“Your mistake was in going to class at all. Just send an email like a normal liar.”
“Or there was the one time in high school I had my cousin Miguel call in sick for me and pretend to be my dad, but the office called my mom to confirm because my dad had never called in before.”
“Well, that was just poor planning on your part. How is any of this relevant right now?”
“It’s relevant because I’m trying to look like a wife, and have been researching how to lie.”
Reaching for my leg, Ethan wraps a warm palm around my calf and plucks the bra from my shoe. “Okay. Does a wife have a specific look?”
I snatch the lingerie from where it now dangles on the end of his finger. “I don’t know, like Ami?”
His deep laugh echoes through the room. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“Hey. We’re twins.”
“This isn’t about looks,” he says, and the mattress sinks under his weight as he takes a seat at my side. “Ami has this indescribable confidence. It’s how she carries herself. Like no matter what happens, she’s got her shit together enough for the both of you.”
I’m conflicted between being proud of my sister—because, yeah, she does make people feel that way—and vainly curious about what he thinks of me. Vanity and the confrontational side of me that rears its head around Ethan win out. “What impression do I give?”
He looks at my phone, and I’m sure he sees the words How to lie convincingly in the search bar. With a laugh, he shakes his head. “Like you should put your head between your legs and pray.”
I’m about to push him off the bed when he stands, looks meaningfully down at his watch and then back up at me.
Passive-aggressive hint noted. Standing, I give a final look in the mirror and reach for my purse. “Let’s get this over with.”
• • •
AS WE MAKE OUR WAY to the elevator, I’m reminded of the supreme imbalance of the universe; even in unflattering overhead light, Ethan still manages to look good. Somehow the shadows sharpen his features rather than unattractively exaggerating them. Standing in front of the mirrored doors, I note the result is not the same for me.
As if reading my mind, Ethan bumps his hip into mine. “Stop it. You look fine.”
Fine, I think. Like a woman who loves her cheese curds. Like a woman whose boobs pop out of her bridesmaid dress. Like a woman who deserves your disdain because she isn’t perfect.
“I can hear you thinking about that one word and reading more into it than I intended. You look great.” Once inside, he presses the button for the lobby and adds, “You always do.”
These three final words bound around my cranium before they absorb. I always look great? To who? Ethan?
The floors count down and it feels like the elevator is holding its breath right along with me. I meet the eyes of my reflection in the mirrored doors and glance over at Ethan.
You always do.
Color blooms high on his cheekbones, and he looks like he’d be happy if the cables snapped and death swallowed us whole.
I clear my throat. “In a 1990 study, researchers showed that it’s easier to catch someone in a lie the first time they tell it. We should figure out what we’re going to say.”
“You needed Google to tell you that?”
“I do better when I’m prepared. You know, practice makes perfect.”
“Right.” He pauses, thinking. “We met through friends—technically not a lie, so it will be harder for you to screw it up—and got married last week. I am the luckiest man alive, et cetera, et cetera.”
I nod in agreement. “Met through friends, dated for a while and oh my God, I was so surprised when you begged me to marry you.”
Ethan’s lip curls. “I got down on one knee while we were camping at Moose Lake. Proposed with a Ring Pop.”
“Details are good! We smelled like campfire the entire next day,” I say, “but didn’t care because we were so happy and having lots of celebratory tent sex.”
The elevator falls deathly silent. I look over in a strange combination of horror and joy that I’ve managed to render him speechless with the prospect of sex with me. Finally, he mumbles, “Right. We can probably leave out that detail for your boss.”