MY SIL FAKED AN EMERGENCY TO STICK ME WITH THEIR $487 DINNER BILL—SO I INVITED HER AND MY BROTHER TO A SPA TO CELEBRATE HER "RECOVERY" WITH A LITTLE "SURPRISE."
MY SIL FAKED AN EMERGENCY TO STICK ME WITH THEIR $487 DINNER BILL—SO I INVITED HER AND MY BROTHER TO A SPA TO CELEBRATE HER "RECOVERY" WITH A LITTLE "SURPRISE."
My brother and his wife took me out to celebrate my promotion, ordered lobster and Wagyu on "their treat," and then my sister-in-law faked a heart attack so convincingly that I paid the $487 bill and walked home in the cold praying she'd survive.
An hour later, I watched them through a bar window, laughing over cocktails about how easy I was to fool, and I heard my sister-in-law ask my brother one strange question I didn't understand until days later.
I thought the cruelest thing they'd done was leave me with the check, but the dinner was never about lobster or prosecco at all, because my brother's phone had been recording every word I said from the moment I sat down.
CHAPTER 1: OUR TREAT
My brother, Brett, and his wife, Courtney, took me to Marchetti's, the fanciest restaurant in Halden, to celebrate my promotion.
I'd waited six years for it. Regional Operations Director at Crestline Logistics. Six years of seventy-hour weeks, missed holidays, and a Denver account so broken that three managers before me had quit trying to fix it.
I fixed it.
"Our treat, Lauren," Brett said, pulling out my chair. "You've earned it."
Our parents always called Brett "the charming one." He's two years older than me. Tall, easy smile, the kind of man who makes waiters laugh and gets free dessert. He works at Crestline too, in sales. He'd applied for the same promotion I got. He told me he was happy for me.
I was "the dependable one." In my family, that meant the one who quietly paid for things. Mom's car repair. Dad's medical copays. Brett's half of their anniversary gift for our parents, three years running.
Courtney hugged me at the door. "We're so proud of you. Order anything you want."
So I trusted them.
Brett ordered the lobster tails. Courtney ordered the Wagyu steak and two glasses of prosecco. Then a bottle.
I didn't want them spending that kind of money on me. Brett and I hadn't had a real dinner together in two years. That was the part I cared about. So I ordered a Caesar salad and an iced tea.
All night, Brett kept his phone face-up on the table, right next to his bread plate. I noticed because he kept glancing at it. I figured he was waiting on a work call.
And all night, he kept asking me questions about my boss.
"So Mark Sterling just handed it to you? Like that?"
"He didn't hand it to me, Brett. I fixed Denver."
"Sure, sure. But you two are close, right? You go to those happy hours."
"The whole team goes."
"Did he ever say anything to you about the job? Before it was posted?"
I laughed. "Back in March, after the Denver contract closed, we were at the team happy hour, and Mark said, If you can keep Denver stable through the summer, I'm putting your name in for regional. That's it. I owe him a lot for believing in me."
Brett nodded slowly. "Huh. Over drinks."
"Over a club soda. You know I don't drink at work things."
Courtney kicked Brett under the table. I saw it. I thought she was telling him to stop talking shop.
At 9:40, as Courtney finished her chocolate lava cake and Brett waved down the waiter for a second crème brûlée, Courtney suddenly stopped laughing.
"I need the restroom," she murmured.
She was gone eight minutes.
When she came back, her face was gray. Her lips were almost white. She gripped the back of her chair with both hands.
"Brett," she whispered. "My chest... something's wrong. I think something's really wrong. We need the hospital. Now."
Brett jumped up so fast his chair fell over.
"Lauren, I'm so sorry. We have to go."
"Go! Of course! Go! Call me the second you know anything."
"Could you..." He gestured at the check folder on the table. For a second, he couldn't meet my eyes. "I'll pay you back."
"Don't even think about it. Just go."
They hurried out. Courtney leaned on Brett with one hand pressed flat to her chest.
The bill was four hundred and eighty-seven dollars. I paid it with shaking hands and left a hundred-dollar tip because the waiter looked so worried.
I walked home. A mile and a half in the cold. I needed the air. I kept checking my phone. No texts. No calls.
I thought about Courtney's white lips. I prayed.
Then, on Fourth Street, I passed a bar called The Anchor.
Through the front window, under a neon beer sign, I saw my brother.
Leaning back in a booth. A pint of beer in his hand.
Courtney sat beside him. She was laughing. Her cheeks were pink. She wasn't holding her chest.
She was holding a cocktail.
I stood on the sidewalk for a full minute, waiting for my brain to explain it.
It didn't.
I slipped inside. The bar was dark and loud. I stood behind a wooden pillar near their booth, close enough to hear.
"Did you see her face?" Courtney was saying. "She looked like she was going to cry! Oh my God. I should've been an actress."
Brett snorted. "You're terrible."
"The white powder trick, babe! Setting powder and a nude lip liner. Thirty seconds in the bathroom and suddenly I'm dying!" She clinked her glass against his. "When else are we getting lobster and prosecco on somebody else's tab? Happy anniversary."
Brett laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.
Then Courtney leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. I almost didn't catch it.
"And you got what you needed, right?"
Brett picked up his phone and tapped the screen. He grinned.
"Every word."
My stomach turned over.
I didn't know what that meant. I didn't care. I just knew I couldn't stand there one more second. I took out my own phone, opened the voice recorder, and held it against the pillar for three more minutes while they laughed.
Then I walked out. Nobody saw me.
That night, I cried in my kitchen until two in the morning.
The next day, I went back to Marchetti's to pick up the scarf I'd left on my chair. The hostess handed it to me in a bag. Then she hesitated.
"Ma'am. Was the lady who got sick last night with your party? We found this in the restroom. On the sink. After you'd all left."
She handed me a small gold compact. Engraved on the lid: C.H.
I opened it. Pale, chalky setting powder. A smear of it on the mirror. And tucked inside, a nude lip liner, almost white.
I thanked the hostess. I put the compact in my purse.
And I decided I was done being the dependable one.
Two days later, I called Courtney.
"Courtney! How are you feeling? I've been so worried."
There was a short pause. Then a weak, practiced voice.
"The doctors said it was a heart scare. Combined with food poisoning. I'm much better now."
"Oh, thank God," I said warmly. "You know what you need? Rest. I'm booking you both a recovery day at Serenity Springs on Saturday. My treat."
"Lauren, you really don't have to..."
"I insist. After everything you did for me. I even picked out a little surprise for you both."
On Saturday, after they'd changed into the spa's fluffy white robes, I met them in the relaxation lounge. Soft music. Cucumber water. Eucalyptus steam drifting from the hallway.
"So where's this surprise?" Brett laughed, stretching out on a lounge chair.
I set a small white box on the low table between us. Tied with a black ribbon. When I slid it across the table, something inside rolled with a soft, dry rattle.
"A get-well gift," I said. "For both of you."
Brett tugged the ribbon with two fingers, still smiling.
He lifted the lid.
His smile didn't fade. It just stopped. Like a video freezing on a bad frame.
Courtney leaned over his shoulder to see.
Her glass of cucumber water slipped out of her hand and shattered on the marble floor.
"What the hell?" she whispered. "How dare you?"
CHAPTER 2: THE BOX
Inside the box, nestled in white tissue paper, were three things.
A small gold compact engraved C.H., with pale setting powder still smeared across the mirror.
A nude lip liner, almost white.
And a folded sheet of paper. An itemized bill from Marchetti's. Lobster tails. Wagyu steak. Prosecco. Chocolate lava cake. Two crème brûlées. One Caesar salad. Total: $487.00.
Stapled behind it was a second sheet. An invoice from Serenity Springs Day Spa. Recovery Day Package, two guests: $487.00. Payable by: Brett and Courtney Hale.
Brett stared at the papers. Then at the compact. Then at me.
"Lauren," he said slowly. "What is this?"
"It's your get-well present," I said. "For Courtney's miraculous recovery. On a bar stool at The Anchor. An hour after her heart scare."
Courtney's face went bright red.
"You followed us?"
"I walked home," I said. "Past the bar. You were in the window. Laughing. I should've been an actress. That's what you said, right?"
Nobody said anything.
"The hostess found your compact on the bathroom sink," I said. "I thought you might want it back. You'll need it for the next performance."
A spa attendant hurried over with a towel to clean up the broken glass. Courtney stood up so fast her robe came loose.
"This is insane," she hissed. "You're insane. It was a joke, Lauren. A harmless joke. You make more money than both of us. It was dinner."
"It was four hundred and eighty-seven dollars," I said. "And I walked home in the cold praying you weren't dying."
Courtney grabbed the compact out of the box and shoved it into the pocket of her robe.
"That's mine," she snapped. "You stole it."
"The hostess gave it to me," I said. "Because she thought you'd want it back. She was worried about you, Courtney. Everybody at that restaurant was worried about you. The waiter asked me twice if you were okay." I looked at her. "I left him a hundred-dollar tip because he looked so scared."
Brett had gone very quiet. He was staring at the box.
"Here's the deal," I said. "You pay the spa bill today. Four eighty-seven. Same as the dinner. Then we're even. And you never pull something like that on me again."
"And if we don't?" Courtney said.
I took out my phone. I pressed play.
Courtney's own voice filled the quiet lounge. Tinny. Unmistakable. The white powder trick, babe! Thirty seconds in the bathroom and suddenly I'm dying! Then Brett's laughter. Then the clink of glasses. Happy anniversary.
Courtney went white. Not the fake white. The real kind.
"You recorded us?"
"For three minutes," I said. "If you don't pay, the family group chat gets to hear it. Mom. Dad. Aunt Linda. Everybody."
Brett stood up. His jaw was tight. He looked at the recording on my phone for a long moment.
Then he said, very quietly, "How much of that did you hear, Lauren?"
It was a strange question.
"Enough," I said.
Something flickered across his face. Something that looked a lot like fear.
"Fine," he said. "We'll pay." He turned to Courtney. "Get dressed. We're leaving."
They paid the spa bill at the front desk without a word. Brett signed the receipt so hard the pen tore the paper.
At the door, Courtney turned around. She looked at me with pure hatred.
"You think you're so smart," she said. "You have no idea what's coming."
They left.
I sat alone in the spa lounge in the eucalyptus steam and listened to my recording one more time. Courtney's laugh. Brett's laugh. Then Courtney's voice, low, almost lost in the bar noise.
And you got what you needed, right?
Every word.
I still didn't understand it.
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about Brett's face at the spa. How much of that did you hear, Lauren?
Not I'm sorry. Not How could you record us? Just: how much did you hear?
Like there was something worse on that recording than a fake heart attack.
I thought about calling him. I didn't. I thought about calling my mother. I didn't do that either. Mom had a way of making everything Brett did sound like a misunderstanding, and everything I did sound like an overreaction.
Instead, I sat on my balcony with a cup of tea and watched the lights of the city and tried to remember the last time Brett had done something for me without wanting something back.
I couldn't.
When we were kids, he'd borrow my allowance and forget to pay it back. When I got into college, he asked to borrow my car for "one weekend" and kept it for a semester. When Dad got sick, I paid the bills, and Brett brought flowers to the hospital and got all the credit.
I'd always let it go. That's what the dependable one does.
On Monday morning at 7:52, an email arrived in my work inbox.
From: Crestline Logistics Human Resources. Subject: CONFIDENTIAL — Please report to HR Conference Room B at 9:00 a.m. regarding a formal complaint.
CHAPTER 3: THE CLIP
The HR director, a careful woman named Patricia Nwosu, sat across from me at a small round table. Beside her sat someone from Legal. Neither of them smiled.
"Ms. Hale," Patricia said. "We've received a formal complaint alleging that your recent promotion was the result of an improper arrangement with your supervisor, Mark Sterling."
I stared at her. "What?"
"The complaint alleges that Mr. Sterling promised you the regional director position months before it was posted, in a private social setting, in exchange for personal loyalty. And that other qualified internal candidates were therefore denied a fair process."
"That's not true. I fixed the Denver account. That's why I got it. Everyone knows that."
"Ms. Hale, I want to be fair to you," Patricia added. "Before I play this. Did you have dinner with your brother and his wife on the eleventh? At Marchetti's restaurant?"
"Yes. To celebrate my promotion. They invited me."
"Did you discuss Mr. Sterling at that dinner?"
"My brother brought him up. Several times. I didn't think anything of it. He's my brother."
Patricia slid a laptop across the table and pressed play.
It was my voice. Clear as anything. Over the soft clink of silverware.
"Back in March... we were at the happy hour, and Mark said... I'm putting your name in for regional. That's it. I owe him a lot."
Then Brett's voice. "Over drinks."
Then mine. "Over drinks."
It was the dinner at Marchetti's.
My hands went cold on the table.
"I didn't say it like that," I whispered. "That's cut. It's edited. I said, If you can keep Denver stable through the summer. That's a performance goal. Not a promise. And Brett said over drinks. I said over a club soda."
"The recording was submitted by the complainant," Patricia said. "Along with a written statement."
She didn't have to tell me who the complainant was.
"My brother," I said. "Brett Hale. He works in sales. He applied for the same job."
Patricia didn't confirm or deny it. She didn't have to.
"Pending investigation," she said gently, "we're placing you on paid administrative leave. Mr. Sterling as well. Your promotion is suspended until we've completed our review." She paused. "I'm sorry, Ms. Hale. This is standard procedure."
I drove home in a daze.
At noon, my mother called.
"Lauren. Brett told me everything. About your job. About Mark. How could you?"
"Mom, Brett recorded me. At dinner. He edited it. He's lying."
"Your brother wouldn't lie about something like that. He's been so upset. He worked so hard for that promotion. And you just... you went around him. With your boss." Her voice cracked. "And then you humiliated him and Courtney at some spa? Over a dinner bill? After that poor girl had a heart scare?"
"Mom. She faked it. I have a recording."
A long pause. "Lauren, I don't want to hear any more recordings. I've heard enough this week." And she hung up.
Mark Sterling called me that afternoon from his personal cell. His voice was tight.
"Lauren. I just got out of HR. They put me on leave too." A pause. "Did you say those things? About me promising you the job?"
"Mark, no. I said you told me you'd put my name in if I kept Denver stable. That's what you said. That's all you said."
"That's what I remember too," he said quietly. "I told HR the same thing. But they have a recording with your voice saying I owe him everything and over drinks." He sighed. "My wife is asking questions. Do you know who would do this?"
"I know exactly who," I said. "I just can't prove it yet."
At work, word spread fast, even with me on leave. Three colleagues texted me. Is it true? One unfollowed me on LinkedIn. The woman who'd been my assistant for four years sent me a single message: I don't believe a word of it. Hang in there.
I cried when I read that one.
By evening, Brett had posted on Facebook. A long post about "integrity" and "fairness" and "standing up for what's right, even when it's family." Courtney had shared it with the caption So proud of my husband.
My father called that night. Dad rarely calls anyone. He hates phones.
"Lauren," he said gruffly. "Your mother's upset."
"I know, Dad."
"She says you went behind your brother's back at work."
"I didn't, Dad."
A long silence on the line. My father has always been a man of very few words.
"Okay," he said finally. "I believe you."
"You do?"
"You paid my hospital bills for two years without telling your mother," he said. "I found the receipts. You never once asked for a thank-you." He cleared his throat. "Somebody who does that doesn't sneak around for a promotion. Find a way to prove it, kiddo."
Then he hung up.
I sat there holding the phone, crying for a completely different reason.
I sat on my living room floor with my laptop and my own recording from The Anchor. The only thing I had. Three minutes of my brother and his wife laughing.
I put on headphones and turned the volume all the way up.
I listened past the part about the white powder. Past Happy anniversary. Past the clink of glasses.
Courtney's voice. Low.
And you got what you needed, right?
Brett. Every word.
And then, under the noise of the bar, something I hadn't heard before. Something I'd missed every single time.
Brett again, quieter, laughing.
"Twenty minutes of her talking about Mark. I'll cut it down to thirty seconds. HR's gonna eat it up."
CHAPTER 4: EVERY WORD
I played it eleven times.
Twenty minutes of her talking about Mark. I'll cut it down to thirty seconds. HR's gonna eat it up.
Then Courtney, laughing.
"And she paid for the lobster. Best night ever."
I took off the headphones and sat in the silence of my apartment.
And everything I thought I knew about that night rearranged itself.
The phone face-up on the table, next to Brett's bread plate. All night.
The questions. So Mark Sterling just handed it to you? You two are close, right? Did he ever say anything about the job before it was posted? Over drinks?
Courtney kicking him under the table. I'd thought she was telling him to stop talking shop.
She'd been telling him to keep going.
Our treat, Lauren. You've earned it.
The dinner was never a celebration.
It was an interrogation.
My brother had taken me out to the most expensive restaurant in Halden so he could sit across from me with his phone recording and ask me leading questions until I said something he could cut into a lie. He'd waited until he had enough. Then his wife had faked a heart attack to end the dinner before I started asking questions back. And as a bonus, they'd left me with the bill.
When else are we getting lobster and prosecco on someone else's tab?
They hadn't just stolen four hundred and eighty-seven dollars from me.
They'd tried to steal six years.
I thought about Brett at seven years old, crying at the top of the stairs because he'd broken Mom's favorite vase, and me, five, taking the blame because I couldn't stand to see him cry.
I thought about Brett at seventeen, sneaking out to a party and crashing Dad's car, and me, fifteen, telling Dad I'd left the garage door open and someone must have stolen it for a joyride.
I thought about every time I'd protected my brother. Every time I'd decided his happiness mattered more than my fairness.
And I realized he'd learned something from all of it. Something I'd taught him without meaning to.
That I would always cover for him. That I would always pay. That I would always be too kind to look closely.
He'd counted on that at Marchetti's. He'd counted on me being the dependable one right up until the moment I wasn't.
I called the one person I could think of. My old college roommate, Danielle, who'd become an employment attorney.
She listened to both recordings. Brett's thirty-second clip. My three minutes from The Anchor.
"Lauren," she said slowly. "This is fraud. He fabricated evidence. Knowingly. And submitted it to his employer to damage you." She paused. "Did you know he was on a performance improvement plan?"
"What?"
"I looked him up on LinkedIn. His sales numbers. Crestline posts their quarterly rankings internally, right? He's been in the bottom ten percent for three quarters. If he doesn't hit his targets by June, he's out." Danielle was quiet for a moment. "He didn't just want your promotion. He needed it. Or he needed you not to have it. If the job's re-posted, he gets another shot. And if you're disgraced, you can't compete."
My brother. The charming one.
He'd hugged me at the door of Marchetti's. We're so proud of you.
He'd had his phone recording before he even pulled out my chair.
CHAPTER 5: THIRTY SECONDS
Danielle stayed on the phone with me until midnight, building a plan.
"Here's what we know," she said. "He recorded twenty minutes. He edited it to thirty seconds. He submitted the thirty seconds. Your recording from the bar proves he edited it, in his own voice. That's the whole case." She paused. "But here's the important part. Don't send your recording to anybody. Not your mom. Not the family chat. Not Facebook. Bring it straight to HR, in person, with me sitting next to you. If Brett hears about it first, he'll delete the original and claim your recording is fake."
"He'd do that?"
"Lauren," Danielle said gently. "He faked a heart attack for lobster. What do you think?"
I lay awake until four, staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere across town, my brother was probably asleep. Comfortable. Certain I'd never fight back. The dependable one, he'd have told Courtney. She'll cry, she'll apologize for something she didn't do, and she'll move on.
Not this time.
I asked for a meeting with HR the next morning. Danielle came with me.
I sat across from Patricia Nwosu and the lawyer from Legal, and I played my recording from The Anchor. All three minutes. With the volume up.
The white powder trick, babe!
And you got what you needed, right?
Every word.
Twenty minutes of her talking about Mark. I'll cut it down to thirty seconds. HR's gonna eat it up.
When it was over, Patricia sat back in her chair. She looked at the lawyer. The lawyer looked at the ceiling.
"Ms. Hale," Patricia said slowly. "Do you have anything else?"
I set Courtney's gold compact on the table. Then the itemized bill from Marchetti's.
"I was at that table for two hours," I said. "My brother asked me about Mark Sterling at least nine times. I remember every question. If he has twenty minutes of recording, he still has the original. Ask him for it. All twenty minutes."
Patricia called Brett into HR that afternoon. She asked him to provide the full, unedited recording of the dinner.
He said he'd deleted it.
She asked him to explain the audio from The Anchor.
He didn't.
He was terminated on Thursday for submitting fabricated evidence in an HR investigation, in violation of company policy and potentially the law. My promotion was reinstated on Friday. Mark Sterling came back to work and sent me a single email. Never doubted you for a second. Welcome back, Director.
On Thursday afternoon, as Brett was escorted out of the Crestline building by security with a cardboard box, he passed me in the lobby. I'd come in for a final interview with HR.
He stopped. He looked at me. His face was gray.
"You couldn't just let it go," he said quietly. "Could you? It was four hundred dollars."
"It was never about the four hundred dollars, Brett," I said. "You cut my voice into a lie and handed it to the people who decide whether I keep my job. You tried to take six years from me. In thirty seconds."
He looked away.
"Courtney said you'd never fight back," he said. "She said you never do."
"Courtney was wrong."
He stood there for a moment longer, holding his box. Then the security guard touched his elbow, and he walked out through the revolving doors into the rain.
That evening, Courtney called me. I let it go to voicemail. Her message was four seconds long.
"You ruined our lives over a dinner bill. I hope you're happy."
I deleted it.
I wasn't happy. But I wasn't sorry either.
On Friday afternoon, an hour after HR called to tell me I'd been reinstated, I walked back into the Crestline building as Regional Operations Director.
My team was waiting for me in the conference room. Twelve people. Somebody had bought a sheet cake. On top, in blue frosting, it said WELCOME BACK, BOSS. WE NEVER DOUBTED YOU.
My assistant, Gloria, hugged me so hard my glasses fell off.
"We heard," she whispered. "About the recording. About your brother. The whole floor heard."
"How?"
"Patricia in HR," Gloria said. "She doesn't talk about cases. But she told everyone at this morning's staff meeting that the investigation was closed and you'd been fully cleared. And then she said, For the record, Ms. Hale is the most honest person I've interviewed in nineteen years."
I laughed and cried at the same time and cut the cake.
My mother called me on Friday night. I almost didn't answer.
"Lauren," she said. Her voice was shaking. "Brett lost his job. He says it's your fault. He says you set him up."
"Mom," I said. "Do you want to hear the recording? The whole thing?"
A long silence.
"Yes," she whispered.
I played it for her over the phone. All of it. The white powder. The anniversary toast. I'll cut it down to thirty seconds.
When it ended, my mother didn't say anything for almost a minute.
Then she started to cry.
"I believed him," she said. "I always believe him. Since he was little. He'd tell me the cookie jar fell by itself and I'd believe him." She took a shaky breath. "And you'd be standing right there with crumbs on your hands, taking the blame, because you didn't want him to get in trouble."
"I remember, Mom."
"I'm so sorry, Lauren," she said. "For the dinner. For the job. For thirty years of calling you the dependable one, like that was a smaller thing to be." Her voice broke. "It's not smaller. It's everything."
EMOTIONAL ENDING
Brett called me two weeks later. His voice was flat and tired.
"Courtney left," he said. "She moved back in with her parents. She said I was a loser without a job." He laughed bitterly. "Turns out the woman who faked a heart attack for lobster isn't great at loyalty."
"I'm sorry, Brett."
"No, you're not. And you shouldn't be." He was quiet for a long time. "I was so jealous of you, Lauren. Since we were kids. Everybody loved me, but everybody trusted you. And trust is worth more. I figured that out about three weeks too late."
"What are you going to do now?" I asked.
"Get a job," he said. "Probably not in sales. I don't think I can look anyone in the eye and tell them I'm trustworthy right now." He laughed again, without any humor. "Mom said I should come stay with her. I said no. I think I need to figure out how to stand on my own. For once. Without somebody covering for me."
"That's a good start, Brett."
"Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "Lauren? I'm sorry. Not for getting caught. For all of it. For thirty years of letting you take the blame."
He paid me back the four hundred and eighty-seven dollars from Marchetti's. In cash. In an envelope. With a note in his messy handwriting. For the lobster. And the salad you ordered so I wouldn't feel bad.
I kept the note. I gave the money to the waiter at Marchetti's who'd looked so worried that night. He cried.
In April, I took my new team out to dinner to celebrate the Denver account's best quarter ever. Fourteen people at a long table at Marchetti's.
I ordered the lobster.
When the bill came, I picked it up before anyone else could reach for it.
"My treat," I said. "You've earned it."
And this time, I meant every word.
Courtney's gold compact sits on my desk at work now, in a little glass dish. People ask about it sometimes.
I tell them it's a reminder.
That the people who say our treat the loudest are sometimes the ones keeping the receipt.
May you like
And that the dependable one isn't the one who always pays.
She's the one who always remembers what actually happened.
