“You don’t? Oh, this I do think you’ll want to hear. You see, meeting her got me thinking. I spent a lot of time talking to neighbors when I lived in Greenwood. You never had time for that sort of thing, of course.” A delicate pause. “Or for me.”
“Lyra,” I warn. “That is not the truth.”
“Well, I spoke to Mrs. Gardner several times. A nice, if somewhat severe, older woman. And one thing I remember very clearly.”
Lyra pauses, like an actor before delivering a particularly juicy line. I have no patience for her dramatics. “All right? And what was it?”
“Neither she nor her husband have any siblings. I remember, you see, because she often complained that they were the only ones able to take care of their elderly parents.”
It takes me a moment longer to compute this information than it should. No siblings. And no siblings meant… no nieces and nephews.
“You understand, right?” Lyra asks. “This means your girl is a little liar.”
There’s no response to that. None at all, not against the pounding of my pulse or the anger at Lyra’s obvious glee. Because I can’t believe it. It’s such an outrageously stupid lie, and Lyra is not above lying herself, just to stir things up.
I hang up without responding, unable to face Lyra’s gloating. Dazed, I glance down at Bella’s thesis, at the carefully scribbled post-it note. Be honest.
There’s no way she’s been lying to me about this. Why would she? Why else would she be staying in their house?
A loose sheet of paper peeks up out of the neatly stapled work in my hands. I tug it loose, and find that it’s a letter. It must have gotten caught amongst the other pages.
Reading the title takes me several tries.
Application for Washington Polytech financial aid.
Applicant: Miss Bella Mary Simmons.
The rest of the words blur together in a haze of thoughts, one moving faster than the other.
If she had lied… why had she? Perhaps she’s been hired by the Gardners? She might actually be the live-in housekeeper, the cleaner, the stewardess. Lying about that made no sense, not unless you took into consideration an artfully placed document about her need for money in a binder meant for me.
This has to be what she’d tried to tell me earlier. She’s going to ask me for money.
Around me, the world gently collapses.
18
Bella
In terms of work, that day is a complete waste. The words on the screen in front of me swim—it’s no use. I can’t focus at all. No, my mind is on Ethan, on spending the night in his bed, on his words last night.
I run a hand through my hair and try to shake the wide, stupid smile on my face. It refuses to budge, like it’s been welded in place. This thing with Ethan and me is better than anything I’ve had before. Realer than reality, none of the pretense, just the two of us.
And as soon as I get the chance to tell him the truth, there won’t be anything between us. The longing to come clean is nearly overwhelming now. To meet his eyes and have him know all of me, the same way I want to know all of him. I text him and let him know that I’m free that evening, after his brother has left, but he doesn’t respond.
The doorbell to my gate rings instead. Toast barely looks up from his perch on the couch—he’s gotten used to Ethan’s evening visits. I head over to the foyer and press the door to the gate without looking, unlocking the front door too.
It’s him, because of course it is. His thick hair falls over his forehead, nearly hiding the furrow in between his brows. How I long to erase it in laughter or pleasure. That might be my goal in life, I think. Just keeping that furrow at bay.
“Hey,” I say, reaching for him. He lets me pull him inside. “Has your brother left?”
“Yes, a while ago.”
“It was really nice to meet him.”
Ethan nods once, his arms at his side. By this time, he’s usually wrapped them around me, sometimes carrying me off unceremoniously to the sofa or the bed.
“Good,” he says, but his tone says it’s anything but. “Bella, I just heard that the Gardners don’t have a niece.”
My breathing chokes off for a second.
And then I’m babbling. “Oh Ethan, I wanted to tell you so often, but I was afraid of how you’d react. That’s no excuse, of course. I should’ve,