Chapter 7: Worst Liar in San Diego

Abel rang the bell at 6:59 on Saturday with a bottle of wine in one hand and a leash in the other.

On the end of the leash was the ugliest dog I'd ever loved on sight.

Gray, wiry, one ear up and one ear down, the size of a coffee table.

"This is Gehry," Abel said. "He's very sorry in advance."

Gehry sat on my foot and leaned his whole weight against my shins.

"He likes you," Abel said. "That's not a lie. I want that on the record."

Jocelyn swung into the hall on her crutches in a bright yellow dress.

"Traitor!" she cried, and hugged him so hard his glasses tipped.

"Hi, Jocelyn. Congratulations. On the ring and the, you know." He gestured at her leg. "The not dying."

"Thank you. I'll allow it."

Esteban came out of the kitchen drying his hands.

He looked at Abel's shoes, then his flannel shirt, then his face.

"Esteban Robles."

"Abel Whitford." Abel shook his hand. "I've heard so much about you."

"From who?"

Abel's ears went red.

"From people," he said.

I took his arm and steered him to the table.

Jocelyn had made enchiladas from a recipe card and the cheese had become a single solid sheet.

Abel took a big bite.

"This is incredible," he said, chewing hard.

Jocelyn beamed.

Esteban sat at the head of the table.

"How did you two meet?"

"In the library," I said.

"At a lecture," Abel said, at the exact same moment.

Silence.

"A lecture in the library," Abel said. "There was a talk. About libraries."

"Libraries," Esteban said.

"It was very meta."

Under the table, I kicked his ankle.

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