . or asks what I’m doing at their house? Or says, Oh, hey, nice to see you, Alex isn’t home yet?

  And why is Malik driving so freaking slowly? What happened to race-car driver Malik? There’s a chance we could still beat her, if she made any stops on her way home from work.

  “Um, take a right up here,” I say, pointing to Garfield Street.

  He turns, and the car is bathed in the shadows of the oak trees lining the sides of the road.

  Alex lives in an older part of town. The homes are spaced out, all beautiful turn-of-the-century houses with big wraparound porches and sparkling white shutters. The landscaping is lush and mature, and most houses—including Alex’s—have a view of the lake. These might not hold a candle to Malik’s mansion, but again, they’re well into the seven figures, so that’s good enough for my cover story.

  “It’s the blue one on the right up here.”

  He pulls up to the curb, and I bite back a sigh of relief as I realize Alex’s mom’s car is not in the driveway. I don’t know if it’s the traffic gods or something else, but this could still work.

  “Thanks for the ride home. I really appreciate it,” I say, unbuckling and pushing the door open. “See you later!” I bound out of the car, fingering the key in my pocket. Home free.

  “Wait up,” he calls out. “I can at least walk you to your door.”

  Ugh. Not home free. I stop on the front lawn, holding in a breath. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he says, stepping out of the car and up onto the sidewalk.

  “Um, thanks.” Of course he’s chivalrous. Of course.

  We walk toward the porch and I position the key in my hand so that I can slide it right in and get inside and he can just go away. But as we step up onto the enormous wooden porch, a car engine hums behind us, growing louder.

  Oh, man.

  Alex’s mom is home.

  “Okay, got home safe, thanks!” I say, rushing to the front door.

  “Is that your mom?”

  I purse my lips, closing my eyes as I count to three before turning around to face him. “Um, yep! She’s kinda in a rush today, though, as she had some big projects at work and everything. Besides, I’m not really supposed to have boys over, so—”

  But she’s already getting out of the car, taking in me and Malik just hanging out on her front porch and glancing over to his sparking silver car. She presses a button on her keys, and the trunk of her car pops and rises to show a bunch of white plastic grocery-store bags. She hardly takes her eyes off us as she pulls a few of the bags and a gallon of milk out of the car.

  If I don’t think fast, she’s going to step up on this porch and ask what I’m doing here.

  “Groceries?” I practically shout. “I can help you bring in groceries!” I rush across the lawn, scrambling to come up with some way this can be turned around.

  She can’t call me by my real name.

  She can’t reference Alex in a way that makes Malik realize this is Alex’s house.

  She can’t treat me like I’m not her daughter.

  I almost groan aloud when I see how many bags are in the trunk, definitely more than Alex’s mom and I can carry in one trip. This is why she was late. She went full-blown grocery shopping. And knowing Malik . . .

  “Let me give you a hand with this,” he says, right on time, reaching in and scooping up a few bags.

  No, no, no. He has to leave.

  Alex’s mom is just standing there, one eyebrow raised, glancing between me, Malik, and his car at the curb. She’s never met any boy I’ve been interested in, and surely she must wonder how it is that I’ve snared the attention of a boy with a car quite that shiny.

  And what the heck we’re both doing hanging out in front of the house.

  “This is Malik,” I say brightly. “He was just dropping me off.”

  “Oh, is Alex—”

  “She’s not here yet,” I say. Here. Here is safe. Home is not. “She’s on her way, though.”

  “Okay.”

  And that’s how the three of us end up walking inside together, grocery bags in hand, Malik clearly taking in the space.

  He pauses as he passes the mantel, as if to study the frames perched on top.

  The frames holding family photos!

  “Can’t let that ice cream melt!” I practically shout, bumping into his back and shoving him past the fireplace. He stumbles forward and glances back at me, surprise playing across his features, but doesn’t ask what the heck my problem is.

  The kitchen is light and bright, with antique-white cabinets, black marble countertops, and industrial-grade stainless appliances. Once we deposit the bags on the kitchen table, and Alex’s mom has gone outside to grab another load, I twist around and hook my arm into Malik’s like I’m escorting him down the aisle.

  “I’d give you the grand tour, but I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “Actually, I’d love one,” he says. “Old places like this are pretty cool. No wonder you’re into history, if you grew up in a place like this.”

  Curses. I can’t give him a freaking tour of Alex’s house!

  “Um, okay,” I say. This is about to be the world’s worst home tour. “So you already saw the kitchen and the living room,” I say, tugging him through it without giving him a moment to stop and admire
the crown moldings, the hand-scraped hardwood, or the antique brocade couch. Alex’s mom cannot see me giving him this tour. She’ll be like, What the heck are you doing? You can’t just bring a random boy in here and start showing him my house.

  “The bedrooms are upstairs. I, um, can’t show you my mom’s room or anything—she’s private—but you can see mine.”

  As the words leave my mouth and I begin to lead him up the stairs, I think of all the things in Alex’s room that are nothing like me. Stuff that could tip him off.

  Soccer trophies. I can pretend I’m into soccer.

  And then there’s the plain white furniture and a blue comforter.

  Plus all those ribbons from sixth grade when she decided to do 4-H with her dog.

  As I shove open the door, I remember the most obvious thing of all: The big block letters we painted a couple of years back and mounted on a big board still hanging on the wall over the doorway. Letters spelling out: ALEXANDRIA.

  My mouth goes dry as he steps into the room, the name emblazoned right over his head. As long as he doesn’t turn around . . .

  “Look at that!” I shout, pushing him toward the window. “It’s such a beautiful day! Just take in that view!”

  Malik starts to glance back as if to ask why I’m essentially hollering at him, but I give him a little shove, and he obeys, walking toward the window.

  We’re okay as long as he doesn’t turn back toward me.

  Except . . . it’s not like I can expect him to walk backward when we leave the room.

  I rush forward, flinging open the window. “My mom has the best view, but if you lean out the window and look far to your right, you can see the lake. You really gotta lean out though.”

  He obeys, putting his hands on the windowsill and leaning forward.

  I backpedal as quickly as I can, like a crab on speed, and leap at the sign over Alex’s door.

  It doesn’t come down easy. There’s a single screw at the top, in the middle, holding it up. I glance over my shoulder, and Malik is still hanging out the window, so I yank harder.

  And it gives, raining drywall dust down on me as the screw yanks out of the wall. The board is in my hand as I sputter, spitting out the white, chalky dust I’ve inhaled.