Read Seven Ways We Lie for Free Online Page B

job to drag her out kicking and screaming, but some days, I wish I had the guts to. Our house has started to feel like solitary confinement.
    My phone buzzes with a text. I yank it out—it’s Dan Silverstein. Hey you, how are things?
    I sigh. This Dan thing has been so well publicized, I don’t want to reply. But it’s not fair to take it out on him because other people are giving me shit.
    Things are solidly average , I reply. How about you?
    As I wait for his response, I take the pasta off the stove and spoon myself a bowl, then put the rest back to stay warm for Kat. I always hope she’ll join me for dinner, but she never does; this might be for the best. Last time we ate together was maybe a month ago. We spoke six sentences to each other. Two of them were “Hey” and “Hey.”
    I can’t help remembering dinners from eighth grade. Better-cooked, for one thing, because my mother—unlike me—was an expert at putting food items into heating implements without causing fires. More than that, though, dinners tasted better with the family around the table. Mom’s absence is always glaring, and tonight, Dad’s chair is empty, too. He’s been working later and later these days. This is the third day in a row he’s out until eleven.
    I wolf down my pasta so fast, it burns. I flinch, rolling bits of skin off the roof of my mouth with my tongue.
    My phone buzzes. I’m doing pretty good , Dan says. I had a nice time Saturday
    Me too , I reply. Not too much of a lie. The guy’s no Han to my Leia, but he was cute and nice and seemed pretty harmless. A surprisingly rare combination.
    So what’s up? he asks.
    Just having dinner. Pasta yay!
    Oh sorry didn’t mean to interrupt
    No, I mean, I just finished, it’s okay , I reply, standing to wash my plate. What’s up with you?
    Not much , is all he says. I wait for a follow-up, but nothing comes. I can’t help but laugh. Why did he text me if he’s goingto say that “not much” is up? How do male brains work?
    Then a picture of his dick pops up on my phone screen.
    I let out a splutter and drop my phone. “What? Why?” I say loudly at the phone, sort of hoping Siri will shed light on the situation. There must be a mistake. Did I say something that made him think I wanted a picture of that?
    I snatch my phone up and scroll back through my texts. I definitely didn’t say anything inviting, unless he has a weird attraction to pasta that I don’t want to know about.
    It’s not even the appropriate time for a dick pic! It’s 6:10 PM ! Although there really isn’t an appropriate time for dick pics you didn’t ask for.
    I text back, Dude.
    His reply: Dude what
    I tap in what I think is a well-measured response. Though it’s a little tough to get past the panicked mental loop of
Penis! Penis! Penis!
    What do you expect me to do with that?? I say.
    Idk? Enjoy? he replies.
    â€œEnjoy,” I say to the phone.
“Enjoy?”
I can’t help picturing an ad for Italian food.
Enjoy!
    A laugh spills out, a high, nervous giggle that hardly sounds like my voice. I set down the phone and hunch over the kitchen table. God, if Kat is hearing this, she must think I’ve had a psychotic break.
    An ellipsis bubble pops up as he types again. The next gem of a text: So I don’t get anything back? ; )
    I sigh. Should have seen that coming. “Nope,” I say to my phone.
    A sound comes from behind me. I whip around. Kat stands in the threshold.
    â€œHey,” I say, shoving my phone into my pocket.
    She nods and heads for the stove. With one careless motion, she dumps the rest of the spaghetti onto a plate. Quiet hangs between us as she slumps into a chair, spinning a fork between her fingers.
    I ease myself into the chair opposite her. She gives me a look, her blue eyes narrowed. Those blue eyes—Mom’s blue eyes—are the only quality we share.