Page 7 of The Five Year Lie

He didn’t, though. He left me instead. And then he died a few months later.

It was a traumatic time in my life. And I’d never expected to see his name pop up on my phone again. It makes no sense at all.

Scrolling back down, I read the new message several more times.

Drew: There’s trouble. I need to see you. Meet me in one hour under the candelabra tree. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.

It’s baffling. Dead men don’t send texts. Yet I keep looking down at the screen, willing another message to come through. But nothing does.

IknowDrew isn’t on his way to the park to meet me. Of course he isn’t. But I suddenly know I’m going to go there anyway.

Someonesent me that text. Maybe it’s a sick prank. Or maybe someone else has Drew’s number now—someone who likes the candelabra tree in Deering Oaks Park.

With a thumping heart, I tap Drew’s avatar, bringing up his contact information. My finger hovers above thecallbutton. Then I remember I’m in the middle of a meeting.

But not for long.

I grab my bag off my lap and hoist it onto my shoulder. But the jerky motion takes up too much space in tight quarters, and my elbow clips my coffee cup on the conference table. Over it goes.

“Shit!” I hiss as my latte begins to spread in a caramel-colored pool across the walnut surface.

Several things happen at once. Hester jerks back from the table with a noise of outrage as the spill runs in her direction. From my other side, a pale hand shoots out to grab the offending cup and right it.

Heads turn. The room falls silent.

“Sorry,” I mutter a couple of times. Now I’m digging in my bag for napkins and hurling them at the table, trying to stanch the bleeding.

The guy who’s trying to help me—a scrawny programmer named Zain—shoots me curious looks while we both try to contain the damage.

“Sorry,” I say again. “Two seconds and I’ll be out of your way.”I jam my phone in my pocket and then gather the sodden napkins in both hands.

With a dozen pairs of eyes following me, I traipse out of the room.

My uncle actually follows me to the doorway. “You okay, Ariel?”

“Yup,” I say with a jerky nod. “Just, uh, forgot about an appointment. Dentist.”

“Huh, okay. See you later?”

“Of course.”

The door shuts behind me again as I drop the whole mess into a wastebasket. My pulse is racing, and I’m sticky with coffee.

But I open my phone again and dial Drew’s old number. As if I hadn’t done that same thing a hundred times after he disappeared.

The circular photo grows in size as my phone initiates the call. And while it tries to connect, I study the photo. He’s in profile, his lips pressed to my cheekbone. His eyes are closed, as if he loves me too much to think about anything else.

As if he’s not going to ghost me a few weeks after this photo is taken.

But then he did.

I hold the phone to my ear and hear a tinny ring. Then a recorded voice says, “There is no mailbox set up for this number. Please try your call again later.”

I end the call, still confused. My mind whirling.

This morning’s text doesn’t make a lick of sense. And yet I know I have to go look for him anyway. I can’t not go.

I exit the building not ten minutes after I arrived. Back on my bike, I make a beeline to the north, toward Deering Oaks Park.