Black Lies by Alessandra Torre

hours, and I would meet his parents. Maybe they were the reason my perfect boyfriend was still a bachelor. Maybe they were satanic, or would ask for a sample of my skin. Maybe they were doomsday preppers, who would teach me to can vegetables and show me their collection of guns. Brant didn’t say much about them, his primary point of contact being Jillian. The Internet provided even less. But maybe they were the reason for his single-dom. I slid down in the bed, pressed a soft kiss to Brant’s forearm, and tried to go to sleep.

    “Would you care for more lemonade?” The delicate lilt of Gloria Sharp caused me to lift my eyes.
    “No, thank you.” I took a sip of the still full glass, wondering if her question was a muted attempt to get me to drink the tepid lemon water. I set the glass down, trading glassware for silverware, cutting a small piece of chicken and placing it in my mouth.
    Food. The excuse we all have to not talk, chewing providing a convenient break from the polite conversation we had all endured. The Sharps seemed unaccustomed to company. They stared at me, as if I was a new species, on display at a museum, asking few questions, content to look, from me to Brant to me to Brant, as if trying to put the pieces together in a puzzle that didn’t match.
    Brant stood, his plate in hand, leaning over and kissing the top of my head. “Excuse me for a moment.”
    I looked up with a smile, begged him with my eyes to stay, but he nodded his head back. “Restroom,” he explained. I watched him leave, heading through the dining room, my eyes pulling on his red polo shirt to no avail. I turned back to the Sharps, finding two sets of eyes on me. No chewing, just staring. I swallowed. “I love your home. The fact that this is where Brant—”
    “Ms. Fairmont,” Brant’s father spoke, the voice of a man older than his years. Strained. Thick with unuse.
    I paused in my progression of the conversation. Smoothed my napkin in my lap and waited for him to continue. Smiled. God, I hated using that smile. “Yes, Mr. Sharp?”
    “You should probably know that we don’t think it is a good idea for Brant to be in a relationship. You seem like a very nice girl, but you should probably think about moving on.”
    Smile. I’d mastered the action. Learned to keep my eyes relaxed, my face muscles loose. So the action looked natural, not forced or tight. You could tell so much about a person from the way they smiled. But not me. My smile gave away nothing of the curses of my soul. “Why is that, Mr. Sharp?” I looked at his wife. Her eyes down, hands nervous.
    “Brant’s done better in life when he hasn’t had a girlfriend.”
    Brant’s a grown man . I kept the smile in place. Brought it down a level so I didn’t look deranged. “I care very much for your son. He’s a brilliant man. You should be very proud of where he is in life.”
    The man gave me an exasperated smile, as if he was ready for my bullshit to be over. “We’d just like it if you could keep your distance. Restrict your time with him to a minimum. Let him focus on work. He does best when he does that.”
    There was the sound of a door somewhere else in the house and I looked up, seeing Brant duck in, snagging a piece of meat off a skillet in the kitchen before continuing on, his eyes sheepishly meeting mine. I placed my fork down. “Dinner was delicious, Mrs. Sharp and thank you both for having me over. Brant, do you mind showing me the basement? I’d love to see your old workshop.”
    His mother’s mouth twisted, the father’s hardened, and they could both kiss my ass because Brant was an adult, one more intelligent than the rest of this house put together, myself included. The woman rose, the flop of her sandals against tile as she snagged my plate and headed to the kitchen, a glance at my half-eaten meal not going unnoticed. Brant breezed through the room, grabbing my hand on his way. One short hallway later, he swung open a door, and I stepped