The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh
Eight
Frankie
THEN
I have to admit, the backyard looks amazing. My parents have gone all out for my party. Filmy chiffon in daffodil yellow and ochre drapes from tree to tree along with fairy lights and vivid fuchsia lanterns, lending the backyard a magical quality. Tealight candles atop faux lily pads float in the pool, rimmed with more of the lanterns. And a twenty-foot grazing table is covered in cheeses, antipasto, deli meats, dried fruit, nuts and crackers, like a giant charcuterie board. A small table resides behind it, with a fancy three-tiered cake draped in daisies, surrounded by tiny lemon tartlets, apple pies and chocolate mousse. It’s stunning, yet I can’t help but wonder if Mom went online after I left her office today and ordered extra decorations to make up for what happened.
Even now, hours after Mom told me the truth, I’m struggling, torn between disappointment and anger. I want to forget what I’ve learned, but I can’t. Maybe moving out will give me time and perspective, because I sure as hell can’t imagine sticking around and feeling like this.
I’ve never been good at pretending and now I know the truth about their antics I need to escape. The problem is, I didn’t apply to any colleges. My folks come from old money, like many families in this enclave of Long Island, and hadn’t attended college either, so they’d been supportive when I wanted to take a gap year. I love living in Gledhill and I’d envisaged getting a job until I figured out what I want to do with my life, take my time finding something to inspire passion, but now that option has been snatched away along with my respect for them.
Ideally, I’d like to head to Manhattan. Every rebellious, independent bone in my body is screaming at me to leave all this behind and make my own way in the world. But rent is exorbitant in the city and I’ll need my parents’ financial support to do it. Considering how our relationship has fractured today, I’m hoping they’ll back my decision.
Mom joins me on the verandah overlooking the backyard. “What do you think, honey?”
She slides her arm around my waist and I struggle not to flinch. I used to love our closeness, more like friends than mother–daughter, but now I feel uncomfortable.
“It looks great, Mom, thanks.”
I inject enthusiasm into my voice because I know it must’ve taken her ages to decorate.
“I’m glad you like it.” She squeezes my waist. “The caterers will serve the finger food when everyone arrives and drinks will be self-serve.”
She spins me to face her and I swallow, trying to ease the lump of emotion in my throat. My mom looks the same—wide hazel eyes rimmed in kohl, the lids dusted in gold to match her dress, high cheekbones highlighted with rosy blush, lips glossed in coral—but she’s different. I wish she’d never told me about her and Dad…
“I understand your friends will be sneaking alcohol and while I don’t approve, you only turn eighteen once so I’ll let it slide. Just make sure no one drives home if they’ve been drinking, okay?”
I should be glad my parents are so liberal and will allow underage drinking at my party. My friends have always viewed them as cool parents, but now I know just how liberal they are, I see them differently.
“You ready to have fun?” She taps me on the nose like she used to when I was little, and I fake a smile and nod. She clasps her hands as she spots the first guests arrive. “Then let’s get this party started.”
When my folks first told me they wanted to throw me an eighteenth party I hadn’t thought to question why they wanted to invite their friends too. Old family friends who’d watched me grow up, they said. A nice addition to the celebration along with my school friends ready to party as we’d all graduated a month ago.
But as the night progresses, and I’m annoyingly sober because I got drunk once last year and hated the hangover, I understand why they invited their friends. I’m glad I haven’t sampled any of the vodka, gin or whiskey on offer because if I had I definitely wouldn’t be able to hide my reaction as I watch my parents getting close to their “friends”. A touch here. A look there. It’s all done on the sly, combined with covert glances and deliberate pressing of bodies against each other, but now I know what it means.
This has been going on for years at every barbecue, every party, and I didn’t have a clue.
Bile rises in my throat and I force it down with several gulps of soda. As I watch my parents play the gracious hosts, I’m appalled all over again and I’m overcome by an urge to bolt. I need to get out of here but if the birthday girl disappears before the cake is cut it won’t look good. Instead, I skirt around the crowd, past the pool, and head for the back of the garden where I know I’ll have peace and a few moments to collect my thoughts. My dad has an old shed back here he rarely uses and I like the old wrought-iron bench tucked behind it. Wisteria drapes it and I know hiding out for a while will calm me down before I embarrass myself, my parents, or all of us by screaming exactly what I think of them.
However, my plans for some much-needed alone time are thwarted when I spot a guy sitting on the bench. I don’t recognize him. He’s about my age, maybe a few years older, with short back and sides brown hair, a white button-down shirt and dark denim that looks suspiciously like it’s been ironed, whereas most guys wear distressed denim these days.
He looks up as I near and his eyes are light brown, almost golden, rather startling in his otherwise plain face. “Is it time to cut the cake?”
I shake my head. “No, I just needed to get away for a while.”
His eyebrows rise. “But you’re the birthday girl, and extremely popular by the looks of it. Why would you want to leave your own party?”
“None of your business,” I snap, not in the mood to exchange small talk with a stranger after what I’d just witnessed with my parents and their friends, surprised when he chuckles at my rudeness.
His laughter isn’t loud. It’s soft and well-modulated, like the rest of him. “Am I in your go-to spot?”
“Yes, and I’ve had a rough day, so I’d like you to leave.”
“Why can’t we share?”
He pats the empty space next to him and I roll my eyes before taking a seat. I know I’m acting like a brat but I don’t want to see or speak to anyone right now. I need some alone time to calm down, so I’m not tempted to march back to the party and expose my folks and their friends as a bunch of sleazy phonies.
“Want to talk about it?”
I glare at him and press my lips tighter.
He laughs again. “I’m not much of a party person myself, as you can tell.” He sweeps his arm wide to take in the garden. “This is more my style.”
“Lurking in the shadows?”
“There’s nothing wrong with staying in the background.” He shrugs. “Not everyone is born to be in the limelight.”
He’s intriguing. All the young guys I know are full of themselves. They talk a lot, boasting about the size of their car, their college education fund and their dick, not necessarily in that order. They want to be noticed so this guy saying the opposite… yet another weird thing in my all-round bizarre day.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Walter.”
“I’m Francesca.”
“I know.” He stares at me, the amber color of his eyes bordering on peculiar and a strange calmness infuses me. I like it.
“How did you end up at my party?”
“I’m your neighbor’s godson from out of town and got dragged along.”
Of course; the more the merrier according to my social butterfly parents. “Dragged, huh?”
“Already told you, parties aren’t my thing.”
“I’ve never seen you stay with the Schubermanns before?” They’re the only neighbors at my party, because the house on our left is a summer rental. We don’t socialize with them usually so I assume my folks invited the sixty-something couple so they wouldn’t complain about the noise.
“They usually come visit me.” He screws up his nose and it’s endearingly cute. “I’m a homebody. And I have this thing about strange beds, which means if I travel, I rarely get more than a few hours’ sleep a night.”
I admire his honesty, even if it makes him sound a tad dorky. “Are you in college?”
“No.”
An awkward silence stretches between us and I feel compelled to fill it. “You’re not much of a conversationalist.”
“What do you want me to say?” He shrugs. “I’m not a fan of making meaningless small talk.”
I’m not deterred by his bluntness. “So what do you do? How old are you?”
“I’m an accountant. Did a part-time course at a community college while working as a clerk in a bank. I’m twenty-two. My favorite color is navy, I drive my grandfather’s pick-up truck, I don’t waste money, I like watching documentaries and I’m loyal. Is that enough information for you?”
He rests his elbows on the back of the bench, his expression serene, and I’ve never met a guy so confident in his own skin. In that moment, it hits me.
Walter is the opposite of my parents in every way. If what he’s saying about himself is true, he’s staid, dependable and the antithesis of everything I learned to loathe today.
I’m not sure if this realization makes him more appealing, but I find myself wanting to learn more about him. I’m drawn to him.
I haven’t dated much in high school. Not many of the boys made my heart pound like it is now. Sitting here with Walter, infused by an unexpected calmness just from being in his presence, I feel like I’ve met someone important. Someone who can change my life.
I don’t believe in the crazy notion of instantaneous lust, but there’s something about him that makes my skin prickle with awareness, and I like it.
“You’re not like other guys I know.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Yeah.” I scoot toward him on the bench and, rather than meet me halfway as I hope, he slides away. So I spell it out for him. “I like you, Walter.”
His eyes widen slightly. “You hardly know me.”
“I know enough.”
Our gazes lock and I swear I feel a zap, an indefinable buzz that warms me from the inside out, making me want to do crazy things, like kiss a guy I hardly know.
Maybe it’s the stress of the day and learning the truth about my folks, maybe it’s the overwhelming fatigue of having to pretend all evening I’m having the best night ever, or maybe it’s the excitement of an unexpected attraction when I least expect it, but I do something completely out of character and lay my hand on his thigh. It clenches beneath my palm. “How long are you in town for?”
“A week.”
Good. Seven days will give me time to get to know Walter, to see if I’m imagining this spark between us. A few minutes ago, I’d been hell-bent on leaving Gledhill and now, I have something to stay for, at least for a week.
“I’m glad—”
“I have to go.”
He stands so abruptly my hand falls and hits the bench. As I surreptitiously rub my fingers he’s looking over my shoulder, before giving a little shake of his head.
“Enjoy your party,” he says, striding away as if he can’t escape fast enough.
“Walter, wait.”
But by the time I stand to follow him, he’s disappeared.