Page 72 of Cruel Lies

My mother is dropping the kids by at eleven and she has that radar that will spot something amiss the second she sees me. If I answer the door looking like I've been crying into a man's shirt, she willknow,and then the questions will never stop.

So I need to look like a person.

Which means I need to do my makeup.

Which means I need… a mirror.

I stand in the middle of my bathroom holding a tube of concealer and I turn in a slow, stupid circle looking for a reflective surface. "You ass," I tell the empty rectangle. "How am I supposed to do this?"

With no other choice, I reluctantly pick up my phone.

I flip the camera. There I am, upside down and then right-side up, thumb smearing across the screen, doing my under-eye concealer via a four-inch rectangle propped against the toothbrush holder while it keeps trying to autofocus on the faucet. My eyeliner takes many attempts and several words my children are not allowed to say. The left wing looks like it was drawn by a squirrel. I fix it, and fix it again, and then give up and call it good enough.

When I go downstairs, though, I can't help but bring the note with me. I couldn't quite make myself throw it away and I couldn't quite make myself put it somewhere safe, so it's just there, haunting me.

I keep coming back to the last line.

Ask me, and I'll tell you every day until you believe it.

I read it while the first pancake bubbles, and I go over it so many times that it's not until the smell of char reaches my nose that I realize I didn't flip. Dammit. I scrape the burned mess into the trash can, pour another, and read it again.

It's a dare. That's what it is. He's making me ask. I can almost hear him taunting,Are you bold enough, Ms. Meadows?

He knows I hate asking. I've spent a decade learning to want less so I'd never have to ask for anything and then be told the thing I wanted was too much, too curvy, too dramatic, too crazy. He knows all of it, because helistens.

Now, he's forcing my hand.

It's only when the second pancake also burns that I admit defeat and pick up my phone. I type out three words.

Fine. I'm asking.

Send.

20

CALI

9:12 A.M.

CALI:Fine. I'm asking.

RONAN:Good morning, Ms. Meadows.

CALI:If you're waiting for a "good morning" back, don't hold your breath. you're on thin ice, buster.

CALI:I'm only texting because the note said to ask.

RONAN:Ask what, exactly?

CALI:you’re going to make me type it

RONAN:I’m going to make you type it.

CALI:UGH. fine.

CALI:What do you see?

Ronan is typing…