Chapter One

“Everyone lies, especially boys. You need to keep this”—my grandmother places her wrinkled finger on my small chest and thumps against my heart—“guarded like a fortress. Don’t be fooled by sweet words and a handsome smile, no matter what he promises you. If it sounds too good to be true, it is.”

“I hate you. I really, really hate you,” I tell the dirty clothes I shove into the Army bag.

I was supposed to go to the Laundromat last night, but I was too exhausted after my shift and chose sleep. I convinced myself as I collapsed in bed around midnight that I’d get up early and go before school—which was stupid because I’m not a morning person. So now, I’m exhausted and miserable.

I tuck the small pouch of quarters in the side pocket and set some textbooks on top before pulling the drawstring tight. Dragging the huge tube of clothes behind me, I lock my bedroom door with a click of the padlock and abandon the bag by the front door.

A dark suit is draped over the kitchen chair with a note.

Lana, would you be able to drop this off at the dry cleaners for me? If you can’t, it’s okay.

—Nick

I toss the note onto the kitchen table and pick up the suit jacket. The weight of it and the silken threads feel expensive. I hold it in front of me, exposing the satin lining. It has to be tailor-made. I can’t even imagine how much he paid for it.

I tell the suit, “You’re lucky I like you,” but, of course, I mean the man.

Nick met my mother when she was temping as a receptionist at a law firm in Boston about a year ago, but I didn’t meet him ’til six months later. He’s not the first guy in a suit to be tempted by her fair skin, long blond hair and youthful curves, but he’s one of the few worthy of her. Nick’s from New York, but he travels between there and Boston regularly. When he’s here, he chooses to stay with us, despite the hour and a half commute. He wants to get a place together closer to the city. I think the only reason my mother hasn’t given him an answer is because of me.

I’ve learned not to get involved in my mother’s social life. We don’t exactly have the same optimistic outlook on love. But it’s obvious that Nick is dedicated to taking care of her. And I won’t get in the way of my mother’s happiness. She deserves to be happy. She deserves him.

I toss the jacket back on the chair. And, just as I begin to walk to the fridge, a clang reverberates against the floorboards. I stop and slowly turn, my stomach already reacting before I see what fell from his suit pocket. I stare at it for a moment, wishing I’d hated him just like the rest of them.

Now I do.

“Oh, you asshole,” I say, bending to pick it up.

Nick’s exotic spicy scent enters the room. My jaw clenches as I stand, keeping my back to him.

“Good morning,” he says cheerily. “You’re up early.”

I turn to face him. He must have just taken a shower because his dark hair is still wet, combed neatly and slicked away from his face. Everything about him is expensive—from the crisp white shirt to his perfect, charming smile. He looks so out of place in this dilapidated kitchen. He rolls a suitcase next to him, resting it near the doorway.

I don’t respond, only stare, wondering how I didn’t see it. I have a gift for knowing when someone isn’t who they appear to be—for seeing through the lies. But I never saw this coming. He was so convincing. I believed him!

The betrayal burns deep, or maybe it’s just my pride that’s singed. Regardless, now I want to punch him in the throat.

“Everything okay?” Nick asks, his brows furrowed in concern. “If it’s about the suit, I can take it with me, ask the hotel to send it out. I just thought—”

“Or you could ask your wife,” I say, cutting him off. I raise my middle finger to reveal the dark titanium band embedded with black diamonds. “Isn’t she waiting for you in New York?”

“What … Lana, I—” he stutters.

“Don’t.” I shut him up before he can lie again. My voice is edged with venom. “Leave. Never come back. If you do, I’ll murder you in your sleep. Understand?”

He remains frozen within the doorframe. His eyes flicker in panic. “It’s not … ”

“Piece of shit.” I shove past him, causing him to stumble back a step.

I walk to the front door and hoist the straps of the Army bag over my shoulders with a grunt. Without looking back, I warn him, “Tell her the truth, or I will.”

“Lana?” My mother’s voice carries from her bedroom just before I slam the front door.

I look down at the wedding band on my finger, and my jaw flexes with unrelenting anger. This is going to kill her. Releasing a heavy breath, I trudge down the flight of stairs, the Army bag banging against my thighs with each step. It’s practically as big as I am, and I fight not to fall face-first down the stairs.

The street is uncharacteristically quiet when I step outside, only because of the insane hour. The sun’s rays peek between the neighborhood buildings, barely having risen itself. The cool morning air soothes my heated cheeks as I walk down the sidewalk.

We don’t live in the best neighborhood, but there really isn’t a good neighborhood in Sherling. At least we don’t have gangs tagging every surface. Our street is a small side street, lined with about a dozen multifamily homes. Laundry hangs over porch railings. Broken-down cars take up space in pocked driveways. Most of the time, the sound of arguing or crying kids filters out the open windows, floating along the streets like white noise. I don’t really hear it unless it’s an overly dramatic fight. So now, with the street vacant of cars and everyone still asleep, the silence makes the anger in my head so much louder.

My mother doesn’t belong here any more than he does. I know she’s lived here most of her life, but she never quite fit in. She’s a dreamer. A believer. A fragile bloom fighting for light in the middle of a landfill. He promised to take her away from all of this. He was supposed to save her from a life that continues to drain the color from her every day.

She sees the good in every person, regardless of who they are or what they’ve done in life. I always considered this naive. But she genuinely wants to believe every person is worthy. The liars. The cheats. The manipulators. The bastards who use her for their own self-serving needs. Not just the men, but the women too. Those who pretend to be a friend, until jealousy unveils their selfishness and insecurity. They’re all the same. But she refuses to give up on them because, when my mother loves, she loves with everything. It’s why Belief is her curse. It’s that belief that will eventually break her.

My fingers curl into a fist, short nails digging into my palm. Oh, I hate him. Everything about him is a lie. I wish I’d seen through him. But he was so sincere. Maybe that’s his curse and the reason I couldn’t recognize his deception … Sincerity.

If Nick’s curse is Sincerity, then he’s the worst kind of human. Convincing people to believe him, to trust him, only to destroy them when they let him in.

The twenty-four-hour Laundromat at the end of the block is just as deserted as the street, except for the homeless man sleeping under the dryer vent in the alley.

After loading the washer, I sit on the chipped laminate counter and prop my best friend’s textbook open on my crossed legs, trying to distract myself from the boiling rage that continues to churn in my stomach.

The distinct ting of a glass bottle rolling along the pavement draws my attention from Tori’s algebra assignment. A woman in a leopard print skirt and black bustier stumbles across the street, running a hand through her disheveled dark hair. Smeared liner shadows her eyes, and her lips are smudged with faded red lipstick. I watch her zigzag across the desolate street. She falters when her stiletto heel catches the curb. I wince, expecting her to fall, but she corrects herself with a few stuttering steps.

I try to imagine what she looked like when the night began, confident and sexy. At some point in the night, her curse got the better of her, and this blur of a woman is all who’s left.

I finish my English lit assignment just as the dryer rolls to a stop. After placing the folded clothes inside the Army bag, I start back to the house. The neighborhood has slowly begun to stretch its arms during the hour or so I was hidden in the Laundromat. Cars roll up to the intersections, waiting at the lights. Several women in need of their morning coffee stand at the bus stop, tote bags over their shoulders. Voices and music escape out of open windows as I walk past. Peaceful silence has lifted its veil, allowing chaos to resume its reign.

“I don’t understand!” Her desperate wails reach me before I can see her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I stop in front of the neighbor’s house to find my distraught mother standing in the middle of our lawn and Nick next to his car with his suitcase in hand.

“I’m so sorry, Faye.” His voice cracks in response. “I really am.” He turns his back to her and tosses his suitcase in the passenger side of the shiny black BMW.

My mother collapses to her knees when he enters the driver’s side without looking back. She covers her face to capture her tears. I can feel her heart breaking from here.

The tires spit out rocks as he tears out of the driveway, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Rubber connects with asphalt, and the squeal echoes down the street. I make eye contact with his green eyes and flash him my middle finger, still adorned with his wedding band, meaning every word the gesture signifies. He flinches.

“Asshole,” I mutter, wishing I could hang him by his balls.

I turn back to the devastation he left behind—and I don’t mean the driveway.

With a heavy sigh, I adjust the straps on my shoulders and approach the frail woman collapsed on the front lawn.

“What are you staring at?” I snap at our neighbor who’s standing on her front porch with a coffee mug in her hand, fixated on the spectacle like she’s watching a reality show.

She’s wrapped in a torn terry robe, her hair a misshapen mass of curls, like she just crawled out of bed—which she probably has. Then again, I know she always looks like this, no matter what time of day. There’s no reason to make an effort when she just has to sit at home to collect a paycheck.

“You really shouldn’t be allowed out of your house looking like that, Gayle. You’ll give the kids nightmares.”

A couple of boys laugh as they pass by on their way to the bus stop. The middle-aged woman scowls at me. She glances at the broken heap on the front lawn with a judgmental shake of her head before disappearing inside. The screen door squeaks loudly before it crashes shut behind her.

I can sense others watching too, eyes peering out behind curtains.

I set the bag of clean clothes on the stoop and kneel down beside my mother, my hand on her back. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s go inside.”

“He … lied to me,” she forces out between broken sobs. She lifts her head from her hands, her big blue eyes bloodshot. “Why … didn’t … he tell me … he’s still married?”

“Because he’s a selfish prick,” I tell her, filtering the honesty. If I were truly being honest with her, I would’ve used a lot more expletives. I wrap my arm around her thin waist and coax her up. “Let’s get you inside, so the neighbors don’t make money off you on YouTube.”

She’s not listening to me, but she lets me guide her to her feet. “Why? I don’t … understand. I thought … he … loved me. I … believed him.”

“I know you did,” I soothe as we slowly move toward the front door. I did too, I finish in my head.

I bend down and pull on a strap of the duffel bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I keep one hand on my mother to keep her from toppling into the pit of despair and guide her up the stairs.

We somehow manage to climb to the second floor where the door was left ajar. I shut the marred door with the long, jagged crack down its center and secure the dead bolt.

“Why didn’t I know? I should have known,” my mother says in hiccuping gasps.

I don’t have an answer for her because I should have known—which only lights up the fiery rage inside my chest.

“I’m so sorry, Lana,” she whimpers, her slender shoulders rounding.

She disappears into her room, and I follow.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Mom,” I say with a disheartened sigh.

She slowly sits on the edge of her bed, her shimmery eyes focused on the floor. “I loved him,” she whispers, a tear glistening on her flushed cheek.

“I know.”

Men with expensive suits and charming smiles have always asked her out when she temps. Understandably. My mother’s beautiful and kind—and therefore viewed as an easy target. To them, she’s a fling. A disposable hot piece to occupy their time until it hints at becoming serious. Then, they leave. It was a painful lesson. She was forced to learn to be careful with her heart and not fall for every jackass who winks at her.

I’m not the easiest person to get along with. I had to promise I’d back off after threatening too many boyfriends with missing body parts if they hurt her. Let her be the “adult” and make her own decisions. So I refused to acknowledge any of my mother’s boyfriends again.

Then came Nick.

Nick was careful with her from the beginning. Asked her out for coffee for their first date and then lunch. Eventually, dinner and a movie. He slowly got close to her. And, in that time, I let him in too.

He was different. Until he wasn’t.

I pull back the covers for her to climb in.

It’s the same full bed she’s slept in since she was a girl. This room is basically the same as when she shared it with her sisters, growing up. Dried flowers hanging from pins along the windowsill memorialize loves lost. Layers of time wallpaper every surface. Photos, art projects, yellowing band posters—constant reminders of the life we’ll never escape. It’s so … depressing.

Nick’s soothing cologne lingers, at odds with the offensive herbal incense my mother burns—another indication that his presence was always a contradiction to everything within these walls.

“Lana, I’m—”

“Sorry. I know.” Crimson stains blossom on the white pillow as blood begins to drip from her nose. “Shit, Mom.”

I reach for the box of tissues and pull out a few. She takes them from me and presses the cluster under her nose. The hint of dark circles creeps beneath her eyes.

I fumble with the top of the prescription bottle. Dumping a small pill into my palm, I hand it to her along with the glass of water by her bedside. She takes it, swallowing it down.

“I’ll get some ice.”

By the time I return with ice wrapped in a kitchen towel, a scarlet pile of tissues has overtaken her nightstand. Blood trickles from beneath the tissue, staining her upper lip. I swap out the tissues for a damp facecloth and hand her the ice to apply to the bridge of her nose.

“You’re going to be late for school,” she mutters in a nasally voice, unable to open her eyes.

“I know.” I was always going to be late, but she doesn’t need to know that. There was no way I could have gotten the laundry done and still been on time. So now, I’ll just be … later. “Will you be okay while I get ready?”

“Go,” she urges quietly.

Hesitating a second, I leave the door cracked, so I can hear her if she calls for me.

When I return to check on her, she’s asleep. But I know it’s a troubled sleep by the way her brows pinch together, the pain apparent behind her lids. I brush the wisps of honey-blond hair away from her face. She’s warm to the touch, a hint of a fever. She’s been suffering from migraines for as long as I can remember, triggered by stress and … heartache. I don’t know why her body betrays her every time someone else does. Maybe her heart can’t handle being broken.

Over the past few months, despite being truly happy, the migraines have kept coming, accompanied by nosebleeds. Last week, she scared us when she grabbed hold of the counter to stay upright. Nick set up an appointment with her doctor for next week, even though she insisted it was nothing.

I watch her for a moment longer. Her face is pale, except for the fully formed shadows under her eyes and the flush of fever on her cheeks. Her lids twitch. This isn’t nothing, and it’s starting to freak me out.

I refill the glass of water at her bedside and leave a note, telling her I’ll call her during lunch and that she has to pick up or else I’ll come home. I leave her in her restless sleep as I slip out the front door.

My chest hurts and my whole body is weak with exhaustion. And I wasn’t even the one who loved him.