Things Liars Say

Sara Ney

Copyright © 2015 Sara Ney

All Rights Reserved

DIGITAL EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests or comments, write to the author at:

Sara Ney, Author

saraneyauthor@yahoo.com

Greyson

The lie started off innocently enough, and obviously I never meant to get caught up in it—but then again, isn’t that what everyone says when they lie?

Wait! No. Don’t answer that.

Flipping my laptop open, I hit the power button and wait for it to boot, the soft familiar humming of the fan, CD drive, and modem stirring my computer to life, and shuffle the papers stacked in front of me.

I take a bite of the apple on my food tray, chewing slowly as I scan the meeting agenda on the table in front of me and my friends look on.

We’re gathered in the university’s dining hall for a quick lunch meeting on campus—the only time this week I could get my committee together in one spot at a time that worked for everyone.

“Rachel,” I say across the cafeteria table. “Did you remember to call the catering company?”

My sorority sister gives me a victorious smile. “Yup. They have us booked for the third, and we have a tasting on the twenty-ninth at four thirty. It should have updated your calendar in Outlook.”

I click open my Outlook and scroll through the calendar to the dates Rachel mentioned. “Excellent. There it is.” I cross catering off my list and chew on the end of my BIC pen. “Jemma, are we all set with the silent auction donations?”

“Roger that, Greyson. I have ten alumnae lined up for baskets, and another thirteen parents who donated cash, totaling eight hundred dollars. We should be all set once we get everything purchased to put the baskets together.”

“What other things do you have left for those?”

“You know, clear cello bags for the baskets, the wicker baskets themselves, labels… Those sorts of things.”

“Who’s going to be running the auction?” My pen hovers above the blank auctioneer spot on my agenda.

“You, Beth, and I can pull the silent-auction sheets at the end of the night.”

I nod, crossing both auction and donations off my list.

“Ariel? Entertainment?”

Ariel, a tall brunette with a serious expression, pulls out an Excel spreadsheet and drums on it with her forefinger. “It looks like Cara put the deposit down for the DJ last week. He’s scheduled to arrive a full hour before we start setting up the room so he can get all his equipment in the building without interruptions. I sent him a list of requested songs last night, so we should be good to go.”

“As long as Vanessa doesn’t request any of those group dances.” Jemma snorts.

“Ugh. I hate ‘The Electric Slide.’” Ariel laughs. “Should I add that to the do-not-play list?”

“Nah. Because you and I both know if the DJ plays it, you’re going to run out onto the dance floor…”

Ariel sighs. “Probably.”

I look down at my list and tap a pen to my chin. “So all we have to talk about yet is ticket sales. And getting everyone to sign the guest release waivers for liability.”

I pull the form out of a file folder and slide it across the table to Catherine, one of three sisters in the sorority who are pre-law. She scans it with narrowed, articulate eyes and gives a curt nod when she reaches the last paragraph. “Looks great. Solid.” Her lips curve into a smirk. “I like the addendum about recovering losses if property damage to the venue occurs by a guest. Good thinking.”

Jemma snorts. “Remember what happened last year with Amanda Q’s date? He ripped out an entire fern from the foyer of the hotel then threw up in the pot.” We all laugh. “To add insult to injury, she snuck him out and then lied about it. Like there weren’t security cameras everywhere.”

Catherine gives a rueful shake of the head, disappointed we weren’t able to charge anyone damages, and says, “Right. But since he hadn’t signed a waiver, we couldn’t charge him for the damage.”

“Thank God it was just a few bags of potting soil…”

“But still. She shouldn’t have left us hanging.”

“Yeah, that was shitty.”

Rachel turns to me with raised eyebrows. “Speaking of dates… Inquiring minds want to know: who is Greyson Keller bringing to the Philanthropy Gala this year?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have time to worry about a date, you guys. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in Gala preparations.”

“Don’t you have to bring a date?” Jemma asks. “As the Philanthropy Chairwoman, you’re the hostess this year.”

I fiddle with my laptop’s power cord and avoid her eyes. “What’s your point?”

“Oh, come on, what’s his name?” Rachel waves a limp french fry in my face from her lunch tray to get my attention. “Focus here; this stuff is important.”

I finally look up, giving my blonde head a shake. “Who says there has to be a guy?”

“Please, there’s always a guy…” Rachel’s voice trails off.

“Just tell us who it is.” Catherine prods quietly. Cajoling.

“Spit it out. We’re going to find out eventually.”

No, you’re really not.

Jemma looks me dead in the eyes. “Yes. We are.”

What the… Okay, that was freaky. And it occurs to me that they’re acting like a gang of unruly hyenas and aren’t going to let the subject die until I give them a reason to.

“I-I’d rather not say,” I stutter. “We, uh, just started dating. It’s only been one date. Besides, he’s hardly Gala material.”

“What the heck does that even mean?” Jemma scoffs. “Hardly Gala material? If he has a pulse, he’s Gala material.”

“One date?” Ariel drops her pen on the table. “Why did you feel that wasn’t worth mentioning? Why haven’t we at least heard about this guy before?”

“I don’t want to jinx it?”

“Are you asking us or telling us?” Catherine’s eagle eyes are unnerving, and I look away.

“Are you bringing him to the Gala?”

I take another bite of apple and respond with a mouthful. “I don’t know yet. He might have… a… game?”

“Game?” Jemma’s eyes get wide and excited. “Ooh, what is he, an athlete? Which sport?”

Great question, Jemma. I’ll let you know when I figure it out myself. Everyone leans in closer for my answer, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“He, uh… He’s…” Honestly, people. Why do you care so much? Of course, I don’t actually say this out loud.

“Oh, come on, Greyson. Don’t get all secretive on us. It’s not like we’re going to stalk him on social media.”

A few of them exchange telling, stealthy glances. What a bunch of freaking liars. The first thing they’ll do when they leave this meeting is look for him on Facebook. Twitter. Bumble app… wherever—my point is, they would absolutely social media stalk him. I mean, if he existed.

I lie again.

“Fine. His name is…” I look around the room, my hazel eyes scanning the room, the food posters and the advertising signs adorning the walls. One for fresh, cold Farm Fresh California Milk jumps out at me. California. For some reason, it sticks out at me.