Zayn is sitting across from me. It has been a good five minutes, his gaze locks onto me, sensing the residue of tension in the air.
"Who was that on the phone?"
He asks. For the third time. Don't ask me why I haven't said anything because I don't know. I guess I'm still cooking up a lie in my head.
The simplicity of the question belies the intensity of his scrutiny. I falter for a moment, the truth heavy on my tongue, but I weave a lie instead.
"Oh, it was just a wrong number, someone looking for a person I've never heard of."
I reply, attempting to sound nonchalant. Yet, the effort feels transparent, even to my own ears. Oh come on Kattie! Honestly? I can do a whole lot better than this.
Zayn studies me closely, his expression unreadable but his eyes, those deep wells of knowing, pierce through the facade I've tried so hard to maintain.
"You're not a good liar,"
