“I took your number from the form you filled out,” he blurts before my butt is even in the seat.

“Huh?”

“I promised you that I’d reveal my little secret when you got here, right? Well, I’m a man of my word. I’m just keeping up my end of the bargain. I stole it off the form you filled out for the book club.”

I’m kind of shocked, but in a good way. I can’t help but smile. I didn’t expect something so. . . bad from him. I like it. Maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye. “Mr. Book Club President,” I joke. “Are you telling me that you abused your executive powers just to get my number?”

“Am I under oath? I did not have sexual relations with that woman.” I crack up. He’s doing that weird presidential thumb thing and talking in his best Bill Clinton voice.

“I hope you’re a better liar than he was,” I say. “I think I’ll be calling for your impeachment, sir. There must be some kind of protocol for that kind of thing.” We both smile as I look up at the sky. “Actually, scratch that, impeachment can wait. I’m really into this book we’re reading, and I want to see what happens. But after that—I’m calling a committee, or whatever, and bringing you up on charges of. . . I don’t even know what. I’ll think of something.”

“Okay, well, I deserve whatever comes to me. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my last few weeks as president and try to serve the office with diligence and integrity, at least until you have me thrown out.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I love how playful he is. We have a real natural back and forth banter that doesn’t feel forced, and I really enjoy talking with him. His eyes are sparkling as the sunlight bounces off of them, and whenever my sarcasm can make him smile his whole face becomes even more attractive. “But I do have a follow up question.”

“Hit me with your best shot.”

“Why?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Why breach your ethics and abuse your title as president just to get my number?”

He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “You know why, Talia.” There he goes, using my full name again. If he were anyone else I’d be correcting him, but I love the way he says it. It sounds like music.

“Come on, what? It’s a valid question.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I wanted to eat raw fish with you. Seeing the look on your face when your lunch comes is all the reason in world. And, by the way, I pre-ordered some stuff that should be coming out. I’m not the guy who orders for his date, but in this case, I thought you’d trust my judgment.” He’s good at evasion. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, but I tend to be critical when people aren’t painfully honest. Ironic, I know, since I lied through my teeth the other day when we met.

“That’s fine, I have full confidence in your knowledge of gross fish.”

“Good,” he says. “Glad to hear that I made the right decision, then. So, how’s your brother doing?”

Fuck my stupid little life.

I decide to just lie quickly to put an end to the discussion. “He’s good. Doing a little better, thanks.”

“That’s great. It’s a day to day thing, sometimes, you know?”

All too well, Brandon, I think. If only you knew. “That’s true. How’s your sister?” I pivot to change the subject. People with mental issues fall into two categories—those who can’t stop talking about their problems, and those who practically need to be forced to discuss them. I’m in the second category, but I’ve met my share of people in the first. I never understood it, personally. Like my friend, Janice. She’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that she’s on anti-anxiety meds, and about her divorce, and her stress, and just about anything else that’s bothering her. Meanwhile I’m popping pills that I literally call my Dirty Little Secrets, and lying to people left and right.

“Good. She wanted me to thank you.”

“Me?” I ask, a little shocked. “For what?”

“For the book,” he answers. “You know, for not fighting me for it like two dogs pulling at a bone.”

“Two things—one, I think you just called me a dog.”

“Technically, I called both of us dogs, but it was just a metaphor. Go on.”

“And second,” I continue, not really able to hold my smile back. “Did you tell her you offered to give it to me a few times?”

“Nah, I conveniently left that part out,” he says. “It made us both look better.”

“Well, then, tell her it was my pleasure, and that I really do hope it helps.”

“That’s kind of you. I will.”

I wanted to avoid where this discussion is leading ever since I agreed to meet him. I guess I was being stupidly optimistic in hoping that my lies would have lived, grown up, and died right there in Barnes & Noble—a small side note to the story of our meeting that we tell our grandkids one day. But that was just wishful thinking. I try to pivot again by repeating how much I enjoyed the first few chapters of It, but Brandon brings us right back to the subject matter I don’t feel like talking about.

“Is your brother younger or older?” he asks me. I get it, we don’t know much about each other, so he’s just trying to ask about what I told him, but it’s forcing me to have to make up more lies, which I really don’t want to have to do. I’m actually a pretty honest person, normally, I just wasn’t ready to disclose my own mental illness issues to a stranger—however handsome and electrifying he may have been. I take a sip of water—a long one, to think of a strategy to avoid telling him the truth and risking him getting up and telling me to screw myself.

“We’re twins, actually. Fraternal, of course.”

“Oh, wow.”

You’re an asshole, Lia. “How about your sister? Is she younger or older than you?”

“Younger,” he answers sincerely. “By three years.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about her. I mean, you seem like a good older brother to be looking for materials to help her with her issues. What’s her story?” This is the pivot of all pivots because while he elaborates on his family it leaves me some time to think of what to say when he asks about mine.

“We’re best friends. Been that way ever since we were kids. I was always the protective older brother, and whenever she had a problem or got into something she couldn’t handle, I was always there to help her.” There’s a glimmer in his eye when he talks about her. There are few things more attractive than a man who loves his family above all else, and I can see the loving brother in him as he speaks about her. “That’s why it’s been a rough few years,” he continues. His voice shifts from reminiscent to sad in a single sentence. “More than a few.”

“I’m so sorry, Brandon. I know what that’s like.” I hate myself for lying because all I want to do is comfort him. I have to think of a way.

“I know you do, ‘cause of Henry, right?”

There it is. My bullshit coming home to roost. Right there I decide what I’m going to do. “Right, exactly. We’re twins, so we’re alike in a lot of ways. He suffers from bad depression and anxiety. Started years ago, after our grandmother died. We were eighteen. It’s only gotten worse as time has passed.”

“That’s terrible, Talia. I’m sorry, too. Honestly, I’ve never found anyone who can relate to what I’ve gone through with my sister.” I want to die when he says that. I want to punch myself in the face like Ed Norton in Fight Club, because I’m such a terrible person. I should just come clean right now—pull the band-aid off and just see what happens. Maybe he won’t be pissed if I explain. Maybe. . . “I’m really glad we found each other, Talia. It was like some happy accident of the universe.”

“Yeah,” I say, fighting off the tears of guilt I can feel rising in my throat. “The universe is funny like that.” The food comes out—a crazy looking spread of all sorts of rolls and fancy, cut up raw fish. I don’t know why I expect it to smell bad, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t smell like anything. I’m still not convinced that I want to eat any of it, but the plating and presentation is really stunning. “Wow, what is all this?”

“I told you, trust me.”

“I’m starting to.” Now if only I could stop lying so that you could trust me. “So, which of this is mine?”

“Here.” He’s pointing to a few rolls on the side of the plate. He opens up the chopsticks and goes to work, taking the fishy looking rolls for himself and then carefully placing some of the other rolls on my plate. “These are for you.”

I’m no expert, but I notice the total absence of anything looking remotely fishy on my plate. “What are they?” I ask.

“This one’s an avocado roll,” he says, motioning to the one on the left side. “These are California rolls, which have imitation crab meat but no fish. And this is a sweet potato roll. Just rice and puréed sweet potato. It’s good, I’ve had it before.”

“You hand-picked this for me?”

“Each roll,” he says. “While I was waiting for you. It’s the least I can do when I stole your number and asked you to meet for food that you hate. Bon Appetite.”

I’ve always been the girl who finds little things romantic. I don’t need big gestures from guys. But the little things—the nuances like ordering food you think I’ll like at a place you know I didn’t want to go shows me that he was thinking about me, and it makes him even sexier to me. I dive right in, deciding that I don’t need to be brave or force myself to eat anything now, thanks to him, and I pop one of the California rolls into my mouth. “That’s really good.”

“I love California rolls. I just graduated past them a few years back.”

“Graduated?”

“There are levels to this sushi game,” he jokes. “The California roll is a good base roll, a way into the strange world of rolled up raw fish, but now that I’m in love with it, there are such better rolls.”

“Says you. I’m happy with my beginner roll.”

“Good,” he says, smiling proudly. “Then I did a good job. That’s what I was hoping for.”

“You did better than good. You did better than great. You did perfect.” There it is again, that proud smile. He’s got this five o’clock shadow going on, and his face looks even more rugged when he’s scruffy. For a second, I imagine the scruff tickling my cheeks as he kisses me. “So, are you close with your whole family?” I ask.

“As close as I can be. They all live here, except my sister. She moved out of state a year ago to try to live on her own. I think she was sick of everyone always doting on her. She used to say that we were treating her like a patient more than a person. I never forgot that expression.”

A patient more than a person. That’s actually the perfect way to describe it. If you have a bad physical illness, being treated like a patient is wonderful. People take your temperature, bring you food, monitor your health, day and night. When Carla was ten she got walking pneumonia and almost died. Doctors said she was basically walking around drowning. She had to spend a week in the hospital and then she was on bed rest for another week after that. We took care of her like she was our patient, because she was.

But mental illness doesn’t work that way. When you tell someone you can’t stop crying, or that you can’t get out of bed, or give them details on some of the really dark thoughts running through your brain, the last thing you want is to be told to seek help, or to be patronized, or, my personal pet peeve, being spoken to like you’re dangerous.

“Henry’s the same way,” I lie. “He didn’t say those exact words, but similar. He says it’s terrible to always be looked at like you might go crazy at any point, like you’re nuts. That actually made him even crazier than he already felt.”

“Where’s Henry now? Does he live in the area?”

“It’s weird how many similarities there are between our siblings,” I say. The ability I have to lie right now is surprising me, but now it doesn’t even feel like a lie because everything I’m saying is true, I just invented the person it’s true about. My therapist would call that equivocating, but she’s not here right now. “Henry actually moved abroad a few months ago. He said he wanted to travel across Europe. He always talked about it when we were in high school, and now that he’s been more stable he decided to actually go.”

“Well, good for him. I hope he’s having the time of his life.”

He’s not real, Brandon. I made him up because I’m a liar and a coward. But if he were real, I’m sure he’d thank you for that kind sentiment. “He is, for sure. We text all the time and he’s doing really well.”

“That’s amazing. Where is he living right now?”

“Luxembourg.” I don’t even know where the hell that is. Where did you get that one from, Lia? Why not England or Spain, like a normal person?

“Luxembourg, huh? I’m a total idiot with geography, I don’t think I could find that on a map if you put a gun to my head.”

“Me, either, to tell you the truth.” Ironic. “But every time I try to find where he is on a map he’s off to the next country.

“I’m glad to hear that about your brother. These things don’t always end so well.” There’s a tangible sadness in his voice, and he takes those grey eyes off of me and looks into the distance like he’s somewhere else. I’m sure he’s been through a lot. I know I’ve put my family through a lot of stress and worry over the years, let alone the string of ex boyfriends I’ve left in my wake. I decide to bring him back to me.

“Speaking of good news, this was the most surprisingly good lunch I’ve had in forever. You made all the right choices.”

“See, you can trust me.” He looks back into my eyes, and I get hypnotized like I did the first time I looked at him. The way he looks at me is different than the way Joel or any other guy ever has, and I hope he never stops doing that.

“I see that. So, tell me something random, Brandon. Tell me something that I don’t know about you that I should. Anything at all.”

“Anything?” he asks.

“Whatever you have hidden in the depths of that soul of yours,” I joke. “No pressure, though. Just your deepest secret.”

He thinks for a second, looking up at the clear sky above us for a second, then casts his gaze back on me. “Easy.” He smiles, and I’m dying to know what he’s about to say, but he keeps me waiting a few more seconds, until I raise my eyebrow. “I want to kiss you. Really badly.”

It’s hard to shock me. Like, really hard. When I’m depressed, especially, my apathy levels hit defcon 5 and I become the queen of indifference. But what he just said broke right through my defenses. “You what?” I ask, only to buy enough time for me to process his words.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I not speak loud enough? Hold on.” He gets up and moves his chair so that he’s next to me, and he leans in just like he did at the bookstore. Only now he’s even closer, his cool breath teasing my earlobes, the scruff of his face tickling cheek. “I said, I want to kiss you so fucking badly that it’s killing me.” He pulls away, and I get chills. I have goosebumps on my arms, and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. “Could you hear me that time?”

“Umm, yeah,” I say, trying to compose myself. “That time I heard you loud and clear.” He grins, his expression the perfect balance of confident, cocky, and that thing that makes me feel beyond beautiful. I haven’t felt anything physical for a guy in a long time, including Joel, but that look makes me want to know more than just how his lips feel. It makes me want to have his body pressed into mine. It makes me want every inch of him. “So,” I say, giving him the most intense eye contact I can. “How about getting the check?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He pays the check like a gentleman and we take a walk together. I like walking with him. His height is comforting, and when I’m with him like this I’m on vacation from my real self. It isn’t just that he gives me all the feels, but he also makes me forget my other feelings—the bad ones—the ones that come late at night when I’m alone. The ones that remind me that I’m crazy. But walking next to this great guy makes all of that seem very distant, even though I know they’re waiting for me when I get back to real life. I’ll take the temporary reprieve, even if it is just that.

We get to the end of the block, where Brandon’s car is, and he offers to give me a ride home. “Actually, I think I’m going to walk around a little. It’s a beautiful afternoon. You want to join me?”

“Can’t,” he says. “I have a few things to do myself.”

“Official presidential business?” I smile at him and he smiles back. “Or pleasure?”

“Cleaning, mostly, so I guess neither.”

“I see.” We’re making small talk, and I’m not sure why. About a minute ago I felt this intense attraction to him, and I thought he felt the same—he basically told me so, but now we’re just standing at the end the block, chit-chatting. Maybe he changed his mind? Knowing my luck, he probably did. “So, Friday night, then? Book club?”

“Book club,” he repeats. “I’m glad you’re liking the book, it’s one of my favorites. I read it years ago, way before the movie came out.”

“It’s huge. I’m not used to the feeling of holding a book that’s over a thousand pages in my hand.”

“It’s massive, but it’s worth it. One of his best books. Maybe his masterpiece.”

A noise from behind me catches my attention, and I turn around. It’s only two seconds that my head is turned, but as soon as I turn back towards him I feel his hands gently caressing my face as he kisses me. It’s so sudden that it takes me off guard, but that feeling dwindles in comparison to the shockwaves running through my body. If his touch is magic, then his kiss is fire—a heat coursing through my body, head to toe. He presses softly at first, and then more firmly as the kiss continues. My skin is tingling. Only an ice-cold bath could bring my temperature down.

When it’s over I look up at him as he looks down with soft eyes, his hand lingering on my cheek for just a second after the kiss is over. “How was that?” he asks

“Hot, Brandon. That was hot.”

He smiles. He thinks I’m being metaphorical. If only he knew that I mean it literally. I walk away, promising to text him now that I have his number, and I tell him how much I look forward to Friday. He tells me that he does also and kisses me sweetly one more time.

As my feet carry me further down the block, I’m still warm from his kisses and my mind is living out our lunch all over again like a movie. It’s all positive. Only one bad thought crashes the party, and it shouts its phrase over and over. It yells, why did you have to go and lie to him, Lia?