Perfect Lie(2)

I climbed the white iron staircase outside the small pale‐pink stucco building as my breathing quickened. I tried, as always, to talk myself out of going through with my appointment. The door popped open, and June stuck out her head from behind the door with a large smile.

“Planning your escape, Delilah?” She winked as she pushed the door open farther so I could slip in past her.

I smiled back as I stepped inside and closed my eyes. The temperature was a good fifteen degrees cooler than outside, and it felt incredible. I made my way to the three folding chairs along the wall, but June stopped me before I could sit down.

“She’s already waiting for you.”

Of course she was waiting. I had taken my sweet time walking over here and was now ten minutes late. I grabbed the handle to Marie’s office and shoved it open.

“You’re late,” she said with a playful smile as she brushed her shoulder‐length chestnut hair off her shoulder, revealing the birthmark that ran from her left ear and disappeared below the collar of her blouse. She used to cover it with makeup, but after a few sessions, she no longer tried to hide it, which made me feel more at ease. She trusted me with her secret, and I felt I could trust her with mine.

“You didn’t see that in your crystal ball?” I teased, and Marie shook her head, her cheeks blushing to the color of the mark.

“I told you about that psychic in confidence.” She gave me a hard look but was still smiling. “And she didn’t say I was a mind reader—although it would make my job a whole lot easier.” I closed the door behind me and made my way to the black leather chair across from her as she wrote something in the notebook that rested on her lap.

“Right. You like to sleep with dead people,” I replied, straight faced. I loved poking fun at her.

“Delilah! She said I was a necromancer in my past life. They talk to dead people.” She shook her head as she laughed from deep in her stomach, revealing the laugh lines around her mouth. “What you’re referring to is necrophilia and absolutely disgusting.”

“That makes me feel a little better.” I smirked as my eyes danced over the caricature of her that hung in a simple wood frame over a dusty fake palm plant. It wasn’t an over‐the‐top room, and it reminded me more of a small living room than an office. Marie added little personal touches all around. I suppose this was to make people feel more comfortable and at home, but it bordered on unprofessional. Still there was something about Marie, the way she tucked a leg under herself as she sat, as if we were old friends; the way she laughed inappropriately at my sarcastic humor instead of judging me.

“It was just in good fun anyway.” She waved her hand.

“Please don’t tell me you went to that crackerjack trying to find out when some guy was going to come sweep you off your feet.”

“Some of my colleagues thought it would be fun. That’s all. I don’t take any stock in what those psychics have to say.”

“Psychics? As in plural? How many have you seen? You’re never gonna get hitched if you’re hanging out in seedy palm readers’ basements.”

“What’s with your fascination with my love life?”

“It’d be nice if one of us was getting some action.” I let my shoulders fall as I looked at her. “Any guy would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks.” She picked up her glass of water and took a sip. “But I just don’t think it’s in the cards.”

I picked at her playfully. “Marie, did you just make a joke? Was that a tarot‐card joke? I want to make sure. I’d hate to miss it.”

“All right. All right. Enough about my nonexistent love life. We’re here to chat about you.”

“I almost didn’t come,” I said, as I picked up chess piece from the small glass table between us and studied it.

Marie shrugged and glanced down at my hand, watching as I turned it over between my fingers. “I’m trying to learn how to play, but I haven’t been able to really get into it. Do you play?”

I shook my head and put the piece back on the board as I relaxed in my seat.

“You never played any games with Brock?” she asked casually, as she pulled a pack of mints from her pocket and popped one into her mouth. She held the container out to me, but I waved it away.

“Not really. Just a little at the shelter. How’s quitting going?” That was my lame attempt to change the subject.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in three days.”

“Congrats!” I was genuinely proud of her. My mother was a smoker, and no matter how hard she tried, she never could kick the habit. I think she viewed it as the world’s slowest suicide attempt.