Count My Lies

Chapter 28

28

I get up early the next morning. I hardly slept. Jay is still snoring when I leave the room. It takes all of my willpower not to hold a pillow over his face.

Downstairs, I make a cup of coffee, wait for Harper to get up. Our beach things are packed, ready. We have a big day ahead of us.

I take my mug onto the porch, walk down the driveway toward the water. It’s a warm morning, hotter than it’s been, the air heavy with humidity. There’s only the faintest of breezes, the tall grasses swaying gently. I squint at the beach. Anne-Marie and her kids have already set up camp down near the water.

At eight thirty, I go back upstairs and wake Harper. Sloane’s door is still shut. Poor thing must be tired from her big night on the town, the heavy petting in the hallway. It’s exhausting sneaking around.

It’s just as well. I need to talk to Anne-Marie. And I’d like to do it alone.

When Harper is dressed and fed, the two of us make our way down to the water. I set up our umbrella and chairs, then motion for Harper to follow me. “Want to go play with Rooney and Claire?”

We walk along the surf until we reach their beach chairs, the towels spread out in the sand, all covered in beach toys. Anne-Marie waves from her spot under the umbrella.

“Morning!” I call out.

“Where’s Fitz today?” I ask, dropping down into the beach chair next to her. Fitz is both Anne-Marie’s favorite and least-favorite thing to talk about. It’s clear she thinks he’s a semi-functioning baboon who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. She enjoys his paychecks, but not much else. She’s like a wind-up doll on the subject. If you turn her key, she’ll yak for hours, pausing only for the occasional inhalation.

Anne-Marie groans. “Golfing. Again. We’re here for almost ten days, and I think he’ll have spent nine of them with a golf club in his hand. I don’t get it,” she says. “Really. Golf? It’s so boring . I know it’s his vacation, too, but honestly. Last year, we went to Barbados and…” And she’s off.

I half listen, my eye on Harper kneeling in the wet sand with Rooney and Claire. I could watch her for hours. Study the freckles on her nose, kiss her eyelids, listen to her long-winded stories, her breathy pauses, her laugh. She’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. The meaning of my life, every good part of me distilled into her tiny, perfect body.

When I tune back into Anne-Marie, she’s staring at me expectantly. “I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask.

“I said, Jay doesn’t seem like that kind of guy, though,” she says finally, glancing back up at our house. “The kind that plays golf all day. He seems great. A really involved dad.”

“Oh.” I smile politely. “Yeah, he’s great. Friendly, too. Really friendly.” I let out a little nervous laugh. “Sometimes a little too friendly, you know?” I laugh again, uncomfortably, like I don’t want to make a big deal about it, even though it’s clear what I’m insinuating.

Anne-Marie’s eyes widen. “Jay? Do you mean—?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say hurriedly. “It’s totally possible I misread the situation. He probably didn’t mean for his hand to…” I shake my head, dismissing the whole thing. “It was nothing, really. I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t mention it to anyone, okay?”

She nods, of course she’ll keep it to herself—as if Anne-Marie has ever kept anything to herself—but I can see the gears turning. When she learns of the murder, her blood will run cold, remembering our conversation. It won’t surprise her. Men who are capable of infidelity are capable of anything.

“Oh!” I say. “I almost forgot. Violet wanted me to ask you—would it be okay if Harper spends the night at your house tonight? She’s been begging for a sleepover. Then we could return the favor, have your kids sleep over at ours?”

“Absolutely!” Anne-Marie says. “The more the merrier! Claire and Rooney are ten times easier to manage when Harper’s around.”

“Great!” I say. “I’ll feed her lunch at home, then maybe Violet can bring her over after?”

“She’s welcome to eat with us. It’s supposed to be in the nineties today, so I was planning to head in early anyway to get out of the heat. I can make an extra grilled cheese for her.”

“Perfect.” I smile.

When Harper and I start back to our umbrella, I see Sloane, already sitting in a beach chair. She lifts a hand up and waves tentatively as we approach.

“Hey,” she calls out. She keeps her eyes on me as we reach the edge of the blanket, searching my face. Do I know?

I stare back for a moment, enjoying watching her sweat, then relax my face. Know what, Sloane? I smile broadly. “Hi! How was dinner last night?”

Sloane returns the smile uneasily. “Really nice,” she says carefully. “I think Harper had a good time, didn’t you, Harp?” She looks to Harper, who nods in agreement. “And the lobster was delicious. I’d never had one before.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “So good, huh? It’s my favorite lobster house. And did you get the molten chocolate cake?” I sigh wistfully. “The best I’ve ever had.”

Sloane nods. “We shared one. Jay was worried Harper would be up all night if she had her own.”

Oh, wow, what a good dad! Should I give him a standing ovation? The bar for men is unspeakably low. I smile tightly. Except that isn’t why they shared one. It’s funny, how well Sloane thinks she knows Jay, when in truth, she knows nothing about him except the lies we’ve both been feeding her.

“Are you feeling better?” Sloane asks, quickly changing the subject. She probably finds it uncomfortable talking about the date she had with my husband. A date that ended in a kiss. Well, more than one.

“Much,” I say. “Thanks. I took an ibuprofen eight hundred and it knocked me out. I slept like the dead. I didn’t even hear you guys come in.”

The relief on Sloane’s face is clear as day. I wonder if it kept her up, worrying if I’d heard them together in the hallway, if I lay in my bed, ears straining. Then her face tightens again. She chews on her lower lip, brow slightly furrowed.

Here it is. Here’s where she confronts me about Jay, about our divorce. I glance at Harper, digging a hole in the sand a few feet away.

Sloane clears her throat. “You told me you don’t drink.” She says it lightly, carefully, like she’s on tiptoe, stepping softly across a creaking floor, hoping not to make a sound.

I stare at her, surprised. What did Jay tell her? Did he tell her about the night things ended? About the shattered wineglass? The police officers on our doorstep?

I force my mouth into a placid smile. Play it cool. “I don’t.”

Sloane pauses, then, haltingly, “But Jay said…” she starts. She’s not sure how to finish that sentence without it sounding like an accusation.

“He said what exactly?” I raise an eyebrow wryly. Don’t be defensive, Violet.

Sloane shrugs. “Just that you drink sometimes. And I was confused because you told me you don’t.”

I lick my lips, exhale through my nose. Blink a few times, stalling, thinking. “Well,” I say. “I used to. It’s why I don’t anymore. It’s been a few months now, since I stopped. When we first moved, I was lonely, the days were long. I started drinking at five, having a glass of wine before dinner instead of with. Then five o’clock became four. Then three thirty. Then, before I knew it, I was pouring myself a drink at noon, drinking steadily until I put Harper to bed.”

This part isn’t a complete lie. It’s true that I was drinking more than I should have been. Anyone would have, if their husband did what mine had.

I sigh. “Anyway, eventually I realized something needed to change.” I don’t tell her why I’ve cut back, why I hide the bottle of vodka, why I only allow myself a glass or two every once in a while. It’s none of her business what happened that night.

“So I quit,” I say, shrugging. “One night I dumped all the bottles down the drain, like they do in the movies.” I smile at Sloane. “I didn’t say anything to Jay because then I would have had to admit I’d had a problem. And who wants to do that? But”—I shrug—“I’m not surprised he hasn’t noticed. He’s been a little… preoccupied.”

I don’t look away when I say this, holding Sloane’s gaze. You , calling me a liar, Sloane? That’s fucking funny.

Sloane blinks, reddens, then shifts her gaze to the sand at her feet.

Then, abruptly, she says, “You know, I’m a little hungry. I didn’t eat anything before I came down. I’m going to head back up to the house and grab something. Want anything?”

I smile, shake my head. “No, thanks.”

I watch Sloane leave. She’s walking a bit more stiffly than usual, her shoulders held higher, back straighter.

I know for certain now. Our friendship, or whatever Sloane and I had, is gone, dissipating like a trail of smoke from a blown-out candle, a thin gray trace in the air, then nothing. She’s chosen Jay. Good. It’s a relief. It will make what I have to do easier.

Thirty minutes later, when I see Anne-Marie and her kids head toward their house, I pack up and tell Harper we’re going in. I’m thrumming with adrenaline, my whole body vibrating. The day seems hotter, crisper, clearer, than it normally does, the blades of beach grass sharper, pale against the bright blue sky. It feels like we’re in an oven, the temperature creeping up with every passing minute.

When we get to the house, I open the front door, then pause. I hold my hand out behind me to keep Harper from walking in.

From the doorway, I have a clear view into the kitchen. Sloane and Jay are standing together near the sink. Her back is to me as she faces Jay, her face tilted toward his. I can’t see if they’re kissing, but they’re close enough that they could be. They haven’t heard us, too caught up in whatever they’re doing, saying.

Then I let the door slam. Sloane and Jay jump apart. Sloane looks toward us guiltily, like she’s been caught red-handed, elbow-deep in the cookie jar.

“Hi!” Sloane calls out, a bit too loudly. “I didn’t think you guys would be back so soon!” Her cheeks are aflame. Jay, unsurprisingly, doesn’t say anything.

I wait a beat before giving a tight smile. Then I take Harper’s hand. “We’re going to go get rinsed off,” I say. “Let’s go, Harp.”

Upstairs, Harper and I pack a bag. Even though it’s supposed to be for one night, it’ll likely be many, many more, so I stuff a few extra T-shirts, undies, and shorts into her backpack. “In case you want options,” I tell her, ruffling her hair.

Harper is bouncing around the room, thrilled at the prospect of her first sleepover with a friend.

“What kind of pajamas do you think Claire will have?” I ask as I put her Frozen ones at the top of the bag.

“Maybe she’ll have Elsa, like me,” says Harper. “Maybe we’ll be matching. Or maybe she’ll have Ana. Or maybe she won’t have Frozen . Maybe she’ll have Encanto . Do you think she’s seen Encanto ?”

I nod, laughing. I’d bet my life that every warm-blooded five-year-old on the planet has.

Then, before I open her bedroom door, I bend down, circle my arm around her tiny waist. “When I pick you up from Claire’s house, let’s play a game, okay?”

Harper nods. “Okay. What game?”

“We’re going to pretend I’m Caitlin. And every time you call me Caitlin, you’ll get an M&M. Deal?”

She nods again. I bring her to me, hugging her tightly. “That’s my girl. I bet you’ll be so good at it, you’ll get a whole bag!”

Then, together, we walk down the stairs, back into the living room. Sloane is still in the kitchen, sitting at the table. She’s gnawing on a fingernail, brows knit together. She looks up sharply when she hears us, then stands, the chair almost toppling over.

“Hi,” she says. She’s nervous. She thinks I saw her and Jay kissing, or at least, is worried I did. There’s guilt on her face, too, smeared all over it.

“Will you take Harper next door?” I ask. “She’s going to spend the night at Anne-Marie’s house, with her kids.”

“I’m having a sleepover!” Harper announces. She’s wearing her backpack over her shoulders. It’s almost as big as she is, stuffed to the brim.

Sloane looks surprised. “Sure. Is everything okay?” she asks cautiously.

For me it is. For you, Sloane, not so much. “Fine,” I say. I try to keep my voice even. My heart is starting to pound. This is it. “So, you can take her?”

She nods. “Now?”

“Yeah, you’re ready, right, Harp?”

Harper nods happily. I stoop to kiss her, but she’s already out the door, starting down the stone walkway. My heart lurches. I want to run after her, scoop her up and hold her one last time, squeeze her until she squirms out of my arms, giggling. Mo-om, stop! But I don’t. Soon, it’ll just be her and me, together.

“See you soon,” I call after them. I lift a hand, wave.

Sloane turns back. “See you soon,” she echoes.