White Lies and Lemon Bars

The Party Next Door

It was the third Saturday in August when the new neighbors threw their first party. The kind with paper lanterns, music that floats just loud enough to rattle blinds, and people who laugh like they’ve never had to pay rent.

Kim watched the whole thing from her second-story window. She hadn’t planned to. But once the first laugh cracked across the backyard fence, her curiosity latched on like static.

She told herself she was just checking out the noise. Then she told herself it was fine to keep watching — just for a few minutes.

The new neighbors, a couple in their early thirties, had moved in two months ago. She’d only seen them twice- once carrying an absurdly tall plant into the house, and once jogging side by side, synchronized like a commercial for protein powder. She didn’t know their names.

Now, from her perch behind the curtain, she watched guests arrive. Thirty-somethings in linen shirts and sleeveless dresses. Someone brought a tray of cupcakes. Someone else brought a bottle in a brown bag. A woman with a nose ring handed out sparklers. It was 7:42 p.m.

Kim was wearing sweatpants with a hole in the knee and hadn’t washed her hair in three days.

The last party she’d gone to was her niece’s birthday — six months ago. There had been balloons and store-brand soda. Her sister had said, “You should get out more.” Kim had smiled like she agreed. She didn’t.

Downstairs, her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

Out back, the party was hitting its stride. Someone turned on string lights. Another person jumped into the pool fully clothed. The kind of thing you only do when you believe in your own likeability. Kim sipped her tea and tried not to judge.

At 9:00 p.m., something strange happened.

The music cut off mid-song. The crowd hushed. Everyone looked toward the couple — standing now at the center of the yard. He held a glass of champagne. She held a tiny object, wrapped in white tissue paper.

Kim leaned forward.

The woman — blond, athletic, unreasonably happy-looking — raised her voice just enough to carry.

“We have some news.”

The guests oohed, like they were on cue.

“We wanted to wait until we were in our new place, surrounded by people we love.”

Kim scoffed. You’ve lived there for two months, she thought.

The woman pulled back the tissue paper. Inside was a pair of tiny white baby shoes.

The crowd exploded. Cheers, hugs, congratulations. Someone screamed.

Kim stared at the screen of her dark phone. She thought of her sister’s ultrasound photos — sent to the family group chat with heart emojis. Kim had responded with a thumbs-up.

She moved away from the window.

The next morning, Kim's doorbell rang.

She debated not answering. But the ringing came again, followed by a sharp knock.

She opened the door halfway, already bracing for someone selling something.

Instead, it was the woman from next door. Blond. Sunglasses. Still glowing.

“Hey! Sorry to bother. I’m Brittany — we’re your neighbors.”

Kim nodded. “Hi.”

Brittany held out a Tupperware container. “We had a ton of extra food from the party last night. Thought we’d share.”

“Oh,” Kim said. “Thanks.”

There was a pause.

“You should’ve come by,” Brittany said. “We had a great time.”

“I noticed,” Kim said, too dryly.

Brittany laughed like she didn’t mind. “Well, we’ll probably have more. You’re always welcome. Really.”

Kim nodded again. She didn’t say anything else. Brittany smiled anyway and walked back across the lawn.

Inside, Kim opened the container. Lemon bars. Four of them. Perfectly cut.

She stared at them like they might explode.

Three weeks later, the police came.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Two black SUVs. No sirens. Just quiet efficiency.

Kim was on her couch when she saw them pull up. At first, she thought it was just a delivery. Then she saw the jackets.

FBI.

Three agents went into the house. One stayed outside. Brittany was nowhere in sight.

By the time the news broke online, it was evening. The man — Brittany's husband — was wanted in connection with a securities fraud investigation. Millions missing. Multiple victims. Fake accounts. Offshore transfers.

Brittany's name was on the records too.

Kim read the article twice. Nowhere did it mention a baby.

By the next morning, the house was empty. Furniture gone. Plants gone. The pool cover was on.

It was like the party had never happened.

Two months passed.

The house sat quiet. The blinds stayed closed.

People still walked by and stared. Some took photos. One afternoon, a local reporter knocked on Kim's door, asking if she’d “noticed anything unusual.” Kim said no and shut the door.

She didn’t tell them about the shoes. Or the lemon bars.

In early November, a small moving truck pulled into the driveway.

Kim watched from the same window.

A woman in jeans and a flannel climbed out. Solo. Short brown hair. Looked maybe late forties. No fanfare. No party. She carried in her own boxes.

Kim told herself to let it go.

She lasted five days.

On the sixth day, she walked over and knocked.

The new neighbor answered with a wary look. Kim introduced herself and held up a container — four lemon bars.

“I heard it’s tradition on this block,” Kim said. “For new neighbors.”

The woman smiled. “I’m Barbara. Come in.”

Barbara's house smelled like fresh paint and old coffee. Boxes were half-open. Books stacked on counters.

They sat at the small kitchen table. Kim explained she worked from home — technical editing for a science journal. Barbara said she taught high school math.

There was a pause.

Then Kim asked, “Did you hear about the couple who lived here before?”

Barbara gave a dry laugh. “Only everything. People love a scandal.”

“They said she was pregnant,” Kim said.

Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Was she?”

“I don’t know.”

Barbara popped a lemon bar into her mouth. “Well,” she said, “people lie all the time.”

Winter came fast. Snow on the sidewalk. Dead grass. The string lights from the party next door never turned back on.

Kim and Barbara began meeting for coffee once a week. At first it was just neighborhood talk. Weird things in the mail. Power outages. Then it got deeper.

Kim admitted she’d been divorced for five years. No kids. No pets. Some days she didn’t speak to anyone until evening.

Barbara said she liked being alone but hated feeling lonely.

One night, over tea, Barbara said, “I’ve been thinking of throwing a party.”

Kim flinched. “Really?”

“Yeah. Just something small. You know, warm up the place.”

Kim stared at her mug. “It’s your house.”

Barbara smirked. “Wanna help?”

Kim didn’t answer right away. But two days later, she showed up with string lights.

The party wasn’t big. Just seven people. Barbara invited some coworkers. Kim invited no one.

There were no sparklers. No baby shoes. Just chili in a crockpot and a playlist from the 90s.

At one point, someone asked Kim what she did for fun.

She froze for half a second. Then said, “I spy on neighbors.”

They laughed. She smiled.

As the party wound down, Barbara handed Kim a beer and said, “You’re not bad at this.”

“At what?”

“People.”

Kim looked around. She hadn’t thought about the couple in months. Hadn’t thought about the baby that probably didn’t exist. Hadn’t stood at her window in the dark, wondering why everyone else’s life seemed louder than hers.

“You ever wonder if the party was fake?” she asked.

Barbara blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The music. The shoes. The whole thing.”

Barbara leaned back. “Maybe. Or maybe it was real — for them. Just not forever.”

Kim nodded slowly.

Barbara added, “People don’t fake joy for no reason. Even liars want to believe their own stories sometimes.”

That night, Kim went home and stood at her window one more time.

The house next door was lit up again. Not with noise or noise-makers. But with quiet, human light.

She thought about the baby shoes. The way people clapped. The lemon bars.

She thought about what it means to start over.

And then, finally, she drew the curtain closed.