Little Lies by Elena Reyes (ebook reader for laptop .TXT) 📗

“The usual place?” I cut her off before quickly pulling my phone away to see the time. It’s a little after ten in the morning. I haven’t had six hours of continuous sleep in so long. “Or the brunch place, Tilikum?”

“Tilikum.” She’s giddy. Way too bubbly this morning, and I’m wondering how many mimosas she’s downed. “I’m craving Eggs Benedict.”

“Got it.” Without conscious thought, my eyes flick to the painting and skim across it; I’m calm while doing so. Today, right this second, there’s no accelerated breathing or sweaty palms. No full-body chills. Was everything just a lack of sleep?

“Gabby, you there?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in thirty. Keep whoever comes from the gallery busy until I arrive.”

“You’re the best!” she squeals, and I can’t stop the laugh from bursting through on my end. Hers is excitement, while mine is relief. “Thank you, babes. I know you put up with my annoying habits and humor me with all the shows, but you really are my best friend. I’m like this because I love and believe in you.”

“I know. It’s why I haven’t fired you from this fake position yet.” Mr. Pickles chooses that moment to stretch, an annoyed grunt escaping his small body before jumping from the bed and going to lay in a plush doggy bed I keep in here for him. “Which reminds me...we need to talk.”

“Uh oh.”

“You could say that.” Placing the cell phone on the nightstand, I press the speakerphone option and stretch. My muscles feel tight, more than likely from staying in one position for the last few hours, but after a bit they give way to a delicious burn. “But it can wait until after the meeting. See you soon.”

“Okay, but—” Elise is cut off by the ending of the call.

“Now, what to wear when you don’t feel like schmoozing someone and don’t want it to show?” I muse out loud, padding over to my walk-in closet, and then pause because sitting atop the catch-all chair I keep near the door is a gift bag. This also keeps me from checking the cuts on my feet that feel dry, burn a bit from the stretching of skin, but are no longer bleeding, thank God. There’s enough I need to clean before leaving. But instead of doing that, my focus is on the bag with black and gold polka dots with a large bow in a velvet-like material. “What the hell?” Elise. That sneaky little pain in my butt.

My annoyance with her is still there, but I can’t deny that I’m smiling at the gesture. I have no living family. No siblings that I know of. No one to celebrate the small and big moments.

No one but her, and I’m enjoying the feeling of being cared for too much at the moment.

In the light of day and after a few hours of solid sleep, I’m beginning to see the gesture for what it is: my friend is celebrating something that I’ve always ignored in my own loneliness.

“I’m a jerk.” The guilt is hitting me now, too. Her pushiness and no-boundary personality isn’t coming from a malicious place, and I need to remember this. Be thankful for it. “Wonder what she got me...”

My legs carry me over to the bag and I pry off the bow with care, wanting to keep it. It’s pretty, delicate, and the all-black tone shimmers in the soft-white lighting.

Then, I pry apart the tape and pull out what feels like clothes wrapped in tissue paper the same colors as the bag. They’re thin and very lightweight. Feels like something I’d normally never wear, but I find myself wanting to today.

It feels right. This garment makes me giggle, and I’ve yet to see it. Since when do I giggle?

Tearing the tissue off, I gasp at the pretty little number in my hands. It’s blood-red, leaning a bit more toward a wine color, and in lace with spaghetti straps—a slip dress, and will easily fall to mid-thigh. This type of attire is so far removed from my day-to-day look—almost scarily so—yet I’m nodding as I finger the bottom edge detail where the material is cut to follow the pattern and not a straight line around.

This gives it dimension. Makes it stand out as flirty and fun.

Moreover, I find myself not finding a reason to chuck it toward the back of my closet. I want to put it on.

And as I place it atop my bed and walk toward the bathroom, I envision a finished, put-together look. See a different side of me that I’ve never embraced before. The words also slip through my consciousness without a second thought or hint of fear.

I’m going to be a pretty girl in the crowd.

I take an Uber to the Tilikum Café, not wanting to walk or drive after cleaning my cuts, which were smaller than I originally thought. There was no real damage somehow, and after placing a bandage on the larger one and sweeping up the broken shards, I fed Mr. Pickles and walked out the door. I’m not far from the cafe, but I sit back just the same and take in the scenery around Prospect Street near the Facebook building and acknowledge just how much my life has changed in the last two years.

This area is quaint; it’s a beautiful little bite of Seattle that’s close enough to the downtown area that I don’t miss the hustle and bustle of city life as the water sits nearby and seeing the Space Needle is nothing but a short walk to Volunteer Park. I’m a car ride away from bars, shopping, and killer food—a vast difference from the way I grew up being a ward of the state.

Thank you, Uncle Moore, for leaving me your house and enough money to pursue my dreams.

Never met the man, but I’m grateful for his generous donation. He could’ve given it away and ignored me as he did all his life, but the gift