Wicked Sexy Liar

Not-Joe

PERRY IS GONE for a little while, so I listen to Lola and Harlow talking about how sad they are that London and Luke are moving. Everyone is bummed they’ll be in Berkeley but, I mean, did Germany rebuild the Berlin Wall around the Bay Area or something? Are Luke and London going to cease to exist if they are seven hours away by car? I try to remind everyone that friends moving just means a reason to travel, and long-distance adventures, but no one seems to want to hear it, so I watch one of the videos Daniel sent me.

Eventually, they grow quiet, and I can feel them watching me, curious about the barking coming from my phone.

“What the hell is that, Joe?” Oliver asks.

“Break-dancing dogs.”

For once, they seem unable to resist this, and Oliver, Lola, Harlow, and Finn all crowd in to watch over my shoulder. The internet is a fascinating place, for sure.

But when Perry starts back toward the table, I look up out of some weird instinct and our eyes meet. Most likely I just turned because I saw something moving in my periphery, but I like the buzzing feeling that I sense her somehow. Less and less frequently these days I have this sort of immediate connection with people, like our souls hook before our brains catch on, and I’d started to forget how good it feels.

I can see her teeth when she smiles: they’re white but they aren’t perfect. Her canines are sharp, one of her incisors overlaps her front tooth just the tiniest bit, but the effect is to make her look sweeter. I nod to myself, liking this new theory: people with imperfect teeth just don’t sweat the small stuff.

And as she gets closer, I can tell she looks like she’s been through some meditative revelation.

She’s still got that fire in her eyes—the one that seems to flare to life every time she blinks—but she somehow also looks serene. It’s around her jaw, in her neck and shoulders.

I push Oliver’s shoulder and pat the bench beside me. He laughs, but I mean, fuck it. If she’s only here for a few days, why not go all in and hope she wants to be around me, too?

When Oliver and Lola stand to make room, Perry slides next to me, bumping my shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, smiling.

“Hey.”

I can see Harlow and Finn exchange curious glances beside us, but I don’t bother to look over at them. Beyond just asking her how it went with Ansel, I’m tempted to ask Perry all the things I usually want to know, like what’s the scariest thing she’s ever done, or what’s the best day she’s ever had, who’s her favorite musician and what’s the worst book she’s ever made herself finish . . . but I feel an odd lack of novelty here. With a lot of women, I just want to hear stories. Have them tell me their crazy shit. Is it because I’m bored? Who knows. But here, I feel I get the meaning behind the word enraptured in a way I haven’t before. I’m not amused by her or curious about what sort of crazy she hides beneath her skin. I’m drawn to her but don’t feel hurried to unwrap it all immediately.

Don’t give it all to me at once. Let me taste you, bit by bit.

“Everything all right over there?” I ask her quietly, lifting my chin to where Ansel and Mia order a drink at the bar before turning and making their way over to the booth.

She nods. “Everything is very good, I think.” Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath, and the way she does it without any sort of self-conscious tightening or reflex makes me want to bend down and kiss her right under her jaw, where her heartbeat throbs lightly in her neck. Then she adds a quiet, honest, “Finally.”

And it’s her unique lack of defense that keeps tripping me again, and again. She’s nothing like I expected after hearing the group talk about her now and then.

I expected sharp and thorny. I expected her to be cold and unfeeling. But she isn’t. She’s straightforward but soft-spoken, confident but calm.

Man, circumstances make us weird. Ansel didn’t love her, and it’s cool, we don’t all fit, but I feel like she’s a prism I am holding up to the light in order to find her chipped side. I’m sure she has one; I just wonder if she’d have the same one with me.

Oliver leans in, patting her hand once and then continuing to just smile at her. He doesn’t say anything else, he just smiles and nods, and she nods back, and my heart fucking explodes.

Oliver’s eyes snag mine and he does a double take. “What?” He wipes his mouth as if he’s worrying he has some beer foam there.

“Nothing, man, you just love people right,” is all I can think to say.

This earns a nod and a smile, and Lola reaches around him to muss my hair.

“Celebratory shots?” Harlow asks, and everyone but me groans comically.

“Hell yeah,” I say. “But I’m picking.”

I’m seated in the direct middle of the round booth, so I forgo making them all get out of the booth and opt to jump over the back instead. Everyone is used to it but Perry, and she gasps in surprise, instinctively reaching out to steady me. Her hand is small, and cool, and strong around my forearm.

“I’m good,” I tell her.

Her eyes hold mine for one . . . two . . . three breaths, and then she lets go of me.

But my heart is still stumbling over itself when I reach the bar and Fred comes over, knocking on the bar top with his knuckles. “What’ll it be, Joe?”

I glance over my shoulder, quickly counting the number of heads, and then turn back to him. “Ten shots of Patrón.”

His eyebrows flick skyward in brief surprise. I’m generally a purveyor of their subpar well drink options.

“Patrón, eh?” he asks, turning and reaching for the bottle.

“We’re celebrating.”

“As usual,” he answers through a laugh.

“Tonight is different,” I tell him, glancing back over my shoulder again with a grin. Perry has said something that made Harlow throw her head back in laughter, and her delighted shriek rips across the bar. “Tonight they pulled the thorn out of their foot and saw it was a diamond.”