Little White Lie

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Little White Lie Page 4

by Lea Santos


  Gia didn’t try to touch her. Emie didn’t try to move away. Time stilled between them as they stared at one another. Gia dipped her chin, Emie raised hers. Crickets chirped from the darkness beyond the porch. A gust of wind rustled the leaves on her old grand oak tree and lifted a lock of Gia’s long hair across her face.

  “Why are you here?” Emie whispered. “You live in Chicago.”

  “Used to live in Chicago.” Gia tucked her hair behind one ear. “I don’t work for The Stillman Show anymore.”

  “You don’t?”

  “You are an attractive woman, Emie.” The words came out husky. “A beautiful woman. I mean it.”

  Emie ignored that. If that’s what Gia thought she’d been worrying about, she was greatly mistaken. Plus, Emie had more pressing questions. “Did you get fired?”

  “Quit.”

  Surprise fluttered through her and she let go of the door. “Why?” she asked, moving closer to lean against the jamb.

  “Because I never again wanted to see hurt on a person’s face like I saw on yours as you left the studio. I can’t stop the show from bringing people on under false pretenses, but I can sure as hell remove myself from the situation.”

  Emie sighed and broke eye contact, focusing instead on Gia’s low-heeled black boots. Why did she have to be so freaking nice? So sincere? Why couldn’t she leave Emie to her sulking instead of invading her doorstep with her stature and warmth, filling Emie’s nostrils with the feminine scent of her skin and her ears with that silky-husky voice? “I can’t feel responsible for you losing your job, Gia.”

  “I’m not blaming you.”

  She raised her gaze back to Gia’s. “What will you do?”

  Gia shrugged. “I’ll get by. It’s time to give my painting a chance, and…who knows?”

  Emie shook her head slowly and reached up to scratch her neck. Gia had quit her job. She’d quit her job and packed up her life, and now she was standing on Emie’s doorstep hundreds of miles away trying to convince her she wasn’t unattractive.

  Why?

  Feeling another bout of hiccups coming on, Emie whispered, “I have to go.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.” She started to shut the door.

  Gia held it open. “Emie, wait. I want to see you again.”

  “To assuage your own guilt? I don’t think so.”

  “That’s not why.”

  So she said. But, really, how would Emie ever know?

  Gia reached out and ran the backs of those lovely fingers slowly down her cheek. “You have a rash.”

  “Adds to the whole package, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Don’t, querida.” Gia’s hand slid from Emie’s cheek to her shoulder and rested there.

  Emie’s eyes fluttered shut, and she choked back another wave of tears. This woman could break her heart if she allowed it. “Leave me alone, Gia. Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Emie?” Iris and Paloma peered into the hallway, then looked from their friend to Gia, their eyes widening in surprise. Neither moved.

  Emie glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be right there. Ms. Mendez was just leaving.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “You are now.”

  “We aren’t finished.”

  “We never even started.”

  Gia pressed her infinitely kissable lips together and lowered her chin. Her somber gaze melted into Emie’s for excruciating seconds before a smile teased that dimple into making an appearance. She winked. “Tomorrow? Can I see you then?”

  “No.”

  “Just coffee. No pressure.”

  “No.”

  Gia shifted from boot to boot, then crossed her arms over her chest. “Need I remind you that you said you thought I was a nice woman?”

  “I also said I wanted to hit you,” she countered, in as haughty a tone as she could muster.

  “But you didn’t.”

  Emie faltered and bit her lip, which had started to tremble. “Don’t do this to me. Please.”

  “I’m going to keep trying until you give me a chance.”

  Shoring up her resolve, Emie wrapped her arms around her stomach and sniffed. “I’m not looking for new friends, and I have no space for a woman in my life. You’ll be wasting your time.”

  Gia brushed Emie’s trembling bottom lip with one knuckle, then stepped back. “Ah, but you see, I’d rather waste my time on you than spend it wisely on anyone else.” She nodded good night to Iris and Paloma, who still hung behind Emie, then stepped off the porch and disappeared into the night shadows.

  The standoff was only temporary; Emie knew that. Though she’d never admit it, she couldn’t wait to see what would come next.

  Chapter Three

  Emie slept fitfully for the next two nights and spent her waking hours answering Iris’s and Paloma’s never-ending questions about Gia. The whole thing amounted to pure torture. She really didn’t want to face the answers. Who is she? When did you meet? Why is she here? Did she ask you out? And the Bermuda Triangle of all questions—How do you feel about her?

  And just how did she feel about Gia? She’d been angry with her and everyone from The Barry Stillman Show for a couple days, but she just couldn’t drum up that emotion for Gia anymore. She’d apologized, after all, and Emie wasn’t a grudge-holding person by nature.

  Sure, she was attracted to Gia. Big deal. She was attracted to Jada Pinkett Smith, too, but that didn’t mean she’d ever have a chance with the actress or act on that attraction if the world tilted on its axis and such a chance arose. Her feelings about Gia were as jumbled and off balance as her feelings about herself, and it wasn’t getting much better.

  It didn’t help that she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Gia since the night on the porch and couldn’t stop wondering if Gia’s guilt had dissipated enough for her to just move on. Secretly, the notion disappointed Emie. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, didn’t want to think about Gia like some obsessive schoolgirl, but she couldn’t help it. Gia Mendez had found one of the very few cracks in her shell and invaded her soul. The worst part of that was, Emie wouldn’t be with her now even if Gia got down on her knees and begged. She couldn’t, not after the Stillman fiasco, knowing she was just a retribution date to Gia and always would be. If they’d met any other way…things might be different.

  But they hadn’t, and they weren’t.

  End of story.

  Sometime on the second day, Emie had decided hard work was the perfect antidote for what ailed her, and she’d asked Paloma and Iris to help her tackle a project she’d been putting off for far too long: painting her house. Now there they stood, with the morning sun warming their right sides, covering their hair with baseball caps and mixing the paint that Emie hoped would help brighten her house as well as her outlook. And, naturally, they were talking about Gia—the woman who was there even when she wasn’t, it seemed.

  “Of course she’s interested in you, Emie, don’t be obtuse,” said Iris. She held the paint-spraying contraption in her arms like a machine gun, her short but impeccably manicured nails curving around the deadly barrel.

  Emie eyed her, wondering if she’d chosen the wrong task for them to undertake. “Your obtuse is my realistic. But no sense quibbling over semantics. Besides, who ever said I wanted a woman in my life at all? Put that paint gun down, you’re scaring me.” None of them had ever painted a house exterior before, but the old place had been begging for a fresh coat for two summers. If she ever planned on collecting a decent rent for her carriage house apartment, she supposed she’d better pretty up the place.

  “Seriously, Em, why else would a woman quit her job, for God’s sake, and drive across the country?” Paloma asked.

  “Guilt is a powerful motivator,” Emie reminded them, flipping her cap around so the bill faced backwards. “It’s tough to live with.”

  “That’s a cop-out.”

  “Well, cop-out or not,” Emie said, “she hasn’t been back. A w
oman like Gia Mendez would not base life decisions on a woman like me. And I don’t care anyway, so drop it.”

  Iris, who’d thankfully surrendered her paint weapon, stopped buttoning an oversized Rockies baseball jersey over her shorts and tank top and cast a sardonic glare at Emie. “A woman like you. Hmm. Let’s think about that.” She propped her fists on her hips and tilted her head to the side in thought. “You’re a successful genetics researcher at the ripe young age of thirty, leading the nation’s studies into one of the hugest scientific breakthroughs since…since—”

  “Turkey basters?” offered Paloma, glancing at her two sons, Pep and Teddy, content to be playing with their prized Matchbox cars on the sidewalk. The boys, like their other mom, were crazy about vehicles and quite knowledgeable about make and model.

  “I was going to say Velcro. Or airbrush makeup. But yeah, okay. Since turkey basters.” Iris spread her arms and leaned forward, raising her perfectly arched eyebrows at Emie. “You’re right, girl. You are a booby prize.”

  Emie expelled a pointed sigh. “You know what I meant. I’m not saying I’m not successful in my field, nor that I’m not completely content with it. But people are shallow. Given the choice between a lab coat and some sexy”—she spun her hand—“something, which do you think a woman like Gia would choose?”

  “You underestimate yourself, Emie, you always have,” Paloma said. She gestured down at her very curvy body. “Look at yourself compared to me. You’re willowy—”

  “Bony.”

  “And tall—”

  “Five-foot-eleven Iris is tall, Paloma. I hate to tell you, but I’m only five-four, and that isn’t tall.”

  “It is when you’re four-foot-eleven and chubby.”

  “You’re not chubby, you’re voluptuous.” Emie sighed and nudged her glasses up. “You two can’t possibly understand. Iris, well, you’re Iris Lujan. Need I say more? And, Paloma, everyone has loved you since high school. Women and men. You’re Miss Popularity. I don’t remember you ever without a girlfriend.”

  “Big whoop. I’ve only had one, and I married her.”

  “At least you had the choice.” Emie clasped her hands together and pleaded with her friends. “No. Forget that. Too ‘poor me,’ and that’s not how I feel. I love my life. Please don’t feel like you have to sugarcoat things for me, you two. I’m not saying I begrudge you your beauty, Iris, or your popularity, Paloma. But I need your honesty right now. I’m not denying I’m smart or successful, but—shallow or not—that’s not enough salve for the Stillman sting at the moment. You know it’s never been that big an issue that I’m not beautiful. Not my focus. We get what we’re given and make the best of it. But I was just publicly outed as a hopeless hag on national television.” Emie huffed a humorless half-laugh and shook her head. “Forgive me if I wish—just once—that I was at least pretty. Maybe even sexy. Just for a day. Long enough to make Vitoria eat her heart out. Or, I don’t know, die a painful death.”

  Iris expelled a little snort.

  Paloma just sighed. “You underestimate yourself. I’ll say it again. Gia Mendez is hot for you, girl.”

  A frisson of thrill spiraled through Emie, but she shoved it away. Maybe they wouldn’t admit that she wasn’t sorely lacking in the prettiness department, but they had to admit Gia was out of her league. “Get real. You saw the woman, didn’t you?”

  “Hell yeah, we saw her,” Paloma said. “And if I wasn’t married—”

  “Or I wasn’t in a semi-committed relationship kind of thing,” added Iris.

  “We’d be fighting your tall, willowy butt for her right here in the yard.” Paloma grinned.

  Emie smiled back, then bent over to stir the Spring Eggshell all-weather paint, which looked exactly like apple cake batter. She knew two things for sure. First, everyone, including her two best friends, must think she was either gullible or blind. And second, despite their idle threats, neither Iris nor Paloma would ever go after Gia knowing how she felt about the woman.

  Emie stopped stirring and blinked several times.

  What was she thinking?

  There was that feelings stuff again. She didn’t feel any way about Gia. She had her pride, for God’s sake. She would never accept a pity date, which was precisely all she’d ever get out of Gia Mendez. The woman felt sorry for her. Period. The thought made her cringe.

  She remembered the night before her senior prom, visiting her friends’ houses to check out their outfits. She’d been genuinely excited to ooh and aah over Paloma’s and Iris’s gowns, but once at home, she couldn’t help but feel just a teensy bit left out. She hadn’t even been asked to the dance. Not even by a freaking guy. Her mama, bless her heart, had tried so hard to make things better. She’d cornered Emie’s second cousin, Juanito, in the kitchen, and asked him to escort Emie to the festivities since she Couldn’t Get A Date. Talk about a booby prize. Emie had never been so mortified, more so when she saw the emotions on Juanito’s face move from shock to horror to resignation…to that fucking omnipresent pity. She’d faked cramps to weasel out of the mercy date with her cousin. Never again. Being alone wasn’t nearly as bad as being pitied.

  In fact, being alone suited her just fine.

  Besides, who cared? That was a long time ago, and she had a house to paint. “Let it go,” she said, to herself and her friends at the same time. “I’m not looking for a relationship, and I’m not interested in Gia. Let’s get going before it gets too hot out here.”

  Three hours later, with only a tiny section of the front of her house done, Emie, Iris, and Paloma sprawled on lounge chairs sipping iced tea and resting their tired limbs.

  “I didn’t know this was going to be so damned hard,” Emie said. Painting was exhausting, tedious, irritating work. Her arms ached, her calves were cramped, and it seemed like they’d barely made any progress. That was the worst part.

  “We need help,” Paloma added.

  “Screw help. We need to pay someone to finish,” said Iris, voicing what they’d all been thinking. “This is hell. This is why sane people hire professionals.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Emie said.

  Pep and Teddy glanced up when a big black pickup truck rumbled to the curb, then six-year-old Pep whipped his head around and announced, “Someone’s here in a 2004 Ford F350, Auntie Emie.”

  Emie looked over in time to see Gia’s long, muscular, denim-clad legs stretch below the driver’s door. When the door slammed, her curvy, V-shaped upper body, looking fine in a fitted tank top, came into view. Emie lurched upright, sloshing iced tea on her paint-spattered overshirt.

  Four-year-old Teddy jumped to his feet and bounced across the lawn, stopping at Gia’s boots. He leaned his little crew-cut way back, looking up at a smiling Gia, and said, “We don’t live here, but my auntie does. Can I sit’n your truck? Is it yours? Who’re you?”

  “Teodoro!” Paloma called. “Mind your manners.”

  Gia laughed and ruffled Teddy’s head. “I’m a friend of your auntie’s. I’m Gia.”

  Teddy bolted across the lawn hollering, “Auntie Emie, your friend Gia is here in her black Ford Extra Cab four-by-four!” before a caterpillar caught his attention on the sidewalk.

  Emie cast a scowling glance at her grinning, paint-polka-dotted friends, and then tried to decide whether to get up and go meet Gia or wait where she sat. Since her legs felt wobbly and weak, she stayed seated and focused on convincing herself that she wasn’t excited to see Gia. Not at all. Not one iota. Not.

  Gia ambled across the lawn toward them, the sable brown eyes Emie remembered hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Gia glanced up at the house and her lip twitched to the side. “Morning, ladies.”

  “What are you doing here?” Emie asked, immediately chastising herself for her rudeness. “I mean—”

  “It’s okay. I was in the neighborhood. What’s up?”

  “They’re paintin’ the house,” Pep told her, not looking up. The boy sat on one leg, and the other folded knee jutted up in front
of him, providing a perfect spot for him to rest his chin while he lined up his car collection.

  Gia turned to him. “You helping?”

  “No way,” Pep said, glancing up. “I’m just a kid.”

  “That’s some shiner you’ve got for a kid.” Gia squatted and studied the bluish purple ring around the boy’s left eye.

  Pep shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  Gia stood and turned back to the three women. “I’d be glad to help with the painting.”

  “No, thanks,” Emie said, while Paloma and Iris echoed, “That would be great.” The women glared at each other before Paloma turned a smile back at Gia.

  “It’s Emie’s house. I guess it’s up to her.”

  Gia looked at Emie, raising one eyebrow.

  “We’re fine,” Emie said. “We can handle it.”

  “Suit yourself. But I am a painter, you know.”

  “I don’t want a fresco on the front of the damn thing.” She sniffed. “I just want a nice coat of Spring Eggshell, and we’re perfectly capable of doing that.”

  “Speak for yourself, Superwoman,” Paloma muttered, so her boys couldn’t hear. “This shit sucks.”

  Gia took off her sunglasses and smiled from Paloma to Iris. “I’m Gia Mendez,” she told them, leaning forward to shake their hands, which provided Emie a clear view down the woman’s tank top that she should not have taken. She looked away to hide the hunger she was sure showed in her eyes.

  “Paloma Vargas.” She gestured at the yard. “Those yard monkeys out there are my boys, Pep and Teodoro. Say hello, m’ijos.”

  “Hi,” the boys chimed with a decided lack of interest.

  “And this is Iris Lujan,” Paloma finished.

  Gia did a double take at Iris. “Wow. Whoa. Hold up. The Iris Lujan?”

  Iris shrugged, genuine and unaffected as ever. “That would be me. Paint covered and all.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Gia crossed toned arms over her chest and smiled politely at Iris. “My eighteen-year-old niece has magazine pictures of you all over her room. I hope that doesn’t creep you out. She’ll pass out when I tell her I saw you in person, though.”

 

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