Liar (11 page)

“You got that right. Let's go.” She stepped aside and waved toward the exit with a flourish, as if she'd just laid out a red carpet. “And don't worry. I'll make sure you get plenty of grease, salt, and fat.”

AFTER WANDERING THE STREETS aimlessly for a few hours, Gaia looked up to find herself standing right outside Ed's building on First Avenue.

Not a big shocker. She kind of knew she'd end up here. Her feet just seemed to be naturally drawn toward the place—like a couple of moths toward
a big lightbulb. Besides, she was freezing cold. She could stand to be inside for a while. Her nose was completely numb. And she didn't exactly relish the thought of going back to Ella Central. Or sitting alone in a coffee shop.

No. Right now the “alone” part of her life was starting to wear pretty thin.

The fact of the matter was that the more she walked around, going over what had happened with her uncle …
Oliver,
again and again, the more she started to get creeped out. She wasn't
scared,
obviously. She was just … confused. The whole exchange had been so
weird.

Gaia glanced at the building's glass double doors, rubbing her sides with her arms for warmth, debating whether or not to buzz Ed's apartment. He was probably up, wasn't he? Yeah. It was almost ten. Anyway, this was kind of an emergency. For starters, she needed to apologize to him in person for blowing him off last night. And more important—
much
more important—she needed to spill her guts about her uncle.

Strange how things change, isn't it?

She shook her head as she walked up to the buzzer. Here she was, going to
confide
in someone.
Her.
Gaia Moore. The girl with an armor of secrets as thick as the Great Wall of China. Until very recently her and Ed's friendship had been defined by a simple rule: Don't ask;
don't tell. Ed didn't ask her about her life, and she didn't tell him about it. And the coolest part of this rule (or so Gaia once thought) was that neither of them ever had to acknowledge it. It was unspoken. Understood.

But after Mary died, the rule changed.

It was Ed's doing, of course. Gaia had resisted the change as stubbornly as she could—nearly killing herself and Ed in the process. But after an initial bout of pain she realized that she
had
to talk about
some
things. With
somebody.
If she didn't, she would simply explode. Or go insane. Or worse.

She pressed the button for the Fargos' apartment.

A few seconds later there was a burst of static.

“Hello?” Mrs. Fargo answered.

“Um … hi,” Gaia said awkwardly. “It's Gaia Moore, Ed's friend. I was just in the neighborhood, and I was wondering if Ed was home.”
Good Lord.
Did that sound as lame as she thought it did?

“No, he's not, Gaia,” Mrs. Fargo answered. She sounded harried, as if she were in a rush. “He spent the night at Heather's.”

Gaia stiffened. Her heart bounced in her chest. She must not have heard the woman correctly. “Excuse me? Did you say Heather's?”

“That's right. Heather Gannis. She's having some kind of crisis. Listen, I'm sorry, dear, but we're in the middle of something. I'll tell Ed you stopped by. You might try reaching him at the Gannises, though. Good-bye.”

That was it.

Conversation over. Gaia blinked. She stared at the buzzer through the tendrils of her frozen breath. Her heart pounded. Ed. At Heather's. Impossible. The universe had flipped over and turned itself inside out. This wasn't planet Earth. This was some bizarro, alternate planet. One where long-lost uncles jumped out and said, “Boo!” One where Ed's parents let him spend the night at his ex-girlfriend's house. One where Ed
wanted
to spend the night at his ex-girlfriend's house. What kind of crisis could Heather be
having,
anyway? She was too shallow to have a crisis. Did she misplace her lip gloss or something?

Gaia suddenly realized she was grinding her teeth. And clenching her fists at her sides. Whatever. There was no point in getting angry. This obviously wasn't the optimum moment to pick for confiding.

“SO I CAN REALLY ORDER WHATEVER I want?” Ed asked tentatively from behind his menu. “Everything here looks so expensive….”

“Sky's the limit,” Heather answered, leaning back in her chair. She'd picked The Half
Moon on purpose—not only because it was down the block from the hospital, but precisely because it
was
so expensive. She'd read about the place in a very pretentious article in
New York
magazine a week or so ago. She remembered it word for word, in fact: “A hipper-than-thou twenty-four-hour diner in the new retro style: midcentury meets the millennium.” Whatever that meant. As far as Heather could tell, this place looked just like any other diner—except for all the hair gel and cell phones.

Of course, another crucial difference was that a serving of pancakes cost twenty dollars. But Heather wanted Ed to feel pampered. He'd earned it.

“I … uh, think I'm just going to have a fried egg sandwich,” he mumbled. He closed the menu and put it down.

Heather frowned at him. “Are you
sure?”

“Yeah. I figure an egg sandwich with lots of ketchup is the grossest thing I could possibly eat.” He glanced around the restaurant. “I want to see how the crowd reacts.”

They'll probably ask you to leave.
Heather thought, grinning ruefully. She already
had
noticed a couple of disapproving glances as they'd come in. Not that it was any big surprise. It was a miracle they'd even been seated. They both looked like derelicts—unbathed and unkempt. But a few customers had the gall to stare at Ed's wheelchair, as if being disabled was somehow
offensive. Uncouth. Gauche. Why was it that members of “polite society” were always the most rude? Actually, that wasn't a tough one to answer. It was because people were goddamn hypocrites.

“You know, it's a good thing you brought me here,” Ed said, rolling his eyes. “This'll be good training for tomorrow.”

Heather blinked at him. “What's tomorrow?”

“My sister's engagement party.” He groaned.

“Oh, that's
right.”
In all the miserable insanity of the past eighteen hours, she'd completely forgotten about Victoria. But she was secretly relieved Ed had brought it up. It meant they could talk about something other than Phoebe—at least for a while. “So where's it gonna be?”

Ed bowed his head. “You're not gonna believe this,” he muttered. “The Plaza Hotel.”

Heather's eyes widened. “Are you serious?” she whispered.
Jeez.
Victoria's fiancé must be loaded. There was no way the Fargos would ever throw a party at the Plaza. That was not their style.

“Unfortunately, I am.” He sighed and slumped back in his chair. “It's gonna suck so bad. I mean, it's black tie and everything. Monkey suit city.”

“Really?” She couldn't help but smile. The thought of Ed's being all decked out in a tuxedo was kind of … well, cute.

Ed frowned. “What?”

“I don't know,” she remarked casually. “It might not be so bad”

“Believe me, it is.” He shook his head. “I mean, it's not just the fact that I'm gonna be surrounded by a bunch of multibillionaires. It's also that I won't know a single person … except my parents and my sister and a few of my sister's friends—and all of them have a habit of saying really lame, stilted things that make me feel like crap. And what makes it even worse is that my mom said I could invite somebody, and I was going to—” He abruptly broke off in midsentence.

Heather stared at him. “What?”

“Nothing. It's just …” He lowered his eyes. His face turned slightly pinkish.

Hmmm.
A thought dawned on Heather. Ed was embarrassed about something. Something that had just popped out of his mouth. Something having to do with her, obviously. And that probably meant that he had planned on asking
her
to go with him. But after last night, after Phoebe, he
couldn't
ask her. Or so he thought.

“Ed, were you going to ask me to go?” she asked him, point-blank.

His head popped up. “No!” he exclaimed. “I mean, no—what I mean to say is … I just … Forget it.” His face was now beet red. He buried it in his hands.

“Because I'd be honored to go,” she murmured.

He froze. His arms fell to the table with a clumsy
thud. He gaped at her as if she'd just offered to commit some horrible crime.“You
would?”

She laughed. “Sure. It would give me a chance to wear that black strapless thing you once loved so well,” she said breezily, suggestively.

The words didn't seem to register. “But … but what about …”

“Phoebe?” she finished. She leaned across the table. “Phoebe's not going to die, but her progress is going to be really slow. She's not going to be all better anytime soon. Probably years. I'm going to do everything I can for her, but I'm not going to stop living my life in the meantime. Nobody's going to fix Phoebe but Phoebe.”

Slowly his face began to return to its normal color. He nodded. But he still seemed hesitant.

“It's
okay,
Ed,” she insisted. “Besides, I love the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. I'll take any excuse.”

He laughed. “Well, in that case …”

“Good. It's settled.” She grinned at him, suddenly feeling very content. It was a good thing she was able to play the whole thing off so smoothly. Because the truth of the matter was that this party could have been in the back of some bar in Penn Station, and she still would have agreed to go.

As long as she could be with Ed Fargo.

Strange
how fate works, isn't it?

I mean, there I was, totally freaking out, on the verge of having to admit to Heather that I was planning on asking Gaia out on a date (although technically this engagement party thing is
not
a date)—which, needless to say, would have ruined all those warm, fuzzy feelings that have built up between my ex and me during the past twenty-four hours.

That's not an exaggeration, either. Our newfound friendship would have gone up in smoke. Poof. Just like that. See, I know Heather. And if there's one thing she can't stand, it's knowing that somebody else may be more desirable than her. Particularly if that person is named Gaia Moore. You might say Gaia is Heather's Achilles' heel. We all have one. (Mine is Gaia, too, by the way, in case you haven't guessed, but in a different way: the way that turns me into a slobbering dog whenever she's around.)

Anyway, Heather probably would have stormed out of the restaurant if I'd told her the truth. She probably would have forbidden me to visit Phoebe anymore. That's how much she hates Gaia. I mean, just look at the way she acted last night. The mere fact that I wanted to
call
Gaia pissed her off. Majorly.

But luckily everything worked out. Heather (in that typically Heather-esque way) naturally assumed that I wanted to take
her
to the party. Of course. So she took care of my dilemma for me.

And theoretically, this is really the best-possible solution. Really. For one thing, Gaia probably wouldn't want to go, anyway. If she didn't want to meet me at Blockbuster, chances are pretty good she wouldn't want to get dolled up to go to the Plaza with me, either. For all I know, she doesn't even own a dress. Come on, Gaia Moore in a dress? I guess she did wear some kind of skirt thing to Mary's funeral. But I almost have an easier time imagining Mike Tyson in a tutu than Gaia in one of those shiny, puffy outfits that girls wear to formal parties.

Heather
definitely
owns a dress, though. A bunch.

That also means I get to go to this party with a really hot date. Not to mention the fact that my sister
loves
Heather. So do my parents. So do all my sister's friends.

Best of all, I'll have somebody to talk to, somebody who can help me rag on all the lame-ass people who are going to be there.

It's really perfect this way. Really.

So why do I feel like shit?

Every track was covered, every alibi in place; she'd constructed a devious network of lies that was impossible to crack.

“I'LL SEE YOU IN A LITTLE WHILE, honey,” Ella called, slipping into her coat. “I'm just running over to Mercer Street to drop off some negatives—”

“Come here,” George interrupted from the living room.

She paused. The muscles in her stomach clenched. George actually sounded
annoyed.
Wonderful. This was just what she needed. A little marital spat, just to keep things lively. She could feel rage creeping up on her like a rising tide, but she forced herself to take three quick breaths. “I'm kind of in a rush,” she answered as politely as she could manage.

“This is important,” George insisted.

So is staying alive,
Ella answered silently. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o'clock. Rage shifted to nervousness … then fear. She had to report to Loki at three-thirty. Sharp. After last night's debacle she couldn't afford another screwup. She couldn't even afford the most remote
possibility
of a screwup. Her life depended on it. She wasn't an idiot.

“I'm sorry, George, but—”

“Come
here,
dammit!” he barked.

Ella froze, suddenly petrified with shock.

My God
This was a first. A bad first. In all the time she'd known George, he'd never once raised his voice with her. Her heart began to race. There was no way he could suspect her true identity. Was there? She'd been careful that every track was covered, every alibi in place; she'd constructed a devious network of lies. Granted, she'd allowed herself a few moments of recklessness recently, but George adored her. He would never suspect …