The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh

Nineteen

Saylor

Lloyd is in Manhattan, having drinks with some fellow youth workers from various churches tonight, and I’m back to my favorite pastime, spying on Ruston across the park. He must be in the kitchen or somewhere because the front room is in darkness. Before I let the curtain slip back into place, I see Frankie, Andre and Luna on Celeste’s doorstep. I experience a moment of jealousy. I’m new too. Why didn’t Celeste invite me over for their meet-the-neighbors session?

Then again, I’ll never be part of their friendship. I’m not a mother yet and moms tend to stick together. I felt it this afternoon in the park, like I was on the outer no matter how hard I try to fit in. I hated that feeling growing up and it’s no different now. Back then, I didn’t buy into my parents’ fervent beliefs and they never fully understood me. When I preferred meeting friends at the skate park on a Sunday after service rather than having morning tea with the holier-than-thou kids of their friends, they’d disapprove. When I shortened my school uniform to mid-thigh like the other girls in school, they frowned. When I fell in love with Ruston and would’ve followed him anywhere, they made sure they found the perfect candidate to help me settle down.

The funny thing is, I’d liked Lloyd instantly. I’d been determined to dislike him, because he’d been my parents’ choice. But he’d been so funny and warm and charming I couldn’t help but fall for him. It helped that Ruston had broken my heart for the umpteenth time just before I met Lloyd and it had seemed like the perfect time to move on.

So why the hell does Ruston have to turn up here now when my life is already in disarray, even if nobody knows it? Has he done this on purpose? Then again, why would he seek me out considering how things ended between us?

Whatever his rationale, I can’t allow him to distract me from my goal. To get my life back on track, I need to become a part of this community. I need to be trusted and that means I need to befriend Frankie and Celeste. There’s one sure-fire way to ingratiate myself with these women. I already know Frankie’s a lifestyle vlogger. I’ve watched her show religiously over the last few months. But it’s Celeste I’m more interested in. Of the two, she’s the one I can’t get a read on and I like to be prepared.

I sit on the sofa, rest my laptop on a cushion and type CELESTE REAGAN into the search engine. A host of hits pop up, referring to some politician in England, a small-time television producer in Australia and an indie author, but nothing on my neighbor. I click on the “images” icon and scan the photos but don’t see her. So I open several social media sites, one by one, and search them all.

Nada.

It’s like Celeste is the invisible woman. She doesn’t exist.

It’s strange, because most women in their thirties have some kind of online presence, if only to snoop on their exes or check out what their old classmates are up to. Of course, there could be any number of reasons why she’s offline—a cyberbullying incident when she was younger, an obsession with privacy, an introvert who doesn’t care what the rest of the world is sharing online—but the most obvious reason is she’s hiding from an ex. Turning up here with only a carload of possessions supports that theory. Then again, maybe I’m being overly suspicious because I’ve had to cover my tracks well out of necessity.

I type FRANKIE FORBES into the search engine and there are countless hits, pages and pages of them. Not surprising, considering her online fame. ANDRE FORBES elicits fewer hits. His graphic design website showcasing his work, several mentions in newspapers, nothing out of the ordinary.

I’m so tempted to type RUSTON REYNOLDS into the search engine but I don’t. It’s not conducive to relegating him to the past, no matter how shocked I am he’s barged into my present.

Besides, why do I care what he’s been up to since we broke up for the final time? I know too much about him already: the scattering of tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose, the small scar from a skateboarding accident at the base of his right collarbone, the intensity of his gaze that made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

I close the laptop and squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could block out my memories, despising myself for wasting time thinking about him at all.

I have a baby to focus on and a plan to execute.