Everything but the Truth Read online

  “And does his . . . forgetfulness have anything to do with why he never goes out?”

  Malik looks up at the ceiling, as if struggling with the truth of his grandfather’s disposition. “He’s bitter and angry about being forced out, but I think he’s also embarrassed that his mind is slipping. He’s afraid to make a mistake in front of anyone. He’s used to being one of the most brilliant men in the entire country. The idea that he’s somewhat . . . mortal . . . well, he’s struggling with it.”

  He finally looks me in the eyes again. “That’s probably why he was annoyed you were here when he was missing his glasses. You saw him in a weak moment.”

  “Ah,” I say, remembering his over-the-top frustration.

  So Mr. Buchannan doesn’t like to display flaws. It almost makes his gruff behavior forgivable.

  “Anyway, I told him earlier that I’d help him unpack some of his books, since he wouldn’t trust the movers with them. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Oh, um, no, that’s okay. I’m going to stop by my grandma’s on my way out,” I say, reaching for the door.

  “Okay. Text me later?”

  “Sure.”

  I think he might kiss me; I want another kiss, but instead, he just gives my hand a little squeeze and then steps away.

  Maybe three kisses in one day is too much to ask.

  I leave his apartment and head in the direction of Henrietta’s door. I glance back, just to be sure he’s not watching, and then cruise right past it and head for the elevators.

  It’s only when those doors slide shut that I finally do it.

  I touch my fingers to my lips, remembering how it felt to kiss him in the heat of the orangery.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning, I’m sitting at a table in Starbucks, a mile from Sunrise House, when Alex breezes in with Rena in tow.

  My heart does this weird, painful spasm as they laugh, approaching the front counter, oblivious to me sitting at a tiny table next to the fireplace.

  Alex said she had to help her mom with some project today, that she was too busy to come over and hang out. My eyes trail over the bundle of shopping bags in Rena’s hand. Forever 21. Macy’s. Abercrombie.

  They’ve been shopping all day. Alex doesn’t even like shopping, but apparently she’s willing to schlep from store to store with Rena?

  I glance at the side door, considering whether I should just get up and slink out. But before I can move, Rena flicks a glance over her shoulder, and then she does a double take, her pale pink lips turning into a tiny O as she stares at me.

  She knows. She totally knows that Alex blew me off, which means they talked about me, and about how Alex wanted to ditch me for some reason . . . ugh.

  My heart feels heavy in my chest as I force my lips to curl into an easy smile and lean back into the leather easy chair, watching as Rena elbows Alex, and Alex turns around to see me.

  Alex plays her part better, smiling like she’s surprised in a good way, like she’s pleased about running into me as she waves. She says something to Rena—handing her some cash—and heads in my direction.

  I go to cross my legs, so that I can appear oh so casual, but the table in front of me is low, and I end up kicking over my coffee cup.

  The cup tumbles over and the lid busts open, the coffee sloshing across the little wicker table, soaking into every crevice. I jerk upright and dab at the wicker with the tiny square napkin I’d received with my coffee. Alex veers off her course to grab a handful of napkins, and then we’re both dabbing at the table and not speaking and my cheeks feel too warm and I’m annoyed and . . .

  “That sucks,” Alex finally says, tossing the sopping napkins into a nearby garbage can. “Want me to order you another one?”

  “Sure you have time for that?” I ask, unable to keep the bite from my tone.

  If she’s surprised that I called her out, she’s not showing it. “Yeah, my mom wasn’t feeling well, so we decided to save mulching the garden for another day. I would’ve called you, but then Rena texted and I got side-tracked.”

  “Oh,” I say, not sure I buy it.

  “Do you want to go get manicures with us?” she asks, tossing my empty cup into a nearby trash can. “I’m sure they can squeeze you in. Our appointment is in ten minutes.”

  Appointment? Had they made it in advance or only just this morning?

  “Nah,” I say, standing. “I gotta go back home. Figured I could work a couple more hours. I only have, like, six weeks left to save for school.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She stands there awkwardly, glancing back at Rena. I can see she wants to go, but instead, her feet remain planted on the floor in front of me. “Have you run into Malik again yet?”

  I can’t help the grin that overtakes me. Immediately, Alex smiles back, and I can practically see her shoulders sink in relief that we’re talking about something else. “Um, yeah.”

  “So? Dish!”

  “He brought me to his house.”

  Her jaw drops. “The castle-looking mansion on the lake?”

  I nod.

  “Dang! I’ve seen pictures of the outside online. What’s it like?”

  “It’s crazy,” I say. “I lost track of the number of rooms, and we didn’t even make it off the ground floor.”

  “And?” she says, moving her hand in a come-on, out-with-it gesture.

  “And he has a lot of antiques?”

  “I meant, and what were you doing there? Did he invite you over for dinner? Oh,” she asks, her face lighting up, “did he cook for you?”

  “No, nothing like that. It wasn’t a date or anything. We were just grabbing some stuff for his grandpa. The whole thing was an hour, tops.”

  For some reason, I just can’t bring myself to tell her the other side I saw of Malik. The gentle, inspired, yet somehow unsure side of him. The one who questions who he is and who he wants to become.

  No, Alex wants to know about the boy everyone else reads about. The one on Google.

  She grins in an I’m-not-buying-that-you-didn’t-make-out-with-him sort of way, but she doesn’t press. “And is he still flirting with you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Seriously, you are a really bad storyteller,” she says, crossing her arms. “I need details.”

  “We kissed.”

  She gasps. “Like on the cheek?”

  I shake my head. “Um, no, like, for real.”

  She squeals enthusiastically, and it reminds me of a golden retriever. “I can’t even believe you’re dating Malik Buchannan. Everyone we know is going to be so jealous.”

  I pause. “Wait, what? You can’t tell anyone about this!”

  “Why not?”

  “Um, because he thinks I’m someone else? The less people who know about him, or us, or whatever, the better. We’re not even dating. It’s very casual.”

  “Well, it’s not like you’re going to let him slip through your fingers, right?”

  “Um, I guess?” Judging by her expression, I think she wants to throttle me. Like Malik is the giant, juicy fish, and I am stupid for not acting like I’d do anything to ensure he doesn’t get away. “Anyway, I have plans, so I’m going to get going,” I say, standing. I can’t analyze things with Malik yet. I can obsess over him in private, but talking about him makes it seem like I think it’s a real, lasting thing, and I can’t think like that, not when everything we have is built on such a shaky foundation.

  “Okay,” she says. “See you around?”

  I grab my purse, slipping the strap over my shoulder. “Yeah. Text me later.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  She heads back to where Rena is waiting for their drinks, and I slip out the side door, ignoring the weight in my chest as I remember that they have manicure appointments. How could they both have appointments if she was supposed to help her mom all day? She only likes going to a specific nail place, and it’s always booked up, like, three days out.

  Alex has never lied to me. She
wouldn’t start now.

  Would she?

  CHAPTER TEN

  On July first, with only a few days to spare, I remember my I love holidays lie. So I’m sitting cross-legged in the hall outside Henrietta’s apartment, leaning over a strip of blue paper.

  I curl it into a loop, slipping it around a red circle, and then grab the glue stick on the ground next to me, swiping it on the end of the paper before pinching it together.

  Two down, one bajillion to go.

  I hold it between my thumb and pointer finger, picking up my phone again. With one hand, I open a message to Alex, then type You sure you can’t stop by? So. Much. Work.

  I set my phone down and then pick up another strip, this one red, and repeat the formation of the loop.

  My phone chirps and I glance over at it. I don’t have to unlock the screen again to see Sorry. Busy.

  I roll my eyes, reaching for the glue stick. If it takes thirty seconds per ring and I want to make a chain for each side of the hall, and it has to be, oh, fifty feet long, that’s . . .

  That’s too much math, is what it is. There’s a reason I prefer history.

  “Channeling your inner kindergartener?” calls a familiar voice.

  I look up to see Malik striding toward me, grinning.

  “It’s starting to feel that way,” I say. “I’m a little late on the holiday decorations this year. And I may have underestimated just how large this hallway is.”

  “And you weren’t able to find anyone to force into slave labor, either,” he says.

  “Nope.”

  Before I can protest, he’s sitting down next to me, leaning back against the wall as he picks up a pair of scissors.

  “You don’t have to help me,” I say.

  “You’re doing me a favor. I’m supposed to go back to the office this evening to finish up a project, and I’m procrastinating.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Each month, I’m going through a crash course of different departments in the company, and this one is advertising. I have huge e-mail chains to read through, and binders full of old ads, and . . .” He sighs, like he’s overwhelmed or bored at the mere idea.

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “You can see why I would rather play with glue sticks.”

  “Then, by all means,” I say, motioning to the art supplies I have strewn about.

  I know it’s risky to sit out here in the hall like this, next to Malik, but there are only four penthouse suites on this wing. Three, if you don’t count Henrietta. And the two residents at this end of the hall—Byron and Ruth—happen to be besties and are away on a Caribbean cruise. So I figure it’s a pretty safe place to sit without anyone blowing my cover.

  “Let’s make a deal. I’ll help you make enough to cover this hall, and then we do an extra strand for my office. It’s really quite stuffy. It could use . . .”

  “More shoddy art?”

  “I’m tired of how serious that place is. And I wouldn’t mind something to remind me of you whenever I’m sitting at my desk.”

  I smile, meeting his eyes. “Okay, then, deal.”

  I push a stack of red and blue paper toward him and pick up a few of the strips I already cut. He grabs a white strip, twisting it so the two ends meet.

  “So . . . ,” I say, wracking my head for a conversation starter. “Um, where’s your favorite place in the world?”

  “This hallway is right up there,” he says, reaching for the glue stick.

  “I’m serious,” I say, hoping I don’t blush at his comment. He is entirely too good at flirting or complimenting or whatever. I try not to think of how much practice he’s probably had.

  “Why?”

  “It’s this thing my grandma does. She asks everyone about their favorite place.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. So what’s yours?”

  “Um,” he says, staring up at the ceiling for a second. “I guess I don’t have one.”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve probably traveled all over the world. You’ve got to have a favorite place.”

  “Can I get back to you on that?”

  “I guess.” I hold out my growing chain, letting him slip a new loop onto the end.

  “What about you?” he asks.

  “I’ll show you sometime. After you tell me yours.”

  “I’m going to hold you to it,” he says, picking up a scrap of red paper.

  I lay out my little chain of four on the floor. “How long do you think this is going to take us?”

  “Hopefully forever.” He grins. “But most likely . . . a couple of hours.”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right. It’ll just feel like forever.”

  “Let’s make a deal,” he says. “Whoever puts together enough to span the hall first, wins.”

  “Wins what?”

  “The choice of where we go on our next date.”

  “Deal.”

  Malik has an assigned parking stall, right next to the front entry of Buchannan Industries’ building C. This fact should not surprise me, but I keep looking at the metal sign, at where it says RESERVED FOR MALIK BUCHANNAN in big block letters. I’ve started to think of him as simply Malik, the person and not the icon, but that sign puts it all back in my head.

  I climb out of his car, staring upward at his office tower. It’s the tallest building on campus, all sparkling, black-tinted glass.

  “Twenty-one floors,” he says, from where he’s standing on the sidewalk. He’s got a twelve-foot-long, red-white-and-blue chain gathered in his hands.

  “Oh. Must have a nice view of the lake,” I say as I step up onto the curb.

  “It does.” He leads me down the walkway, and then we turn and step under the shade of a big frosted awning. There’s one of those revolving doors, and Malik lets me push through first.

  Inside, we’re greeted by a cold blast of AC. And silence.

  Complete silence.

  A guard sits behind a wide, glossy black desk. “Evening, Mr. Buchannan,” he calls as we pass by. Malik nods in response but doesn’t speak.

  There are four elevators on either side of us, and when he hits the up key, one immediately dings.

  I step inside, turning to hit the 21 button.

  Malik raises a brow. “How did you know?”

  The doors slide shut. “Please. Like they’re going to put you on, say, the second floor with accounting.”

  He smirks. “Accounting is on the third floor. Second is IT.”

  “Right,” I say, playfully patting him on the back. “So my point stands.”

  The doors open on the twenty-first floor, and we step out of the elevator, where an enormous curved desk sits. A big BUCHANNAN INDUSTRIES logo hangs over it, the words EXECUTIVE OFFICE below.

  But the chair is empty, and most of the overhead lights are off. Probably because it’s seven thirty. Malik was wrong when he guessed a couple of hours to make those chains. It took us four. But I don’t think he has any doubt of my dedication to holidays now.

  We pass door after door, each of them with big placards that have words like CEO and VICE PRESIDENT.

  We stop at the end of the hall, in front of a dark, cherry-wood door. The placard simply reads, MALIK BUCHANNAN.

  I point at the brass placard, giving him a quizzical look. “What, no title?”

  He keys in a code to the button on the door, not meeting my eyes. It’s almost like he’s embarrassed that his name is all that matters, not a title. “No. I’m still getting to know the way the company works, so I don’t have an official role here yet. I can’t lead a company I don’t know.”

  He pushes the door open, and my eyes widen.

  I’m facing a wall that is nothing but windows, from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Lake Washington stretches out below us, but it’s the opposite of the view at Sunrise House. I can see Mercer Island. To the right, cars zip across the bridge, looking like little ants marching in a row. The lake is inky blue, sprinkled with sailboats.

 
; “This was my grandfather’s office,” Malik says.

  “They let him keep it? Or give it to you, I guess?”

  He shrugs. “Some of the board members didn’t like how he was treated. They didn’t feel it was right for anyone but a Buchannan to sit at this desk.”

  I walk over, pulling out his chair and plopping down behind his work space. “So this is what you do all day?”

  “Most days. My ‘tutorial’ of the company is almost over, and then I need to pick something to focus on. My grandfather wants to expand into some new products. Textiles, maybe home-improvement stuff. I’m considering focusing on that. Maybe if we had fulfillment centers in new states or I found some businesses that needed a bigger selling platform, it could create jobs or something. I don’t know.”

  “Why did he focus on American-made products?” I ask, glancing around the office and wondering what it looked like when Charles inhabited it. It’s so . . . vanilla. It could be a CEO’s office at any company in the world. There’s nothing to indicate Charles Buchannan has some grandiose love of America.

  I mean, I guess I don’t know what I expected. A giant tile mosaic of the American flag on the floor?

  “His parents—my great grandparents—grew up during the Depression. Mom said they never let go of some of their habits, like how they didn’t trust banks, so they’d hide all their cash under their bed or something. Anyway, they were pretty poor when my grandpa was a kid, and apparently a little proud, too, because they wouldn’t accept handouts. So he figured out a way to make money on his own.”

  “The lemonade,” I say, remembering a story I’d once read about Charles Buchannan. He said the first American-made product he ever sold was a glass of lemonade, freshly squeezed by his own hands. His parents couldn’t force him to refund the money, since the customers had, in fact, traded their coin for a product and therefore it wasn’t charity.

  “Yeah. He was only twelve. By fifteen, he’d developed a handwritten catalog of products, and he’d go door to door, selling them on behalf of various people who lived in town. Furniture, cleaning products, clothing, you name it. And instead of pitching people on the product, he’d pitch them on who made it—that the overalls were made by that nice lady down the street who is expecting her third child, or that the furniture was hand-carved by a World War II vet. He was so successful that he started drafting his friends to help, and by the time he turned eighteen, the catalog was printed on glossy pages and distributed countywide.”