Page 16 of The Liar in Room 5

I could feel Henry’s eyes on me, but I refused to confirm it by looking at him. Of course he was watching the road, but I felt the subtle shift when his attention diverted to me. I couldn’t say I hated it. I kinda liked it, but I didn’t have the first clue what to do with that.

“No, plenty of meetings though. For the most part, I don’t go to court except on one-off occasions.”

“What if you have to take something to trial?”

“Unless it’s a traffic ticket, my clients would bring on a litigator. My specialty—” Henry paused, found my hand in my lap where it was minding its own business, and laced our fingers together. “I’d like to know about your week though.”

“I mean… Oh, before I forget, where is the tournament?”

“It’s close to Malibu, so we’ve got a ways yet. Since you’re a fan, hopefully you’ll enjoy it…”

“Yeah, it’s great, and I’m sure I will.”

Dear Lord, I hated pickleball. Loathed and detested it and didn’t understand the point. Just play tennis, for Pete’s sake. Except I didn’t really like tennis either. But I couldn’t exactly tell Henry without admitting I was a liar.

On top of that, I hadn’t actually done anything at Halo House this past week except sleep. Just like I’d done the week before that, and the week before that, and all the weeks before that too.

Six months on, and my greatest accomplishment was another nap logged.

I couldn’t even bring myself to interact with everyone else. Most days were nothing more than going downstairs to make a grilled cheese or a PB&J, then sneaking back up to my room to avoid everyone. I’m sure they thought I was insane because I still dressed like I was headed to the country club. Phoenix said funding was available for new clothing, but that should be saved for someone who truly needed it. Everyone else at Halo House seemed to be making a place for themselves there, or finding their way, or discovering some kind of purpose.

But me?

I floated along doing nothing. Much like the traffic because, like all California freeways, we inched forward at a slow crawl. If I were a writer, which I definitely wasn’t because I’d write a much better plot for my life, I’d claim it as the perfect metaphor. The very clear upside? I was sitting in a pretty car with a cute guy and, for whatever reason, he liked to hold hands.

That part was nice.

“Hey, where’d ya go?”

Crap. Think. Think. Think.

“Uh…uh…I was thinking…uh…about the tournament thingy. Where did you say it was again?”

“Not sure I did say, but it’s at the Harbor Racquet Club. Have you been?”

Henry spoke like dropping by one of the most exclusive private clubs in the area was nothing. The application fees were more than I’d made in my collective life.

“Yeah, it’s nice.”

Actually, it wasn’t because the food was fussy and they never gave you enough of it, so you left starving. The manager was snippy with the staff too when he thought no one was listening.

We’d only made it about half a mile in the last twenty minutes, which gave me plenty of time to stare out the window and prepare myself for the horror I was about to endure.

“Fingers crossed. My colleague said the same, but he’s been wro⁠—”

“Ooh, Ikea!”

We’d turned the corner, and up ahead, the enormous blue box dominated the landscape. There weren’t any within miles of where I’d grown up. I’d been in California for years, but I’d never been to one. I loved the commercials for them though. Every time I made plans to go, something would happen, and I was forced to cancel. Jonathan had always promised he’d go with me, but somehow, we never found the time.

“Guessing you’re a fan?” Henry asked with a chuckle and a finger squeeze.

“I’ve never been, but I always meant to go. Never got around to it. Lame, I know.”

“Not lame. But if you don’t mind mazes, it’s a good time.”

“The last maze I was in involved a corn field.”

“I take it you survived?”