The Truth She Promised

By eight o'clock that evening, I had developed a personal vendetta against my phone.

Every time the screen lit up, my heart jumped.

Every time it was a notification from anything other than Zara Mitchell, I felt disappointed.

Apparently, curiosity could turn a perfectly sensible woman into an idiot in less than twenty-four hours.

I was living proof.

"You're doing it again," Damien said through the phone.

I frowned. "Doing what?"

"Making that noise."

"What noise?"

"That tiny, irritated sound you make when you're overthinking something but pretending you're not."

I stared at my phone.

"First of all, I don't make a noise."

"You do."

"Second of all, you should get a hobby."

"You are my hobby."

I went silent.

There was a pause on the other end.

Then Damien burst out laughing.

"Oh my God, your silence! Ava, I was joking!"

"I know that!"

"You sounded offended."

"I'm considering ending our friendship."

"You've been threatening to do that since we were seven. I'm beginning to think you're not serious."

I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in a pillow.

Sometimes, I genuinely wondered how I'd managed to remain friends with this man for so long.

Then I remembered that he once ate an entire packet of my favorite biscuits and replaced them with dog treats when we were children.

Our friendship had survived things most relationships wouldn't.

Unfortunately, it had also survived Damien's personality.

"So," he said, his voice becoming more serious, "what's bothering you?"

I hesitated.

Zara's messages flashed through my mind.

I know Damien isn't telling you everything.

There's something you need to know about your best friend.

I could tell him.

I should tell him.

Instead, I said, "Nothing. I'm just tired."

"Ava."

I closed my eyes.

"Damien."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Use my name like that when you're trying to avoid a conversation."

I sat up.

"You're one to talk. You practically invented avoiding conversations."

"Fair point."

I waited for him to ask again.

He didn't.

Instead, he said, "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

The words were simple, delivered in that familiar, unguarded way that had made Damien my best friend long before either of us understood what friendship really meant.

For a moment, I almost told him everything.

Almost.

But what if Zara genuinely had information about him? What if she was trying to warn me about something important?

And what if telling Damien meant I'd never find out?

I hated secrets.

I hated being manipulated even more.

"I know," I finally said.

"Good. Now, have you eaten?"

I glanced at the untouched bowl of noodles on my bedside table.

"Define eaten."

"Ava."

"I'm going!"

He laughed.

"Call me later."

"Yes, Dad."

"Love you, menace."

"Unfortunately, the feeling is mutual."

I ended the call before he could say anything else.

Then I stared at Zara's messages again.

Tomorrow.

Whatever happened, I would find out what she wanted.

And if it turned out to be another attempt to make me feel small, I would personally introduce her to the part of Ava Bennett she had clearly underestimated.

---

Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a fire alarm.

My alarm went off at six-thirty. I hit snooze twice, knocked a pillow onto the floor, and finally dragged myself out of bed at seven.

By seven-fifteen, I was dressed.

By seven-twenty, I had changed my outfit.

By seven-thirty, I was standing in front of my mirror, wondering why I cared what I looked like when I was meeting my fake boyfriend's real ex-girlfriend for a conversation that sounded suspiciously like emotional blackmail.

I settled on jeans, a white blouse, and sneakers.

Comfortable.

Practical.

And completely unsuitable for dramatic confrontations, which was unfortunate because Zara seemed to specialize in those.

My phone buzzed.

Zara: 12:30 p.m. The café on Westbrook Avenue. Come alone.

A second message followed.

Zara: Don't tell Damien.

I stared at the screen.

Oh, absolutely not.

If she thought she could summon me like some nervous employee and issue instructions, she had another thing coming.

I typed:

Me: I'll decide what I tell Damien.

Her response was immediate.

Zara: Then perhaps you don't want to know the truth.

I clenched my jaw.

Manipulative.

Infuriating.

Predictable.

I tossed my phone onto the bed.

Then picked it up again.

"You're going to regret this," I told the screen.

The screen remained unimpressed.

---

At twelve-twenty, I arrived at the café.

I had told Damien I needed to run a few errands. It wasn't exactly a lie, although meeting Zara could hardly be classified as an errand unless emotional distress had recently become a household chore.

The café was busy enough to feel public but quiet enough for a private conversation.

I spotted Zara near the windows.

She wore a cream-colored outfit, her dark hair falling neatly over one shoulder. An untouched cup of coffee sat in front of her.

She looked composed.

I immediately distrusted her.

"You're late," she said as I approached.

I checked my phone.

"It's twelve-twenty-five."

"I said twelve-thirty."

"Then congratulations. I'm early."

Her lips tightened.

I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down.

"All right. You asked me here. You insisted it had to be in person. You told me not to tell Damien."

I folded my hands on the table.

"Talk."

Zara studied me for several seconds.

Up close, she looked different from the woman who had confronted us at the restaurant. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else had joined it.

Fear, perhaps.

Or suspicion.

"You really think you know Damien, don't you?" she asked.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"I've known him since we were children."

"That wasn't my question."

"Then ask a better one."

Her gaze sharpened.

"Has he told you why we broke up?"

I blinked.

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

"He said the relationship wasn't working anymore. That you were constantly arguing, that you didn't trust him, and that he didn't want to continue something that made both of you unhappy."

Zara laughed without humor.

"Of course he did."

"Is that not what happened?"

"Not exactly."

I leaned back.

"Okay. I'm listening."

She wrapped her fingers around her coffee cup but didn't drink.

"Damien and I had problems. I'm not going to pretend otherwise. I could be jealous. I wanted to know where he was, who he was with, and why he sometimes disappeared without explaining himself."

"That sounds exhausting for both of you."

Her eyes flashed.

"You think you're funny?"

"Occasionally."

She ignored that.

"But Damien wasn't always honest with me either."

Something about the way she said it made me pause.

"What do you mean?"

"He has a habit of deciding what people should know and what they shouldn't. He can make you feel like you're the only person in the world who understands him, and then suddenly you'll realize there's an entire part of his life he never lets you see."

I stared at her.

That didn't sound like the Damien I knew.

Or perhaps it sounded like a version of him I had never needed to meet.

"What exactly are you accusing him of?" I asked.

"I'm not accusing him of anything."

"You dragged me here to tell me he's secretive?"

"I'm trying to help you."

I nearly laughed.

"Zara, you sent me threatening messages last night. You have spent the past several days questioning me about my relationship with Damien. Forgive me if I'm struggling to recognize this sudden generosity."

Her expression hardened.

"Those messages weren't from me."

My stomach tightened.

"What?"

"I didn't send you those anonymous texts."

I studied her face.

She looked genuinely offended by the accusation.

But people could lie convincingly when they had enough motivation.

"How do I know that?"

"You don't."

At least she wasn't pretending I had a reason to trust her.

She leaned forward.

"But I do know someone has been watching you two. And I think you should be careful."

The café noise seemed to fade into the background.

"How do you know that?"

Zara hesitated.

For the first time since I arrived, she looked uncertain.

"I saw something."

"What?"

"Last Friday. After you and Damien left the restaurant."

My pulse quickened.

"You followed us?"

"I was nearby."

"That's not an answer."

She looked away.

"I saw a car behind you. It followed you for several streets before turning off."

A cold sensation crept down my spine.

The black Mercedes.

The messages.

The feeling that someone was keeping track of our movements.

"Why didn't you tell Damien?" I asked.

"Because he'd assume I was making things up to get him back."

"And you think I'll believe you?"

"I think you should consider the possibility that I know more than you realize."

I stared at her, searching for the catch.

There had to be one.

Zara didn't strike me as someone who handed out warnings without expecting something in return.

"What do you want from me?" I asked.

Her gaze returned to mine.

"I want you to stop pretending that you and Damien are in love."

My patience snapped.

"There it is."

"I'm serious, Ava."

"So am I. You could have started with that instead of dressing this up as a public service announcement."

"Your relationship is fake."

The words landed between us.

For one brief second, neither of us moved.

Then I smiled.

Not because I found the situation funny.

Because I suddenly understood what this conversation had been about from the beginning.

"You don't know that."

"Oh, please. I've known Damien for months. He doesn't suddenly fall in love with his best friend three days after a breakup."

My smile faltered.

Three days.

She had said three days.

That was the truth of our arrangement, not the story Damien had been telling people.

Had she guessed?

Or had she found something that confirmed it?

I forced myself to meet her gaze.

"You're making assumptions."

"Am I?"

She opened her handbag and removed her phone.

She tapped the screen a few times, then turned it toward me.

It was a photograph of Damien and me at the café.

His arm rested around my shoulders. I was laughing at something he had said, my head tilted toward him.

It looked natural.

Too natural.

"When did you take that?" I asked.

"Yesterday."

My stomach dropped.

"Why were you taking pictures of us?"

"Because I wanted to understand what was going on."

"By photographing us without our knowledge?"

She lowered the phone.

"Look, I know Damien. And I know when he's putting on a performance."

"Then perhaps you should focus on your own life instead of directing his."

Her expression turned cold.

"You're making a mistake."

"No. I'm making a choice. There's a difference."

I stood and reached for my bag.

She caught my wrist.

I looked down at her hand.

"Let go."

For a moment, she didn't move.

Then she released me.

"Just remember what I said," she murmured. "You might think Damien is the safest person in your life. But you don't know everything about him."

I stepped away from the table.

"And you don't know everything about me."

I turned and walked toward the door.

My heart was pounding, and my thoughts were a mess.

I wanted to believe Zara was lying.

I wanted to dismiss the entire conversation as another attempt to manipulate me.

But the photograph bothered me.

So did her claim about the car.

And most of all, I couldn't stop thinking about the way she had said Damien wasn't always honest with people.

Because I knew Damien.

Didn't I?

---

I was halfway down the street when my phone rang.

Damien.

I stared at his name for a moment before answering.

"Hey."

"Where are you?"

His voice was unusually sharp.

"Out."

"Out where, Ava?"

I stopped walking.

"Why?"

"Because I just called your apartment, and you weren't there. I wanted to ask if you could meet me for lunch."

I swallowed.

"I'm running errands."

"What errands?"

I narrowed my eyes at the phone.

"Since when did you become my personal assistant?"

"Since you started sounding suspicious."

"That's my normal voice."

"Your normal voice is louder."

I almost smiled.

Almost.

Then he spoke again.

"Seriously, are you okay?"

I looked back toward the café.

Through the window, I could see Zara still sitting at the table.

She was watching me.

I turned away.

"Yes. I'm fine."

A pause followed.

Then Damien said, "Ava, did you meet Zara?"

My blood ran cold.

I gripped my phone.

"What?"

"She just texted me asking whether you've heard from her."

I couldn't speak.

Damien's voice hardened.

"Ava, please tell me you didn't meet her alone."

I closed my eyes.

He knew.

Somehow, he knew.

And I had no idea what that meant.

"Damien—"

"Where are you?"

I exhaled slowly.

"Westbrook Avenue."

"I'm coming."

"Wait—"

He ended the call.

I lowered my phone and stared at the screen.

Then I looked back through the café window.

Zara had disappeared.

But there was something on the table where she'd been sitting.

A small white envelope.

I hadn't noticed it before.

My name was written across the front in neat, black handwriting.

AVA BENNETT.

I looked toward the café door.

Then at the envelope.

And finally, at the street where Damien would soon appear.

Whatever Zara had wanted from me, she hadn't finished.

And judging by the envelope with my name on it, she'd made absolutely certain I wouldn't be able to forget our conversation.

I walked back into the café.

Because apparently, when it came to making terrible decisions, I was determined to earn a gold medal.