Page 21 of The Liar in Room 5

I’ll get the upkeep handled and his name updated.

Thanks.

“Wow, your place is beautiful.”

Drew made the declaration as he stood at the railing of the tiled patio. Hedges hid the porch from prying eyes but offered an unobstructed view of the ocean beyond. Waves crashed along the shoreline as the aftermath of last night’s storm lingered for a few more hours.

The wind off the water whipped his hair every which way.

“Thanks. It’s a little big for one, but I liked the view.”

At the sound of me walking across the patio, Drew turned to face me. His attempt at casual was still a button-down and slacks but with boat shoes and no socks. It was a wild time. In one hand, I had a bottle of wine, and in the other, two stemmed glasses.

“White okay?”

“Of course, thank you.”

Drew’s answer was instantaneous, but his smile hadn’t reached his eyes.

“Hold up. Do you actually like white wine?”

“Everyone likes wine.”

Drew looked down and to the left.

“Except all the people who don’t.”

His tell was incredibly helpful. In fact, it was so helpful I debated whether I should tell him he had one or keep using it to my advantage.

“Would you prefer red?”

“Whatever you’ve got is fine,” Drew insisted.

His eyes darted to the telltale spot again, except this time his breathing became a little labored.

I ditched the bottle and the glasses and moved with purpose across the patio to reach his side.

“Oh my gosh, what’s wrong with me?” Drew’s cheeks were a little flushed and his eyes couldn’t stay away from his tell spot. “The wine is great.”

White lies about innocuous shit were fine, but I’d be damned if Drew was going to force something down his throat that he didn’t want.

When I reached his side, I grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a chaise lounge along the railing. I sat with my back against the upright end and guided him to stand between my knees.

“Drew, I hope we’ve reached the point where we can call ourselves friends,” I started.

“Of course. I’d like that.”

He said it, and I knew he meant it, but there was still some hesitation in his eyes, and that’s what killed me. He was willing to swallow every part of himself if it meant the other person wouldn’t see him.

“I need you to feel like you can be honest with me. I’m not gonna be offended if you don’t like something. I’m gonna be more upset that you didn’t think you could say that to me. If you don’t like white wine, I’ll give you something else to drink. It’s fine.”

I’d kept my voice steady while speaking, but tears welled in his eyes.

“It’s not even that,” he choked out. His efforts to keep the tears at bay left his voice scratchy and muffled.

“Explain it to me,” I ordered.

“I can’t even remember what I like anymore. I like wine, I guess, because I’m supposed to like wine. I dress this way”—he paused to gesture to his clothes—“because I can’t remember what I dressed like when it was just up to me. The food I eat. What I drink. Hell, I don’t even remember what kind of music I like.”