Page 7 of The Liar in Room 5

“And you?” Andy asked, turning back to me.

I said something noncommittal because I’d never learned to play pickleball. At all.

Walter interrupted to wax poetic about the joys of hitting a fluorescent ball over a net. Andy hung on every word like the guy was a sage who’d never said anything more fascinating.

Andy mirrored every movement like he was following a script. An outsider would think he was just as fascinated by the subject, but the joy in Walter’s eyes didn’t reach Andy’s. They weren’t glazed over exactly, but they seemed more intent on watching everyone else at the table than focusing on the game he claimed to love.

“Walter, would you mind coming with me? There’s someone you might know…” Phoenix and the pickleball fanatic wandered off, which left Andy and me alone at the table.

“I keep waiting for someone at my firm to explain their obsession with the game,” I offered with a slight smile. “What do you love about it?”

With Phoenix and Walter gone, Andy turned his full attention to me. As he had with Walter, he mirrored my crossed-leg position. To test my theory, I shifted to a more open stance.

He followed.

“Oh, you know…the…uh…scoring.”

Andy’s eyes darted back and forth like he was vacuuming up information.

“Uh, okay… Maybe I misunderstood because I thought it was just counting by two. Did I get that wrong?”

Watching Andy reconfigure his answer in real time was a hell of a lot more interesting than any game. His forehead got the cutest little lines across it like he was forcing his brain to activate. But his fingers did a tap-tap-tap against his thigh like they were keeping time in a marching band.

“Ha, sorry. I don’t know why I said that…”

He looked down and to the left when he laid out that lie.

“I meant to say the social part.”

Down and left again.

“I’m sure Walter would be happy to have you join…” Andy’s voice trailed off into nothing, but his eyes never stopped moving.

“The social part?” I asked.

“You know…name your…uh…squad…name your stick…stuff like that…”

“Pickleball uses a racket,” I offered.

Andy looked slightly stricken before smoothing his face out again and waving a hand.

“Do you mean squash? Because that’s a game I could get behind.”

“I do,” Andy gushed.

He leaned forward and placed a hand on my knee.

“Gah, I meant name your squash stick.” Andy paused long enough to give me an expectant look. “What’s your favorite squash memory?” He leaned forward like my answer would be the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.

It should have felt fake, but somehow, it felt sincere, and I felt a little shitty about tricking him.

“Finding out you play with a racket, not a stick.”

Andy’s face fell.

“Oh…uh…”

I’d put Andy around seven or eight years older than me, but I felt protective of him for whatever reason. The subtle emotions playing over his pretty face fascinated me, but it didn’t tell me anything about him. And now I felt like shit for playing gotcha with him.