Count My Lies

Chapter 6

6

The Lockharts’ house is only fifteen minutes from ours. I walk quickly, taking small, brisk steps. My heart is beating in double time, my nerves wired, but in a good way, like at the end of a date you never want to end, smiling nervously at each other, the air charged, night brimming with possibilities, or on Christmas morning, right before you walk into the living room. I keep reaching into my bag to make sure that the book for Jay is still inside. It is, of course, but I can’t help myself.

I arrive at the address two minutes after six. From the sidewalk, I stare up at the house, the same brownstone from the Google Maps image. It’s even more impressive in person, bigger, the wrought-iron railings shinier, its recently restored facade pristine. Worth every penny of the three-point-two they paid for it. I’d whistle under my breath if I knew how.

I climb the stoop and pause on the top step, shifting my weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Briefly, I see Allison’s face, her whip of red hair. Suddenly, I consider turning around. It feels like I’m here under false pretenses. And I am, I guess. If I walk away now, no one will be the wiser. But then I catch sight of Violet through their front bay window. She’s bending over Harper’s shoulder as she colors at a small table in their living room. Violet is pointing to the drawing and nodding, smiling, cheeks slightly flushed. I blink Allison away. I know I’m not leaving.

I straighten, tighten the flannel around my waist. My name is Caitlin. I am a nurse. One, two. I tick off the lies that I’ve told, repeat them until they feel real. Then I knock.

A moment later, the door swings wide. Violet stands in the doorway, a little breathless, eyes shining. She’s wearing the same outfit she had on earlier—the linen shorts, white shirt—covered by a frilly, paisley-print apron. She’s also put on a cardigan, the sleeves pushed up.

“Caitlin, hi! Come in!”

I step from the porch into their entryway. In front of me is an oak staircase, leading to a second floor, and to the right, a large living room with the window I saw from the street. On the other side of the living room, a kitchen. There’s music playing in a low murmur, a woman’s voice, a guitar. The house is warm and smells like freshly baked bread.

“Follow me,” Violet says, motioning with her hand. “I’m just finishing up dinner. Jay should be home any minute. Harper, say hi.”

I follow her through their living room into the kitchen. Harper glances up from her miniature table as we walk by, smiles and waves, then continues drawing, humming under her breath. “Let It Go,” from Frozen , I think.

The kitchen is bigger than most in Brooklyn—certainly bigger than our shoebox with a stove—with bright white cabinets, shiny gold accents, a six-burner oven, and a French-door refrigerator. To the right, there’s a dining nook with a table set for four, but large enough for at least six, a large rattan lamp shade hanging above it.

“Sit, sit.” Violet points to a bar stool on one side of the marble-topped kitchen island. There’s a fragrant bowl of gardenias in the center of the counter that smell like a garden after it’s just rained. “Everything’s almost ready. The pasta’s boiling; the sauce is simmering. I just need to take the bread from the oven.”

I hang my purse over the back of the stool and slide onto the chair. Looking around, I want to pinch myself. If you’d told me this morning that this is where I’d be for dinner, I’d have laughed, said you were as big of a liar as I am.

“You want some wine?” Violet asks, pulling a half-empty bottle of white out of the fridge, glass fogged with condensation.

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I don’t drink.” I surprise myself, telling her this. It’s true, but something I rarely admit. I wait for her to raise her eyebrows, cock her head at me in surprise, like I’ve revealed I have a third nipple. You don’t drink ? Most people act as if I’ve told them I skin puppies for sport. My god, the horror!

Instead, Violet breaks into a big, warm smile. “Me neither!” She returns the bottle, then reaches into the back of the fridge. “I’ll pour us something else. Do you like ginger?”

I nod, elated. Another three-nippled freak, just like me. I love that we have something in common already. “Sure,” I say.

“Perfect.” She pulls out a can, shuts the fridge, and grabs two champagne glasses from the cabinet behind her. The can snaps loudly when she opens it, a sharp, crisp crack. Carefully, she fills the glasses, foam rising.

“My favorite ginger ale,” she says. “No one would ever know it’s not champagne.”

She smiles and hands me a glass. “Cheers.”

I touch my glass to hers, then bring the rim to my lips. It’s sugar sweet, a little spicy. “Delicious,” I say.

“Right?” Violet says. “It’s my signature move, actually: ordering ginger ale at a bar, asking for it in a champagne glass.” She scrunches up her nose. “I hate telling people I don’t drink. Saying no is never good enough, is it? They always want to know why you’re not drinking, like if you turn down a drink there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

I nod emphatically. “Totally.” I rarely go out with friends, but she’s right, on the occasions I do, I make something up—I’m on antibiotics or I went at it a little too hard the night before. The truth—that it gives me hives, giant red puffy splotches the color of overripe cherries—is far less appealing.

“The worst is when they give me a little coy, knowing smile, glancing at my stomach, like they’re in on some stupid secret. Like the only reason on the planet a woman wouldn’t drink is if she’s pregnant.” Violet rolls her eyes.

“So would you hate me if I asked why?” I say, leaning forward on the counter. I can’t help myself. Remember, I told you I was nosy. “I can go first—I’m highly allergic. It actually might be worth a glass or two if I didn’t look like a smallpox patient. It turns out people don’t love being in close quarters with Typhoid Mary.” This, unfortunately, is also true. I’d learned this my first weekend in college, when I’d taken a sip of warm beer at a house party and almost instantaneously turned into a tomato; the rate at which people distanced themselves was alarming.

Violet laughs. “Assholes, all of them.” Then, “Oh, fuck!” she cries. She runs to the stove. The water is foaming, bubbling up and out of the pot, spilling down the sides. “I’m a terrible cook,” she says, smiling over her shoulder at me helplessly. “But it’ll be edible, I swear.”

I study her as I sip my ginger ale, watching as she glides around the kitchen, her glossy, dark brown hair gleaming, soft waves bouncing. There’s something effortlessly cool about her, even as she flounders.

She turns back toward me and opens her mouth to say something, but before she does, there’s the sound of a door opening and closing. We both look toward the living room.

From where I’m sitting, I can see Jay in the foyer, his hand still on the doorknob. Then he turns, facing the living room. I can see him, but he doesn’t yet see me. There’s that flutter in my chest again. He’s even more handsome than I remember, in a collared shirt and loosened tie, pressed navy khakis, but he wears a clouded expression, his face drawn, not easy and relaxed like it was at the park.

“I’m home,” he calls out.

He shrugs off a brown leather bag and slings it over the stairway banister, walks into the living room. He pauses at Harper’s little table, bends over to give her a kiss, smooths her bangs, then comes into the kitchen.

Violet smiles at him brightly. “Jay, you remember Caitlin, right?”

At this, his face changes, softening around the mouth and eyes. He looks at me and smiles, that same smile from the park—wide, dimpled, full teeth. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. “Of course,” he says. “How could I forget our savior? Guardian angel. Patron saint of the park. Good to see you again, Caitlin.”

I blush. “It was just a bee sting,” I say.

“Well, your expertise was highly appreciated,” Violet says. “You were the hot topic at dinner that night. They both couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Jay’s smile seems to freeze. He hesitates, then says, “She’s right. If you hadn’t come over when you did, Harper wouldn’t have been the only one in tears.”

I give a little laugh. “You’re welcome, then. I’m glad I was able to help.”

He surveys the kitchen, his eyes settling on the champagne flutes in our hands. “I see you’ve already gotten started,” he says, deadpan.

Violet rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly. It’s a silly joke, one that he’s clearly made before. It reminds me of being a kid, ordering a Shirley Temple at dinner, the waiter winking at me conspiratorially— hitting the sauce pretty hard, I see! It’s more charming coming from Jay. “Can I get you a beer?” she asks him.

“I’ll get it,” he answers, crossing the kitchen. I like how he doesn’t fall into that 1950s stereotype, the one that gets off work and plonks into his armchair, accepting—expecting—a cold drink prepared lovingly by his perfectly coiffed, apron-clad wife, though Violet happens to be both.

As he moves toward the fridge, their bodies brush. His back against hers. They both turn, catching each other’s eyes, holding a beat. I look away, feeling both embarrassed and jealous by the intimacy, a brief sharp twinge in my stomach.

Jay pops open his beer and takes a swig, leaning against the countertop next to the stove. Then, he raises the bottle in my direction. I smile and do the same. We both drink.

“Need help?” he asks Violet, and she nods at him gratefully. “The Parmesan, can you grate it? Oh, and grab the serving bowl from the top cabinet, would you? The pasta is ready to toss.”

He complies, setting his beer down and retrieving a large bowl from an upper cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. He sets it down next to her and picks up the cheese and begins to grate it. As he works, Violet drains the pasta into a colander in the sink, then transfers the noodles into the bowl, ladles in the simmering sauce.

“Okay,” Violet says, surveying the kitchen, hands on her hips. “I think we’re ready to eat! Harper, come wash your hands!”

A few minutes later, we’re all seated, Jay and Violet on either end, me across from Harper. Violet dishes out the pasta while Jay passes around a basket of warm, crispy bread. I take a slice, then offer the basket to Harper, who takes two.

When everyone’s been served, Violet holds up her glass. “Cheers. Thanks for joining us tonight, Caitlin.”

“Cheers!” Harper shouts, holding up a plastic cup of milk. I smile at her and touch my glass to hers, then to Violet’s, then, lastly, to Jay’s. Our eyes meet and we both smile.

“Thanks for having me,” I say, after I’ve taken a sip of my ginger ale. I look again at Jay, then back at Violet. “So, where’d you guys meet?”

I expect warm smiles, eyes glazing as they remember the night, but neither of them looks at me. Instead, they look at each other, their gaze holding steady. I can’t read the expression on either one’s face. Violet breaks first, glancing toward me and waving a hand dismissively.

“College,” she says. “I wish it were a more interesting story, but it would probably bore you to tears.”

It wouldn’t, I want to assure her, but there’s something about her tone that stops me, slightly clipped, but somehow, almost too cheerful. I look to Jay, hoping he’ll say more, but he doesn’t. He’s staring at his plate, a strange tight-lipped smile on his face that looks ironed on.

I shift in my chair, wracking my brain for something else to say, but before I have the chance, Harper yells, “Look at this! A worm!”

She’s holding up a noodle, wiggling it dramatically. We all laugh. Quickly, Harper becomes the center of the conversation, loudly chattering on about her day, happy as a clam when I ask her about her favorite book, announcing that it’s Winnie-the-Pooh . She smiles when I tell her it’s one of my favorites, too.

“Nina read me all of The House at Pooh Corner . It’s a chapter book,” she says proudly.

“Who’s Nina?” I ask.

“Our nanny,” Violet jumps in. “Well, former. She stopped working for us a few months ago. A shame, really. Harper loved her. We all did. Didn’t we, honey?” She turns to Jay. “She was the best, huh?”

Jay stops chewing, blinks, then nods, once.

Violet sighs, turning back to me. “I’ve had the hardest time finding a replacement.” She launches into a story about the series of interviews she’s had over the last couple of weeks, how one candidate showed up two hours late in stage makeup, apologizing about an audition that ran long, only to go on to say that she didn’t have any practical experience with kids, but she had played a mom in a commercial once. “Apparently,” Violet says, “if you want a good nanny in New York, you need to find one when your child is in utero.”

I smile; she’s right. “Actually, I used to be a nanny,” I say. “Before I got into nursing.” This—believe it or not—is true. I started in college when one of my professors said she was looking for someone to pick up her daughter after school. She recommended me to another colleague, and before I knew it, I was booked almost every weekend. I liked it so much I switched degrees—from English to early childhood education—and began nannying full-time when I graduated. Eventually, I began working at a local preschool, one not too far from here. It’s the job I lost before I started working for Lena. But I don’t share that, of course.

Violet smiles back. “Well, no wonder you’re so good with Harper!”

I feel an unexpected pang. I had been good at my job. It’s funny: all my lying, which is generally considered a social faux pas at best, an egregious moral failing at worst, is partly what made me so well-liked by my students. I was a master storyteller, a spinner of tales, the queen of make-believe. The kids loved my outrageous stories, enthralled by the exaggerated accounts of my weekends, an adoring audience. Never once did they ask if it was true. They didn’t care.

I was devastated when I had to leave. If I close my eyes, I can remember the last day like it was yesterday. There was no warning, the rug ripped out from under me so fast I’d lost my footing. I wanted to argue, wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair, that it was all just a misunderstanding, but I knew it would be a waste of breath. No one would believe me over her.

Tears stung my eyes when I told the kids I was leaving. Leaving and not coming back. They asked why, but of course I couldn’t say. My throat was tight, and no words came, so I just knelt and held out my arms. They filed in one by one and pressed their little bodies against mine. The principal was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, waiting to walk me out. I still miss them: their sticky fingers, their shrieking, their gleeful laughter.

I force myself to smile back at Violet. “I really liked it,” I say. “Loved it, actually.”

Before I can say anything else, Harper knocks over her cup of milk, reaching for another slice of bread. Both she and Violet yelp in surprise. Instinctually, I leap up, grab the roll of paper towels next to the sink, and race back to sop up the puddle, just before it drips onto the floor.

“Thanks,” Violet says, smiling gratefully at me.

“Once a nanny, always a nanny,” I say good-naturedly. Theirs is exactly the kind of family I would have loved to work for when I first started out. In fact, they still are. I picture myself in their kitchen, making a snack for Harper, cutting peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into heart shapes; in their living room, folding her tiny unicorn shirts as she colors happily by my side. It takes all my willpower not to offer to step in, to tell Violet she doesn’t need to interview any more candidates, that I will gladly take the role. God knows, after today, I’ll need a new job, and badly. I swallow the bitter memory of this afternoon, biting down on the inside of my cheek.

Dinner continues with small talk, Harper interjecting with anecdotes about her day. Violet listens attentively, encouraging her to elaborate on her stories. Twice I sneak glances at Jay, only to see him staring at Violet, watching her. I can understand why. She’s glowing, wisps of hair framing her face, cheeks pink as she laughs. If she notices Jay’s eyes on her, she hides it, her attention focused on Harper, on me, making sure my plate is full, that I’m enjoying the food. Once, she catches me looking at her and smiles. I smile back, enchanted. I wonder what it would be like to be as beautiful as her, to have that magnetic pull. Like magic, I imagine.

Just after seven, when our plates are scraped clean, glasses empty, Violet clears her throat and looks at Jay, then cocks her head toward Harper. He nods.

“You ready for a bath?” Jay asks Harper. Immediately, she begins to pout, about to protest, but Violet interjects, “Two M he makes people feel really…” She searches for the right word. “Special.”

I know what she means. I felt it at the park the other day. He has this way about him, a charisma that pulls you into his orbit. Even if he wasn’t married, I’d never stand a chance with him—he’s leagues out of my own—but there was something about how he smiled at me that made it feel like maybe, in some alternate reality, we were fated.

I insist on helping Violet clean up, an excuse to stay more than anything else, clearing the table, rinsing dishes, loading the dirty plates and silverware into the dishwasher. We work in a comfortable silence, laughing when one of us bumps into the other, pots and pans clanging in the background.

When the kitchen is clean, counters wiped down, Violet takes off her apron and hangs it on a hook near the fridge.

It should be my cue to leave, but I linger. I’m not ready to go. I’m afraid if I walk out now, I’ll never see the inside of this house again. Violet and Jay and Harper will fade until I’ll wonder if I made them up.

Violet looks at me and smiles. I brace myself, waiting to hear that it’s getting late, how she should head upstairs to help put Harper to bed. Maybe, before she does, I’ll offer to run out, grab some pastries from a nearby bakery for dessert. I kick myself for not picking any up on the way. But as I open my mouth, she asks, “Want some tea? Coffee?” She sounds hopeful, like she’s afraid I might say no.

I nod, biting down on my lip to keep from grinning like a buffoon, silently cheering in my head. “I’d love a tea.” She’s not ready for me to leave, either.

“Great, I’ll heat some water,” she says, smiling. “Go sit down.” She motions to the living room. “I’ll be right in.”

I leave the kitchen, head toward the oversized couch against the wall. Gingerly, I sit down. I sink into the cream-colored cushions, pillows soft against my back.

From the couch, I look around the room. Across from me is a big bay window, gauzy white curtains pushed wide. It’s dark outside, and the light from the lamp in the corner creates a reflection on the panes so I can’t see out. Under the window, two armchairs are angled toward each other, a small side table between them, a stack of books on top. I can’t make out the titles, but they look like novels, thick and worn. And in the corner, to the left of the armchairs, is a small kid-sized table for Harper, the one she was coloring at earlier this evening, topped with canisters of crayons and colored pencils. Next to it, a bookshelf and a few woven baskets piled with toys, stuffed animals, baby dolls.

It’s one of those homes that feels cozy and warm, but fastidiously neat. Everything is in its place; no piles of junk mail or kicked-off shoes, no discarded jackets, no unhomed tchotchkes. Then I notice something strange.

Other than one framed picture of Harper on the bookshelf, grinning at the top of a slide, her hair in pigtails, there are no photographs. Everything on the walls is art; watercolors and oils of seascapes, waterlilies, one painting of a faded white-and-red umbrella on an empty beach. Oddly, no pictures of Violet or Jay. No wedding photos, no images of her, hair pinned back, elegant in a white gown, walking down the aisle, or him in a tuxedo, gazing at her adoringly. No vacation pictures, no family portraits. Only the one lone picture of Harper. Which seems weird. If I looked like Violet, if my husband looked like Jay, the walls would be plastered with our faces.

I get up and walk toward the entryway. Allison had photos everywhere. Blown-up, gallery-framed prints of her children, of herself, her husband. It was how I knew about their annual summer trip to the Catskills, that she wore a marigold flower crown at her baby shower. For her fortieth birthday, I surprised her with a bouquet, bright yellow. “My favorite,” she’d said, burying her nose in their petals. “How’d you know?”

There were other pictures in Allison’s house, too, not on the wall, ones she hadn’t wanted me to see. An image of them, dozens strewn across her carpet, pops into my head. I force it out. Maybe Violet hung their family photos upstairs, or—

“Here you go.”

I turn, startled. Violet is standing by the coffee table, two mugs in her hand. I hadn’t heard her come into the room.

I walk toward her and take the tea, smiling in thanks. The cup is steaming, the porcelain warm to the touch. I sit back down and inhale deeply. It smells like orange rinds and spicy cloves, nutmeg. The bags are the expensive kind, delicate meshing instead of the flimsy paper ones filled with overdried, ground-down leaves.

“So,” Violet says, settling next to me on the couch, smiling warmly. She curls her legs under her. “Tell me about yourself. You used to be a nanny and now you’re a nurse?”

I don’t let my smile falter. I knew it would come up; I’d thought about what I’d say when it did on the way over. But now, I have another idea. A better one—for me, and for Violet.

“I was ,” I wheedle, slowly reeling back the lie, one turn of the spool at a time. I take a sip of my tea. “Well, nursing school. My second year. But I just put in a leave of absence, today actually, to take care of my mother.”

It was another thing I’d learned. If pressed about the lie, you backpedal. Answer noncommittally, add some new details, so that later, when they think back on it, they’re not sure exactly what they were told. Then change the subject, but just slightly, a natural segue. In this case, introducing my mother into the conversation.

Violet takes the bait. “Oh, I’m so sorry, is she sick?”

I nod. “She has lupus.” It’s lie number three. I’m Caitlin, I am a nurse, and my mother has lupus. One, two, three. “It’s been rough, but her doctor started her on a new medication that seems to be helping. I just want to be available to her while she adjusts.”

“That’s good to hear!” Violet says. She smiles as if she really does care.

It’s Natasha’s mother who has lupus. She’s described it to me in detail, from her initial symptoms to the diagnosis. They had no idea what was wrong with her for almost a year. They thought it was Lyme disease at first, or fibromyalgia. The whole thing fascinated me. Only recently had she found a course of treatment that gave her some relief. Arthritis, in comparison, doesn’t quite hold the same weight.

“I gave up my apartment and moved in with her, to keep an eye on her,” I continue. “It was cheaper than hiring a live-in nurse. It’s temporary, of course, until we figure something else out, or she gets better.”

Violet nods understandingly. A woman living with her mother in her thirties is pathetic—unless said woman is a caretaker and said mother is ailing; then it is selfless, noble, really.

Then, before Violet has a chance to probe any deeper, I plant the seed that’s just occurred to me. “You know, since I’m taking some time off, I could babysit Harper if you ever need an extra set of hands. I mean, if that’s helpful.” I hold my breath.

I need her to say yes just once, to give me the chance to show her how good I am at the job. Because once could turn into twice, especially if Harper asks for me to come back, then into a third time, then a weekly occurrence, a set schedule. Most of the families in this neighborhood have live-ins, and I’m sure the Lockharts have an extra room in this big house; maybe, just maybe, one day Violet might realize how helpful having me around is. It won’t matter if Lena fires me. Or, if she doesn’t, I could quit. I’d finally be able to tell my mom I’m moving out. The thought is exhilarating.

Violet beams at me, and I feel a rush of pleasure. “Thank you! I really appreciate that. Like I said, it’s been so hard to find good child care. By the time I get back from dropping Harper off at school, I feel like I have to turn right back around and get her. I can’t remember the last time I even vacuumed.” She looks around the living room, seemingly embarrassed.

“Well, I’d be happy to,” I say, pleased with myself, with my plan. “Not that you can tell your house needs vacuuming. It looks beautiful. Have you lived here long?”

“Not really. We moved here about a year ago, for Jay’s work.” Violet shakes her head. “I can’t believe it’s been that long already. I still haven’t met very many people yet. Which is why I’m so glad you agreed to come over for dinner tonight.” She smiles at me, and I smile back.

“Where’d you move from?” I ask. I already know from Jay’s LinkedIn profile, but I want to hear it from her.

“San Francisco. We moved there after graduation so I could go to law school. My family lives in the Bay Area and my dad offered me a job at his firm when I passed the bar. We were there for almost ten years. It was hard to leave. We had a really good community out there. If it wasn’t such a promising opportunity for Jay, I don’t think we would have moved. Not that it isn’t nice here,” she adds. “It’s just different. Have you been?”

“Once,” I say, nodding. I haven’t, but I looked it up as I got ready for tonight, taking a Google Maps tour through the city, then looking up the top places to visit, the top attractions and best restaurants. “I stayed in Nob Hill off Polk Street.”

Violet lights up. “I love that area! We lived right around there when we first moved to the city.” She smiles wistfully, remembering. “What about you? Have you lived in this neighborhood long?”

“Since forever. My mom and I moved here when I was in high school. To take care of her sister. She died not long after we moved, but we ended up staying. And we’ve been here ever since.” I shrug.

“And your dad?”

I hesitate, surprised at the question. No one has asked about him for a long time. Usually if I don’t bring him up, people take that as a cue, though I don’t mind that Violet hasn’t. I consider making something up about him, but I decide against it. There’s something about the way she’s leaning in, her body angled toward mine, that makes me want to tell the truth, like she’s interested in me for me.

“I’ve never met him,” I say, honestly. “He bailed right after my mom told him she was pregnant with me. It was a summer romance. My mom was waitressing in Daytona Beach, and he was there for a few weeks visiting a friend from college.”

Violet’s eyebrows rise. “And they never spoke again?”

“Not as far as I know. She said it was for the best, though. She knew she was going to have me, and she didn’t need him trying to talk her out of it. She said once, after I was born, she called the number he’d given her, but it was out of service.” I tell it to Violet the way my mom told it to me, like it would have made no difference at all whether he had picked up or not. “I didn’t care,” she always told me, squeezing my hand. “I knew I could do it on my own.” But I’ve never stopped wondering what would have happened if he had.

“Wow,” says Violet, sitting back against the pillows.

“The only thing I know about him is he was from Philly. Well, a suburb, just outside. She told me she doesn’t even remember his last name.”

“Philly?” she repeats. There’s a funny look on her face.

“Yeah.” I smile. “She still has a Phillies jersey of his. He gave it to her the first night they met, on the beach, when the sun went down. Have you been?” I ask.

She starts to nod, then—“Vi?” Jay’s voice floats down from upstairs. “Harper’s ready for her kiss,” he yells.

The strange expression disappears so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it. “Be right up!” she calls back. “Sorry,” she says to me. “That’s the deal. If Jay does bath and stories, I do the good-night kiss and the tuck-in.”

I glance at my phone. It’s almost eight thirty. “It’s okay. I should get going anyway,” I say. I don’t want to leave, not yet, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome, either. I have to play my cards right tonight.

“You don’t have to,” Violet says. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“No,” I shake my head, setting my empty teacup on the coffee table. “Really, I probably need to check on my mom.”

“Okay, fine .” She smiles and we both stand up. “Thanks so much for coming over tonight,” she says. “And for your babysitting offer. Really, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” I say, following her to the foyer. Just once , I think, that’s all I need .

She walks me out onto the stoop. Then she gives me a small wave and gently eases the door shut, disappearing back inside. Through the glass, I can see her walking up the stairs. I watch until I can’t see her anymore.

I turn, feeling giddy, like I’m floating. I pause when I reach the sidewalk, looking back up at the brownstone. The windows are lit, the house softly glowing behind the drawn curtains. It’s hard to believe that I’d just been inside, part of their evening, that maybe soon, I’ll be part of their lives.

When I get home, my mom is asleep in her armchair, as I knew she would be, lightly snoring. I take the remote from her lap and turn down the volume on the TV, then pull the knit blanket on her legs up to her chest and switch off the light on the side table next to her chair.

Quietly, I make my way to the bathroom my mom and I share, easing the door shut behind me. After I’ve taken out my contacts, brushed my teeth, and put on some old sweats, I climb into bed and close my eyes. But I can’t sleep. I lie there, replaying the evening, thinking about Violet and Jay and Harper. Their beautiful home, its warmness, the smell of it. The way I’d felt at the kitchen table, like I’d belonged. The way Violet laughed at my jokes, how she leaned closer when she asked me a question. There was something about her—about them, all of them—that felt electric, special. It made me feel special, too.

I turn over under the tangle of my sheets, too hot, the darkness like a thick blanket. My dresser casts a looming shadow on the opposite wall. I wonder what they’re doing right now, in their bedroom, under their covers. What does Jay wear to bed? What does Violet? Do they sleep with their limbs entwined, pressed against each other, or sprawled, fingers and toes brushing throughout the night? Had he pulled her to him when she got in, his mouth on hers, hungry, urgent?

Then I imagine it was me getting in that bed, not Violet. Falling asleep next Jay, his body warm and heavy, his breathing deep, arm slung across my chest. The idea of it, of him, of his skin against mine, makes me feel hot all over, fever flushed. I throw the covers off of me, flip my pillow to the cool side. No, Sloane.

I turn my thoughts back to Violet. “Let’s do this again sometime,” she said. Had she meant it? Or was it just something she’d said to be polite, a thoughtless offering, tossed out without a second thought?

No, she liked me. She wouldn’t have asked me to stay after dinner if she hadn’t. She wouldn’t have asked all those personal questions. Through the darkness, I smile. She wants to be friends with me as much as I want to be friends with her. I’m not wrong. Not this time.