A Show of Faith by Hendricks Greer

Author:Hendricks, Greer [Hendricks, Greer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery, Suspense, Contemporary
ISBN: 9781662514739
Amazon: B0BTR8BRWL
Goodreads: 122782611
Publisher: Amazon Original Stories
Published: 2023-04-13T07:00:00+00:00

MARA

I’ve just finished my shift at Bobo, the latest temp job in a string of gigs that I’ve landed since college, when my phone rings. Impulsively I answer the unlisted number, hoping it might be my gastroenterologist, and I’m now stuck listening to my slurring mother’s latest sob story. As I approach the subway station, my phone pings with an incoming text. It’s from Blair.

“Sorry, Mom, I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait, Mara. I just need . . .”

I hang up before she can complete her sentence. The three-minute conversation is two minutes too long.

I reread Blair’s message:

Would you be able to pick up some lemons? There’s a bodega right by the subway stop.

She’s added a string of yellow lemon emoji.

It’s April twenty-sixth, my twenty-sixth birthday—well, my pretend birthday—and Blair has invited me to her home to celebrate.

My stomach is so knotted, though, that I worry I won’t be able to enjoy the special meal. I want to blame the discomfort on too much coffee or the Tabasco on the breakfast burrito I treated myself to this morning. But I don’t need a fancy psychiatrist like Dr. Jaffe to guide me to this realization: the pain in my gut is guilt. My mother’s death, my fake birthday, even my age, these are just a few of the many, many lies I’ve told Blair.

I’ve doubled my Linzess dosage, but it’s not helping. I reach into my bag for the Tums I’ve taken to carrying with me and shake a handful directly into my mouth. The chalky texture makes me gag, and I know I’m going to need more than an antacid to take the edge off before I show up at Blair’s apartment.

There’s a bar a few blocks away from the uptown subway station. I glance at my phone. Even if I stop for a quick drink (another lie—I’m not a teetotaler), I will still make it to Blair’s by seven. So what if for once I’m not early.

I have my choice of empty seats, and the bartender, a tattooed musician named Chip, greets me: “Hey, Mara. Back again.”

I smile and order the house tequila on ice with extra limes.

“You cut your hair. Looks good,” he says, handing me my drink and a bowl of nuts.

“Thanks,” I say, running my fingers through my new layers, courtesy of Blair’s bougie hairstylist.

Then I wince, thinking back to how Blair’s face crumpled when the salon receptionist asked Blair if I was her daughter. Blair looked at me, and for the briefest of moments I thought she would confess the truth about Faith. Instead, she turned back to the woman, forced a smile, and said, “No, I’m not that lucky.”

I squeeze the limes into the tequila, stir, take a big sip, and then another.

I pull out my phone—there are two missed calls from my mom, which I ignore—and reply to Blair’s text with a few emoji of my own: a thumbs-up and a smiley face. I hesitate and add a red heart. I feel a pinch in my chest after I hit send.

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