Seven Ways We Lie by Riley Redgate Page A

guessed,” she says. “So, when are you free to work on this thing?”
    I want to say
Slow down
; I want to wait; I want to savor the sound of her voice. I reply so slowly, the words barely feel like words at all, just lazy, meaningless streams of syllables. “I’m free all the time. Whatever works.”
    â€œLet’s get it out of the way this weekend,” she says, and I’m like, “Yeah, how ’bout Saturday?” and she says, “Okay. I’m not going to have a car, though, so.”
    â€œWe could meet at your place,” I say, trying not to sound too into the idea, and she’s like, “Not advisable,” and I’m like, “Why not?” and she’s like, “Kat’s going to be home. My sister.”
    â€œI won’t be loud or anything,” I say, and she says, “That’s not what I mean.” And I say, “Then what do you mean? Don’t want toembarrass yourself by letting me in your house?” and the second it comes out, my eyes fall shut, and my mind goes,
Shut up, Matt. Shut up
.
    Olivia lets out a disbelieving-sounding laugh. “Know what? Maybe you should meet Kat. I bet you guys would get along great,” and I’m like, “What’s that mean?” and she’s like, “It’s clear you both have lots to figure out before you can act like civilized human beings,” and a defensive instinct surges up, and I say, “Shit-talking your own sister. Classy.” And she snaps, “Well, she’s been nothing but awful since our mom left, not that my family is any of your goddamn business.”
    I go quiet.
    â€œShit. I didn’t mean that,” she says. “It’s . . . she’s weird these days, but it’s not . . .”
    I rub my forehead. “No, don’t worry about—”
    â€œAll I meant was, if you don’t know her, she gets tough to deal with.”
    â€œRight,” I manage, suddenly hyperaware that although I’ve gone to school with Kat Scott for years, I’ve never talked to her, and I guess it’s because she’s so quiet. I don’t know, there’s this romantic idea about quiet people in movies and books, like,
Oh, they’re so mysterious
, whereas in my experience it’s not like that at all. It’s more like,
Okay, you don’t want to talk? Fine, I’ll let you do your own thing, since you obviously don’t want to associate with me
.
    â€œListen,” I say, “I’m sorry, okay? I keep . . . things just won’t come out right when . . .” I can’t finish the sentence. My thoughts are snarling up like yarn inside my head. Jesus, what is it about this girl that wrecks my ability to goddamn
talk
?
    After a second, she rescues me: “Well, I sort of snapped, too, so . . .”
    I search for words, but the knowledge about her family is a roadblock, detouring my attention. Their mom walked out. She and her sister have been fighting ever since. I’ve had this thing for Olivia for years, feeling like I knew all about her because . . . I don’t know why. Because I’ve had a couple of classes with her. Because, like everyone else, I know the guys she hooks up with. Now, though, I picture her blue eyes and try to imagine the miles of thoughts hiding behind them, the years of history concealed back there, and I wonder why it took me this long to think of her as someone with a hundred thousand dimensions, of which I know maybe one. It was too easy to see her as a cutout doll of the perfect girl.
    Then a shout bursts into my attention, ringing through my door: “—be
quiet
!” and I wince and smother my phone, but Olivia’s already asking, “Everything all right over there?” and I’m like, “It’s my parents,” because it’s easier than a lie.
    â€œThat’s rough. It’s pretty late,” she says,