Take Your Time

PROLOGUE

"I may not be that smart or talented or coordinated, but... Actually, I forget where I was going with this."

- Delilah Sinclair, attempting to cheer herself up.

_______

I'd like to point out that none of this is my fault.

I know, I know, people always say that. But, seriously, folks — I mean it when I tell you none of this is my fault. None of it. Not the police sirens or the stolen car or even the unfortunate state of my hair.

You probably have a hard time believing that, examining this situation from an outside perspective. I can practically hear you judging me from here.

Sure, Lila, it's definitely not your fault that you landed yourself in this debacle. At this time of night. Wearing that outfit. With exactly three dollars and seventeen cents to your name. Missing a multitude of things, not limited to your iPhone and any remaining semblance of dignity.

Trust me, I know how it sounds. Frankly, I wouldn't believe me either. Especially given my track record. Just ask my friends, family members, and former teachers — over the years, I've come up with a variety of colorful excuses to weasel my way out of taking responsibility.

For school assignments: You'll never believe it, Mrs. Tippen! My essay on photosynthesis was torn to shreds by my grandmother's schnauzer Peaches just as I was leaving this morning...

For a traffic ticket: Oh, officer, I didn't even see that stop sign! I'm just in such a rush to get church, I'm volunteering today...

For my friends: Wow, there was soooooooo much traffic. Who knew it would be so congested during rush hour?

For my parents: You called? Twice? Oh, yikes, my phone has really been acting up, I should take it to the Apple store this week...

I'm not proud of my little white lies but, let's be honest, I'm not the only one who does it. Heck, there's a scientific study that claims sixty percent of Americans can't go ten whole minutes without telling a whopper. (Sampling from my ex-boyfriends alone, I'd peg that statistic closer to eighty-five percent, but I digress.)

What it comes down to is this: we're all big, fat liars.

We lie about our dress sizes, our fears, our favorite movies, and our accomplishments. We lie about things that matter greatly and things of absolutely no consequence. Big things, small things, and all the in-between things. I'm not exempt from that.

But not this time.

This time, I'm not making excuses or attempting to pass the blame off on another unsuspecting soul. (Or schnauzer.) My credibility may be shot to all hell, but I swear on my favorite shade of MAC lipstick — may they discontinue it if I prove to be lying.

This is not my fault.

I just wish the police officer slapping handcuffs on my wrists saw it the same way.