Best Friends & Other Liars Read online

  I blush—I’m not sure if it’s from the suggestion that I should model, or the fact that the suggestion came up after she took in my jean size and realized that I was on the heavier side. In addition to, as Jeremy says, “the wrong side of forty”.

  “Um, I’ll have to pass on that.”

  Francine shrugs. “Suit yourself.” Then she continues her life story. “After I realized I wasn’t getting modeling jobs because of my age, and before starting my company, I spent a lot of money on Botox and whatnot, chasing the fountain of youth.” She waves at her face in a distracted way. “I was also blessed with pretty good genes. My grandmother is over a hundred and she seriously could pass for seventy.”

  “Wow,” I reply, not sure what to say. If my grandmother was a hundred she would probably look two hundred. I am not blessed with good genes. “Lucky you.”

  “Well, not necessarily. Since I looked younger, after I started my successful company, I found myself attracting the attention of much younger men.” She shakes her head with disgust. I’m not sure how that is necessarily a bad thing.

  “I was married three times to younger men. My most recent ex-husband was fifteen years younger than I am. Thanks to him, I finally realized they were just after my money. Stupid me, I trusted him. I thought he was truly my soulmate. I wouldn’t have thought he could ever hurt me. In fact, I trusted him so much, we even had joint bank accounts. I’ve never had a joint bank account with any of my ex-husbands. Jeff cleaned mine out and disappeared off the face of the earth. Haven’t heard from him in four years. Meanwhile, I’ve been trying to slowly rebuild my savings.”

  “Wow,” I repeat, unable to think of anything brilliant to say. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “Live and learn. Unfortunately, it took me until I was in my fifties to learn it. That’s when I decided to just be myself.” Francine takes a sip of her drink.

  I offer her a sympathetic smile. Gazing out onto the dance floor I see Leah and Kendall bouncing all over the place, dancing wildly like they don’t care who is watching them. I feel a twinge of jealousy that my best friend is having fun without me, until I remember that I really hate to dance around Leah. She dances so much better than I do. But what else in new? Next to Leah I’m almost invisible.

  “At least you have a good friend like Kendall to help you through it.”

  Francine rolls her eyes. “Dear God, don’t get me started on that one. She’s still an infant. She’s only thirty-nine.”

  My age. Well, my age for the next few days or so.

  Cocking her head to the side Francine says, “Oh wow, another song I actually like.” It’s “Dancing Queen”, by ABBA. She starts swaying to the beat of the music.

  “How did you meet Kendall?” I ask.

  Francine laughs. “That’s actually a funny story—”

  At that very moment Leah and Kendall sashay up to us. Kendall bumps into her friend and for the second time that night, Francine gets a drink spilled on her.

  “Oops, sorry babe,” Kendall says with a laugh.

  Francine scowls at her. “Kendall, you’re totally wasted,” she says, much like a mother might chastise a child.

  “Just a little,” Kendall says with a laugh as she holds her thumb and pointer finger an inch apart. Leah reaches over and spreads those fingers wider. They both laugh and Kendall admits, “Okay, maybe a lot.”

  “Like this much,” Leah laughs as she spreads her arms wide around her body, knocking into another woman on her way to the bathroom. The woman, in her late fifties (and she looks her age), shoots Leah a dirty look. Kendall snort/laughs, causing Leah to dissolve into another fit of giggles.

  “I better get this one to bed,” Francine tells me, grabbing Kendall’s arm.

  I glance over at Leah to see her swaying on her feet.

  “Yeah, me, too,” I tell her as I grip Leah’s arm. The arm she promptly yanks out my grip.

  “No way! I’m not done partying yet,” Leah says as she dances away from me with a laugh. She flips her hand in the air and calls out, “Adios, bitches!” and shoots me the middle finger.

  I am seething. I turn to Francine to apologize, but she has her hands full with Kendall—who is in the process of stripping out of her dress as Francine tries to get her to leave the club.

  Sighing, I return to the bar, watching Leah out of the corner of my eye. At least I can see if she runs off and tries to jump overboard, right?

  “Another drink?” the bartender asks as I lean on the counter.

  “Yeah. A Cosmo, please,” I say, watching Leah grind up on some super tan guy with way too many chains around his neck. “Keep ‘em coming.”

  LEAH

  “Vi?” I whisper, grabbing my sneakers.

  “Uh, muh,” she groans, covering her head with a pillow.

  “I’m going to go to the gym,” I say, still trying to keep my voice below a whisper. I shove my left foot into my sneaker.

  “Huh?” She lifts her head, knocking the pillow to the floor and squints at me.

  “The gym. I’m going to the gym,” I repeat—this time a little slower. I wiggle my right foot into its sneaker and bend down to tie them.

  “The gym?” She wrinkles up her face even more, contorting it so much that I find myself thinking, She’s gonna have terrible crow’s feet by the time she’s forty...oh wait...she’ll be forty on Tuesday.

  “Yeah. That place with the bikes and the treadmills—”

  “There’s a gym on the ship?” She sits up and blinks at me.

  “Um, yeah. I told you that. Remember?”

  She continues to stare at me. “Why would you go to the gym? Don’t you have a headache?”

  “Me?” I ask, pointing to myself. “No. Why would I have a headache?”

  “You drank so much last night. And we stayed up so late. How can you even think about going to the gym? You never go to the gym. Why start today? Are you trying to nab a man?”

  Ha, leave it to Vi to figure out my diabolical plan. She knows me so well.

  The way I figure it, not too many people exercise while they’re on vacation, right? So if I go to the gym, I’m most likely not going to find some overweight old schmuck like the two guys we were stuck talking to last night. I’m going to find a guy in decent shape...maybe not an Adonis, but a hell of a lot better than Adam and George.

  “Maybe,” I reply in a sing-song voice.

  Vi attempts to sit up more and then recoils in pain as the light from our tiny porthole window hits her eyes. She flops back down on the pillow and moans in agony. “Ugh, it’s too early. I went to bed too late. I’m gonna be miserable today.”

  I grin as I grab my headphones. Vi is usually in bed by nine o’clock every night with her book. Last night we were out till four am. And according to the clock on the dresser, it’s only a little after eight now. I, on the other hand, usually thrive on four hours of sleep.

  “Enjoy your sleep. I’ll be back to get you in a half an hour.”

  “Ouch,” she wails as she pulls another pillow over her head. “You’re pure evil. And no wonder why you can’t get a guy. You toss and turn in your sleep and you talk non-stop. You’re a nightmare to sleep with.”

  “And you fart in your sleep,” I tell her, opening the door and stepping out in the hallway.

  “I do not!” I hear her shout indignantly as the door closes with a thud behind me. “Oh God, that hurt my head!”

  Grinning to myself, I quickly wind my way through the hallway until I reach the main staircase. I eye the elevators, contemplating taking them to the fifteenth floor where the gym is located, but I decide against it, climbing the six flights of stairs to the fifteenth deck in the name of exercise instead.

  I am pretty winded by the time I reach the floor that houses the gym, and I end up leaning my hands on my thighs to take some deep breaths. Then I remember an article I read in Runner’s World about putting my head between my knees to help me breathe. So I do just that. And it doesn’t help. In fact, it se
ems to make my breathing worse. And it makes me dizzy. And then I wonder how I read that in Runner’s World because I don’t read Runner’s World.

  Maybe I read it at Vi’s house? It sounds like the kind of magazine Dick would subscribe to. If I didn’t read it there, where did I read that?

  Lost in my thoughts of correct breathing techniques, I don’t realize that I am now in a crouched position on the floor, nearly sitting. And panting. I haven’t even gotten to the gym and I’m already out of breath. In my defense, this is the closest I’ve gotten to a gym in three years—mostly because I normally don’t have any time to go to the gym. I used to go to the gym religiously before I got my stupid job.

  Okay, my job isn’t stupid. It’s a necessary evil and sometimes, on a very rare occasion, I actually enjoy it. But my hours seriously suck, and sometimes I feel like I spend more time commuting than I actually do in the office. Maybe that’s a bit of exaggeration, but I probably spend more time working and commuting than I do at home.

  And when I’m home, I’m exhausted. The gym is the last place I want to go when I get home. I could go—I’ve had a membership to the local 24 hour gym for the last ten years—the payment just keeps coming out of my checking account. I vaguely remember where the gym is located, although the damn place could have relocated to Timbuktu for all I know.

  “You okay?” I hear a voice ask, causing me to look up quickly and become even more lightheaded.

  “Yeah, I’m fine—” I suck in my breath. Standing in front of me, fully outfitted in work-out attire is the guy who witnessed me trip up the stairs yesterday. Of all the damn luck. As much as I wanted to run into him again, this is not the way I wanted it to happen. Maybe he won’t remember it, I think hopefully.

  “I’m Nick,” he says. “I don’t believe we introduced ourselves yesterday.” Damn it, he remembers. And his name is Nick.

  “Hi,” I reply, nearly leaping to my feet, getting dizzier in the process. I resist the urge to grab onto his arm to steady myself.

  “Your name is?” he asks with a grin. I chew my lip wondering how I answer that question.

  Obviously I know my name, but I’m not sure I want to tell this guy. As good looking as he is, he’s got several strikes against him. Number one, he saw me fall on my ass yesterday. Yes, he helped me up, but that doesn’t mean anything. He just did what any decent person would do. But I guess at least that makes him decent.

  Number two, he’s really, really young. Not jailbait young, but still. He obviously lacks experience in the dating field. Do I really want to waste my time with a guy who probably was in kindergarten when I was losing my virginity?

  Number three, his name is Nick. I may or may not have sworn up and down that I would never date a guy named Nick again after a brief engagement fiasco a few years back.

  “Are you sure that you’re okay?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. A wisp of chocolate brown hair flops over his left eye. I swallow hard as he touches my arm and tingles run up and down my body. He looks like one of those guys on the covers of romance novels that I occasionally read on my train ride home when the battery is dead on my phone. And the result of his touch on my nether regions is similar to the romance novel reading.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him, pulling myself together.

  “That’s good,” he replies, staring at me expectantly. I realize I still haven’t told him my name.

  “I’m, uh, Leah,” I tell him, holding out my hand like I was taught way back when I was a child. Probably when this guy wasn’t even sperm yet.

  “Nice to meet you. Where are you headed to this morning, Leah?” he asks, emphasis on my name.

  “The gym,” I explain, hooking my thumb and jerking it down the hallway where I assume the gym is located. I don’t know for sure, of course, because I haven’t made it there yet.

  “Oh, I just came from the gym. Not much for a gym.”

  “No?” I feel relief—I won’t have to go work out because it’s a crappy gym. Not really an excuse...just a reason. Can’t work out if there’s nothing to work out on. I can just go right back to bed.

  “Nope. Just one lonesome treadmill, a stepper, and some free weights.” He shrugs. “Still, I pushed through. Can’t skip a workout.”

  Uh, he’s one of those. One of those guys who really, really loves to work out. One of those guys who would work out in the middle of a blizzard while the rest of us are hunkered down eating ice cream out of the carton. A guy like Richard.

  The thought of him being like Richard makes me shudder.

  “There’s nobody in there right now if you want to use the treadmill. It’s not bad, but it doesn’t have a decline option, and its highest speed is only ten miles per hour.”

  “Oh. That’s just...crazy,” I stutter. Who the hell runs at ten miles an hour?

  “Right?” he agrees, leaning his elbow on the railing that snakes down the hallway. “It’s a workout, though.” He gives me a grin and I find my heart fluttering like an insipid teenager with a crush.

  God damn hormones! (And the fact I haven’t gotten laid in nearly three months.) This guy was really revving my engine, despite my best efforts not to get sucked in.

  “Oh yeah.” I offer him my most charming I’m suave and cool just like you even though I almost tumbled down the stairs yesterday and you had to save me grin. “Gotta do what you gotta do.”

  Gotta do what you gotta do? Ugh, shut up now, Leah.

  “What do you normally do?” Nick is asking me as he starts to walk away. I am momentarily confused until I realize that he’s walking back toward the gym.

  Great...do I feed him the paralegal line or do I tell him the truth? The whole miserable truth about my all-consuming, life-sucking, not-nearly-as-glamourous-as-it-sounds job? Moment of truth here, Leah. You’ve already told him your real name. Are you going all in?

  “I’m in marketing. I design websites for companies. Mostly small businesses that don’t have marketing managers on site. They hire our firm to help them,” I explain, doubling my step to keep up with him as he strolls toward the gym. He has really long legs. And insanely toned calves, I note to myself. For a second I picture those legs wrapped around me and I find myself blushing.

  He stops in front of the glass door that I assume leads to the gym. I nearly bump into him because I’m staring at his calves.

  “What are you talking about?” He has a perplexed look on his face.

  Oh great. I said too much. I should have just kept it simple. He obviously doesn’t care about the details. I should have just told him I’m in marketing and left it at that. Or I could have used the paralegal line. Ugh! When in doubt, lie, Leah!

  “Um, never mind,” I mumble as I fiddle with my room card. I should just shove it in the slot in the wall, step into the gym, and disappear, leaving this guy behind.

  “I meant, what kind of workouts do you do? Like Cross-fit or PX90 or whatever.” He smiles. “But your job sounds cool, too.”

  I feel my body flush from head to toe. Of course—he doesn’t care what I do for a living...he cares what exercise I do. He’s a health freak, like Richard. He’s not interested in you, Leah.

  “Um, I run,” I reply. It’s the easiest lie I can come up with. And it’s not totally a lie, either. I have run in the past. Just not for recreation or anything. I’ve run when forced to run in gym class. And also that time a bird got into my apartment.

  “Awesome! Me too!” Nick tells me, his entire face lighting up. I can tell that this is indeed awesome for him and it’s not going to be so awesome for me. I’m going to have to do a lot of lying.

  “I ran my first half a few weeks ago. I won’t rest until I can do a full, but as you know, they’re pretty tough to get into. I’m in the lottery for Boston and New York next year.”

  “Oh, really? That’s...cool,” I reply, having absolutely no idea what this guy is talking about. “I’ve never done that.” There. He won’t ask me about doing a full, whatever the hell that is.

&
nbsp; “Have you ever done a half?” he asks eagerly.

  “Oh sure, a couple,” I tell him, hoping he’ll drop it. A half doesn’t sound as complicated as a full.

  “That’s really great. It’s nice to have someone to talk running with,” he says, practically beaming. Man, talking about running really excites this guy. “So what’s your PR?”

  “Um, for what?” I ask cautiously. Is he talking about my job now? I thought we were talking about running?

  “5K, 10K, half. Whatever you’ve done,” he says.

  Okay, now I’m really confused. Does he mean 401K? I mean, I haven’t really set any of those things up, and I know I should have, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a 5K or a 10K. Or maybe I’m wrong? Crap. I wish Vi was here. She knows about these things. She actually pays attention when she goes to meetings at work.

  Chewing my cuticle, I pull a number out of my ass. “About 10K?”

  Yeah. That’s a good number—10K in my 401K. Maybe that’s what he had actually meant by 10K.

  Nick cocks his head to the side, looking adorably perplexed. Then he starts to laugh, throwing his whole head back. I glance around nervously—there aren’t a lot of people milling around in the hallways at this early hour, but the ones that are, stare at Nick and me.

  “Shhhh!” I urge him, mortified. I stick my keycard in the slot and duck into the gym. I step into the small space and realize that Nick was not exaggerating. This place is bare bones minimum. Even a gym-a-phobe like me can see that. It’s actually pretty sad to see the mismatched free weights littered all over the floor and the dust build-up on the stepper. For a new cruise ship, it’s crazy to think this is the gym. It is obvious that this room is not a priority to most of our fellow cruisers—it looks about as lonely as I feel.

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” Nick asks, interrupting the pity party I’m throwing for the gym in my head.

  “Huh?”

  “The PR? Personal record? You don’t really run races, do you?”