THE GIRL WHO LIED FIRST

ALANA

There are lies you tell to protect people.

Then there are lies you tell to protect yourself.

I told Zach both. And I told them well.

He doesn’t know who I am. Not really. Not yet. And I’ve gotten good at keeping it that way.

We met three months ago outside an abandoned corner store on Locke Street. It was dusk, humid and sticky, the air heavy with the scent of oil, asphalt, and firecrackers. He was leaning against the side of the building like he had nowhere to be and liked it that way.

Skater boy type. But not the soft kind.

He wore ripped jeans, black Vans, and a gray hoodie that was too big for him, hood up even though it was eighty degrees. He wasn’t hiding. Not really. He just seemed like the kind of person who’d lived enough lives to know the less you showed the world, the less it tried to take from you.

His brown hair was shaggy, a little too long in the back, like he cut it himself in a bathroom mirror. Strands fell into his face when he leaned down to light a cigarette with a cheap gas station lighter. He didn’t push them away. He just existed behind the curtain like he was comfortable in the shadows.

But it was his eyes that caught me. Hazel, not the soft, honeyed kind, but stormy, like they couldn’t decide between gold and green. You could drown in them if you weren’t careful. There was something ancient in them, something that said I’ve survived more than you think.

He didn’t smile when he saw me.

He just nodded. Like he already knew who I was. Like I wasn’t a stranger at all.

And I think that was the first lie I told.

That I was nothing special.

Just another girl walking through the night.

Unremarkable. Harmless. Free.

But I’m none of those things.

Three months later, I’m sitting across from him in a booth at Lou’s Diner, the kind of place that smells like grease, cigarette ash, and lost time. The lights buzz overhead, and the waitress, Rosie, fills our coffee without asking. Zach’s sketching something on a napkin with a half-dead pen, his sleeves pushed up just enough for the edge of one tattoo to peek through.

It’s an angular design, geometric and sharp. I’ve stared at it more than once, wondering what it means. All of his ink looks deliberate. Scar-like. Every line says: I earned this.

There’s another on his left hand, just beneath the knuckle, three dots. I don’t know what they stand for, and I haven’t asked. But sometimes, when he’s staring out the window, he rubs at it like he can’t forget what it cost him.

His bicep ink is different. I’ve only caught a glimpse of it twice, once when he was changing his shirt in the back of my car, once when the hem of his hoodie rode up while he was stretching. Wings. But not angelic. More like a predator mid-flight. Torn feathers. Rage. Freedom.

I wonder what he was running from when he got it.

Or who he was trying to become.

“You good?” he asks without looking up, his voice low and a little rough, like he’s smoked too much or yelled too often.

I nod, sipping my coffee.

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

He glances up.

“Dangerous habit.”

“Says the guy who draws knives on napkins.”

“It’s not a knife. It’s a crow.”

I lean across the table to look. The napkin’s a mess of ink, but the shape is forming, curved wings, a sharp beak, shadows around the eyes.

“That’s not a crow,” I tease.

“Not yet.” He smirks. “It’s becoming one.”

He looks back down, pen tapping. “Maybe it used to be a knife.”

The words hit harder than they should.

He says stuff like that sometimes—little half-confessions dressed up as jokes. Like he wants to tell me things but doesn’t trust the language of truth anymore.

I know the feeling.

Zach’s not from my world.

Not from estates with gates and cameras and blood-stained ledgers.

Not from whispered names and debt that’s paid in flesh.

He grew up in group homes, bounced around like a name no one wanted to keep. He doesn’t talk about it much. But when he does, his voice goes flat. Not sad. Just empty. Like it’s a place he visits sometimes but never unpacks his bags.

He doesn’t belong to anyone.

Which is probably why I want him so badly.

Because I do. Even if I shouldn’t.

“You ever think about getting out of here?” he asks.

“Out of the city?”

“Out of all of it.”

“Where would we go?” I say it without thinking. We.

He notices, eyes flicking up.

“Somewhere with trees. Mountains, maybe. Quiet nights. No sirens. No eyes watching from windows.”

I try to picture it. Him and me in some old cabin. Wood-burning stove. Rain tapping against the roof. Maybe he draws birds and I don’t carry a gun.

It’s a nice dream. But that’s all it is.

“I don’t think I’m built for that,” I say softly.

“Why not?”

I shrug.

 “Some people were made for shadows.”

“Or maybe they were just left in them too long.”

He watches me like he’s waiting for something, maybe a confession. Maybe permission to fall.

But I can’t give him either.

So I change the subject.

“Where’d you get that one?” I nod at the tattoo on his wrist.

His eyes drop. “Juvie.”

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to. That word alone says everything.

The kind of place where you either learn how to fight or learn how to disappear.

He clearly chose the first.

When we leave the diner, it’s after midnight. The city is hushed, like it’s holding its breath. Zach walks me to my car like he always does, hands in his hoodie pockets, steps steady beside mine.

“You sure you’re good?” he asks again.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

I turn to him.

“Maybe I’m just good at faking it.”

His gaze lingers.

“Yeah. You are.”

I lean against the car door, fingers tightening around my keys.

“You ever gonna tell me what your tattoos mean?”

“Only if you tell me what you’re hiding.”

We stare at each other for a beat too long. The night closes in around us. The silence between us is loud. Full of things unsaid.

“I’m not hiding anything,” I lie.

He doesn’t push. Just smiles that slow, haunted smile.

“Then I guess I’m not either.”

When he kisses my cheek, it’s soft. Barely there. But it undoes something in me. Not because it’s romantic. But because it’s real.

Because despite all the danger that swirls between us, despite the secrets and the blood and the names we never say, he still sees me as someone worth being gentle with.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

So I let him walk away.

And I get in the car. And I cry.

Just for a minute.

Just enough to remind myself that I still feel things.

Because soon, I won’t be able to.

Soon, this will burn.

And Zach won’t forgive me for lighting the match.