Page 136 of The Five Year Lie

Drew stands a few feet away, gun holstered, body locked tight. His face all shock as he takes in my child. “Ariel...?”

“This is Buzz,” I say in a wobbly voice.

“Buzz,” he repeats slowly. He licks his lips and takes a slow breath. His blue eyes are trained on both of us. So steady. So serious. “Is he...?”

I nod slowly.

A gasp whooshes out of his chest.

We stand there, nobody speaking, while I try to get over the memory of a gun pointed toward my baby.

Only Buzz seems to relax. After a moment I catch him looking behind me, and I see that he’s waving at the dog.

“Buster, come,” Drew says quietly.

The dog weaves his sleek body between us, ears up, tail wagging.

“Lie down.”

He plops down on the grass, tongue lolling.

“Let him smell your hands,” Drew says softly. “You can pet him.”

Buzz is on his knees in a heartbeat, hands out. The dog shoves his wet nose into his small palm, looking for treats. Then my little boy reaches out and ruffles the fur between his ears.

“Give him this,” Drew says, fishing a dog treat out of his pocket.

Buzz looks up, and their fingers touch as he takes the dog treat from Drew and offers it to the shepherd, who takes it politely, tail wagging.

Then Buzz looks up at Drew. “Do you have any food for people?”

Drew’s face flips through about seventeen emotions in quick succession, ending with the corners of his mouth turning up. But his eyes are sad. “Yeah I do, little buddy. Do you like ham sandwiches?”

“Sure.” Buzz hops to his feet.

“Go into the house.” Drew points toward the steps at the end of his porch. “There’s a plate right inside the refrigerator. Your mom and I will be there in a minute. Buster will go with you, but don’t feed him any of the sandwich.”

“Okay!” He leaps toward the stairs.

“Wash your hands!” I call after the back of Buzz, who’s already on the porch, stretching up for the screen door handle.

Buster follows him, and the screen door slams just seconds later.

Then it’s just me and the man I still think of as Drew.

“Holy shit, Ariel.” His eyes are suddenly red. “I had no idea.”

“I know,” I say, my throat like sand.

“No idea,” he repeats. Then he bends over and braces his hands above his knees. “He’s not on your Instagram.”

I let out a shocked laugh. “You look at myInstagram?”

“All the time,” he says, straightening up, his eyes searching my face again. “But it’s all glass. I love the new stuff—those bottles with flattened sides, like gemstones.”

“Thanks?” In my wildest dreams, I never imagined having this conversation.

He shakes his head. “You never even show your face, and I decided that was a good thing. So long as you kept making art, I knew you were doing okay. But I didn’t ever have to look at selfies of you with some other guy.”