Everything but the Truth Page 12

  Malik is sliding back, out of the window.

  “Look at that bird!” I practically scream. “It’s like a pterodactyl!”

  He jumps, knocking his head on the top of the window frame, just as I fling the board into the closet. As I slide the door shut, he turns around, wincing as he rubs the back of his head.

  “Oh gosh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you hit your head. It was just . . . a really big bird. Like Big Bird!” Geez, I sound like an idiot. “Except, you know, not yellow.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, finally dropping his hand from his head. “I think I’ll survive.”

  “Great,” I say brightly. “So anyway, this is my room, and I probably shouldn’t keep you much—”

  The door behind me swings open, and my stomach sinks as Alex bursts into the room. “So my mom texted me, and she said—”

  Alex’s voice cuts off when she sees Malik standing beside me.

  “Uh, hey,” she says. How did she not see his car out on the curb?

  I give her a crazy smile, like I’m excited to see her. “So, I was just showing Malik my room,” I say.

  Alex’s eyes immediately dart to the spot above the door, pausing when she comes across the big hole in her wall, her lips parting.

  “That’s great,” she says, recovering, glancing down at spot of white drywall dust on her carpet. “But did you forget we had plans? You know, to go to . . . that thing we were invited to?”

  “Oh,” I say, wringing my hands. “I guess I did! We should really get going. To, the, uh, thing, since we RSVP’d and all.” I walk toward Alex, hoping Malik follows. “Sorry, I mean, I really just forgot about our big plans.”

  But for a long moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at me, his eyebrows knitted as he chews on the edge of his lip. His perfect, glorious lip that I am never going to kiss again if he figures me out.

  Wow, am I bad at this. Improv looks so much easier on TV.

  “Uh, okay. I need to head out anyway,” he says.

  “Mm-hmm,” I say. “Let me walk you out.”

  The three of us descend the stairs, my hand gliding down the oak bannister, relief slowly setting in. I’ve done it!

  Halfway across the living room, Alex’s mom steps into the doorway to the kitchen. “Did you want to stay for dinner, Holi—”

  “Orange juice!” Alexandria shouts over the top of day.

  Malik stops and raises a brow, glancing over at me with a total WTF look.

  “I am dying for orange juice!” she shouts again, rushing across the living room. She disappears into the kitchen, pulling her mother along with her, presumably to engage her in a scintillating conversation about orange juice.

  “Um, yeah. Alex has a thing about vitamin C,” I say feebly as I usher Malik out of the house.

  We walk over to his car, and I stop at the curb. “Um, so I guess we should go tea shopping sometime?”

  He laughs, pulling me close for a hug. When we pull apart, he pauses, with scarcely an inch to separate us. “I think that can be arranged.”

  “Great. Text me later?”

  He turns me so I’m leaning back against his car and he has one hand propped up beside my shoulder. Then he leans in slowly, agonizingly so, until my eyes slip shut and he kisses me.

  He pulls away just enough for our eyelashes to practically brush each other and meets my gaze.

  “Until next time?”

  “Mm-hmm,” is all I can muster, hypnotized by his eyes.

  He finally steps away, leaving me almost gasping for breath. I move away from his car and step onto Alex’s front lawn, waving good-bye as he climbs into his car and pulls away.

  That boy kisses like a god.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Malik and I are at the mall, of all places. I guess I thought people as obscenely wealthy as his family only shopped on, like, Rodeo Drive or something. But here we are at Nordstrom, surveying the racks.

  “She likes purple,” he says, tipping his head to the side and staring at a scarf.

  “Do you really think she wants a scarf?” I ask, looking at the item in his hands.

  “No, but what else am I supposed to get her?” He scrubs at his hair with his hands.

  “I don’t know,” I say, kind of loving how stressed out he is about getting his mom a birthday present. He’s so rarely this . . . ruffled. “I’ve never met your mom.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you have any pictures of you guys together over the years? Like on a computer or something?”

  He looks up. “Uh, yeah.”

  “You could order something personalized. Parents totally dig that stuff. Make her a scrapbook or framed photos or something. So she can hang it in her office and brag about you.”

  He looks up at me, surprised. “She’d love that.”

  “Awesome. You can do that from your computer at home and have it shipped to her. And we can pick out a card or something, for a more personalized touch.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good. Now let’s go hit up the food court. I’m dying for a Slurpee.”

  We leave the store behind, stepping back into the bright, tall corridors of the mall. Overhead, big skylights show it’s still raining outside, drops pounding against the glass and the clouds a dark and menacing gray.

  We’re just passing a staircase, Malik walking beside me and kind of swinging my hand back and forth.

  “Mathews!”

  I freeze at the familiar voice and the nickname, dread making my limbs feel heavy.

  Hunter always did call everyone by their last name. He claims it’s from years of playing soccer and basketball with two coaches who referred to every player that way. It drove me crazy because it always made me feel like he thought of me as one of the guys.

  Today is the first time I’ve ever been grateful for that quirk of his.

  I turn around to see him jogging down the steps, taking them two by two. He’s going so fast, I half expect him to trip on his own feet and tumble down the stairs.

  Malik leans in. “Who’s that?”

  “Uh, an old boyfriend,” I say, the words floating out on a whisper. I give him a feeble smile as Hunter approaches.

  As he rushes over to us, I realize he’s staring at Malik and not me, his eyes raking over him from head to toe as if sizing up his replacement. Only when he’s a foot away does he suddenly switch his focus, throwing his arms around me in an abrupt, unwelcome hug. I reluctantly let go of Malik’s hand to halfheartedly hug him back, awkwardly tapping on his back a few times as if to cry uncle.

  “Um. Hi, Hunter,” I say, trying to untangle myself from his way-too-strong hug. “This is Malik. Malik, this is Hunter.”

  Malik starts to extend his hand, and then Hunter’s jutting out his fist, and Malik is forced to turn what should’ve been a handshake into a very bro-ish fist bump.

  Malik looks ridiculous when he fist-bumps. Like he’s painfully unaccustomed to it.

  “You guys serious?” Hunter says, glancing back at me again, his eyes sparkling with intrigue.

  It’s not like Hunter broke up with me yesterday. It’s been months. “That stopped being your business last April. How’s Finley, by the way?”

  Hunter shrugs but doesn’t meet my gaze. “Eh, I don’t know. Fine, I guess,” he says, dismissing my question. “So how’d you two meet?”

  Ugh. Where’s one of those toy helicopters people are always playing with at mall kiosks? If only one could crash straight into Hunter’s face.

  “Oh, you know . . . ,” I say, waving away the question. I turn to Malik, trying to send him my best let’s-get-out-of-this-now look.

  “No, actually, I don’t know. What kind of places do you guys hang out at?” he asks, his gaze sliding over Malik. Slowly, like he’s assessing a rival in a boxing ring.

  Something about the question hits me the wrong way. Suddenly, I’m deeply uncomfortable, eager to get away from the weird, digging questions. Why is he so worried about me being with Malik?
I haven’t talked to Hunter in months. He shouldn’t care. Not like this.

  “Again, none of your business, actually. And anyway, I think we need to get going,” I say, glancing at Malik for help. “We have plans today, so . . .”

  “Yeah, we’re about to be late. Was nice to meet you, um—” Malik pauses and shrugs as if he can’t remember Hunter’s name. It’s clear he’s also taken stock of Hunter and doesn’t particularly like what he sees.

  “Hunter,” he supplies. “You sure you have to go? Maybe we could—”

  “Yep, we’re in a real rush, sorry,” I say. “We’ll just have to catch up some other time, okay?” I take Malik’s hand again, and we rush off, leaving Hunter to stand in the middle of the corridor, watching us longingly.

  “Ugh, so that was . . . ,” I say, my voice trailing off. “Uh, really, really weird. I don’t know why he was so enthralled by you.”

  “It’s not that weird,” Malik says, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t seem surprised. More . . . resigned.

  “Huh? I mean, he’s into girls,” I say, offering a nervous laugh. “Let me just clear that up for you.”

  “He recognized me,” Malik says simply, his lips turned down a little as he shrugs.

  “I’m not sure why he had to stare at your watch and—”

  I go silent when his statement sinks in.

  “Oh.” I swallow. “Oh.”

  That’s when I finally understand.

  He knows who Malik is. Not Malik, but Malik Buchannan, billionaire. The guy from Time, TMZ, Forbes . . .

  The pre-Nepal Malik.

  Hunter barely looked at me, instead stealing looks at Malik, as if he needed to memorize each detail—not just his silver Rolex, but his perfectly polished black leather shoes . . . his scarf . . .

  It was like he was cataloging it for later to check just how expensive everything Malik was wearing might be.

  “Oh,” I say again. “Is this what it’s like?” I ask, glancing around the mall, wondering who else recognizes him, and seeing the other shoppers in a whole new light.

  “More or less, yeah.”

  “I thought he was jealous of you. You know, checking you out since you’re the first guy he’s seen me with since we broke up. But it’s the opposite. He’s jealous of me for being around you, isn’t he?”

  Malik shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  “He pretty much wanted to glom onto you.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know where people think that will get them, but it happens.”

  “A lot?”

  “More often than not. It used to amuse me, but that was before.”

  I don’t have to ask what before he means.

  “Well, if it makes you feel better, Hunter’s got the IQ of a block of wood, so you wouldn’t want him in your life anyway.”

  Malik cracks a smile then, hooking his arm around my shoulder and pulling me up against the length of his body. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, anytime you need someone to insult Hunter, I’m your girl.”

  Malik slings his arms around my shoulders, squeezing me closer. “No, I mean thanks for not being like him. And like a thousand others.”

  “Anytime,” I say.

  And, as I let myself enjoy the weight of his arm around me, I try not to notice the lady on the second-floor balcony, recording us on her cell phone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  On days like today, I kind of wish I had a window seat in my bedroom. It’s pouring, and water streams down the window so thickly, I can barely see the blurry outlines of trees.

  The apartment is silent. My mom’s down the hall in her office, meeting with an advertising agency to create a new brochure she thinks will bring in more new residents.

  I never noticed how softly I can hear the rain in here. It’s so well insulated, compared to every other place we’ve lived, that it’s almost like watching and listening to rain on TV. Like I’m separated from it.

  I step back, trying not to cringe at the print my forehead has left behind on the glass, and head out of the door of our apartment. It’s way too yucky to go outside and actually do anything, so I may as well make myself useful and earn a few more extra bucks for my college fund. I head back to the front desk, hoping the receptionist has had some calls requesting my help. I’m down to barely a month before I leave, and every dollar will help.

  Julia’s not at her desk, though. I glance up and down the hall, waiting for her to appear, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  I flip her book open, skimming down a page of scribbles to see if my name pops out on any pages.

  Room 405. Says the shades on her window are stuck.

  405. Henrietta. The time is two hours ago, but it’s worth double-checking that someone helped her. She doesn’t tip me, since she thinks I’m family, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to help her.

  I’m inside the elevator, and just as the doors start to ease shut, a hand juts into the crack, and they slide open again.

  Malik grins. “You,” he says.

  “Me,” I reply, grinning.

  “Our superb grandchildren skills are really in sync,” he jokes.

  Like it’s such a crazy coincidence that he runs into me almost every time he’s here.

  “Yep,” I say.

  The door slips shut, and he moves over, his hand dangling down beside mine, and interlaces our fingers, giving mine a squeeze. “Let’s go to dinner or something tonight.”

  Warmth spirals through me at the casual way he’s saying it. It’s amazing how fast things evolved between us and became comfortable.

  The doors click open, and we walk into the hall, our fingers slipping apart as we arrive at the spot where we must go in different directions. He pauses. “So, text me when you’re done visiting and we’ll figure something out?”

  “Sure,” I say. I head to Henrietta’s door, knocking twice as Malik heads down the hall to his grandpa’s place.

  Silence.

  Behind me, the sound of the fancy family-crest brass knocker echoes down the hall. I glance back, to see if he’s noticed I’m still here, and his eyes are trained on me.

  “Not home?” he asks.

  “Nah, she’s usually just a little slow to get to the door,” I say, waving away his look. “Don’t wait on me.”

  But now he’s walking away from his grandpa’s place and striding toward me. He’s halfway there when Charles opens the door, and Malik hesitates.

  “Seriously, go on,” I say, making a ridiculous shooing motion. Ugh, I am being way too obvious. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  I turn away from the door because there’s no denying nobody is going to answer it and head back in the direction of the elevator.

  “Hey, why don’t you come on in? He had some of Cartwell’s art put up. Pollack, I think?”

  I hesitate. He’s said the magic words.

  “You know you want to,” he fairly singsongs.

  I spin back around and stride down the hall, hoping my mom doesn’t suddenly get the urge to check on the fourth-floor residents, and slip into Charles’s apartment.

  “Wow,” I say breathlessly, stepping closer.

  “She’s beautiful,” Charles replies from somewhere behind me, the pride positively dripping from his words. “Isn’t she?”

  His voice is nearly as breathless as my own, and I know without a doubt he appreciates the beauty of it with the same passion I do.

  Who would have thought I’d have anything in common with Charles Buchannan?

  “But it’s so close to the windows. The sunlight—”

  “I’ve already arranged for UV-blocking blinds,” he says.

  I turn and grin at him. “Smart.”

  “So are you,” he says simply, walking away and leaving me gaping.

  After all his aloofness, after all his gruffness, he tells me I’m smart.

  It’s only when I follow his trek across the room that I take in the rest of the items he’s so carefully arra
nged. The sideboards, the Fabergé, the vase. Everything Malik and I chose has arrived.

  “So, Grandpa, I thought we could finally go down to one of the restaurants for lunch,” Malik says, turning to his grandfather.

  “No,” he says, the word flat and insistent.

  “Come on, you can’t stay up here forever. There’s a whole world out there.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Look, if you don’t want to do it for you, do it for me. Mom’s been on my case to get you out of here. She’s driving me crazy.”

  “My eating down there won’t stop her from her ridiculous worries. She should be focusing on the business instead of my social calendar.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s just one lunch,” I say. “And maybe that’ll get her off his back for a week or two. That’s worth it, right?”

  He groans, rolling his eyes. But I can see it. We’ve worn him down.

  “Fine, then. But only if you come too,” Charles says, waving his hand in my direction. “You’re the only one who talks about anything interesting.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say, backing up as if a few feet of extra space will extrapolate me from the quicksand I’ve landed in. I can’t sit in the dining hall with them, surrounded by all the residents. “And, um, I’ve got things to—”

  “Oh, come on,” Malik says, turning to me. His eyes are pleading. And I know it’s for his grandfather’s sake, not his own. He needs me to do this. “Henrietta’s not even home, so you’ve got some free time. Come with us.”

  And that’s how I find myself holding the elbow of Charles Buchannan, hoping an earthquake happens before we get to the dining room, or that all the people inside forget what my name is.

  Simultaneously.

  We have to pass my mom’s office as we head to the dining hall, and she catches a glimpse of us as I step by her windows.

  She opens her mouth, as if to call out to me, but then it just kind of hangs there as she takes in whose arm I’m holding.

  She should be mad, since we kind of agreed I’d stay away from Charles, but judging by her expression, she’s too excited to see him down here to care.