The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,254

over to retrieve the ball. This time she hit a mild shot over the net, which Nisha easily returned, setting the tone for a friendly volley.

They played a few rounds, both of them remarking how amazing it was that they still had energy after today’s grueling practice. After Emma hit a backhand into the net, Nisha took a break to drink from her water bottle. “I hear you’re dating Ethan Landry.”

“That’s right,” Emma said, blushing a little.

Nisha wiped her mouth. “So he actually talks, then?”

“Sure he talks. A lot.”

“That’s news to me.” Nisha placed her water bottle on the bench. “My mom used to call him Silent E. We took the same bus, and he never said one word to me—or anyone—the entire eighth-grade school year.”

“He’s just shy,” Emma mumbled, having forgotten that Nisha and Ethan were neighbors. It hurt to hear about Ethan’s quiet days. She hated that he hadn’t had many friends.

“Well, shy’s cool.” Nisha swung her legs, then gave Emma a jealous glance. “And he’s certainly gorgeous.”

That was more like it. “I know,” Emma said, shivering with pleasure, thinking about the kisses she’d shared with Ethan at the planetarium last night. “What’s going on with you and Garrett?” Nisha had shown up with Sutton’s ex at the Homecoming Dance a few weeks ago, looking very pleased with herself.

Nisha shrugged. “Nothing really.” Then she took another sip of water and changed the subject. “Remember when we were little, and we used to count how many shots we could get back and forth before one of us messed up?” she asked. “Our own world records,” she went on, deepening her voice to sound like a sports announcer.

Emma smiled to herself. For as many items she’d put on the Ways I’m Not Sutton list, there were so many quirky things they did that were just the same. She’d counted volleys with her Russian foster brother, Stephan, when they’d played endless rounds of ping-pong in the basement. Even now she often found herself counting in practice and matches out of habit.

“That feels like an eternity ago,” Nisha went on. “I always liked it when you and Laurel included me.” Then her lips tightened, like she’d said too much. She took a hard pull from the water bottle. “Anyway,” she said toughly. “Ready for me to whip your ass some more?”

But Emma didn’t move. “It’s lonely to be an only child,” she said softly.

Nisha looked at her sharply. “It’s not like you’d know. You have Laurel.”

Emma bit her lip and looked away. She’d been talking about herself, of course—even with all of her foster brothers and sisters, she still felt adrift and alone. She’d longed for a brother or a sister—family of some kind. It was one of those moments where she wanted to tell Nisha about her experience, but couldn’t.

Then Nisha sighed. “But you’re right, it is lonely. Especially now that my mom is…gone. I love my dad, but he’s not exactly great company.”

Emma nodded. She knew that Nisha’s mom had died over the summer, but Nisha had never once mentioned it. Right now, though, it seemed like she wanted to talk about it. Like she wanted someone to listen.

“You guys were really close, huh?” Emma asked.

A cloud passed over the moon. A roadrunner darted across the parking lot. Nisha traced the Nike logo on her water bottle. “We loved to cook together and make these massive Indian feasts. My mom thought I was too thin. She was always trying to fatten me up.”

“That seems to be a mom thing,” Emma said, thinking of Grandma Mercer and her son. “Do you still…talk to her?”

Nisha gave Emma a strange look, her face reddening. “How did you know?”

Emma stared at the white net in the middle of the court. “It was just a guess. I talk to my birth mom.”

Nisha raised an eyebrow. “But you’ve never even met your birth mom.”

“I know,” Emma said quickly. “But I know she’s out there. And I wonder about her all the time. When things get really hard, I talk to her. She always listens.” She smiled wryly. Imaginary Becky was much more attentive than real Becky had ever been.

Nisha rolled the tennis ball under her palm. “I talk to her while I’m in the car,” she said quietly. “Talking to her in my house seems risky—I don’t want my dad to hear. But when I’m driving to school or wherever, I have whole monologues with her. When I pause at stoplights, still talking to myself, I