If this is all we will ever be, why did he want this? When I said yes, I imagined myself happy. I didn't once see myself sitting a white, gourmet kitchen in a robe all alone. How cliché am I right now?
My phone vibrates. I look at the screen, roll my eyes, and pick up my phone. I can't deal with my overzealous "friends" he introduced me to. I don't need to be saved, and I don’t need more friends. I have one, and she's an angel. Instead, I am pleasantly surprised. It is her.
Tabatha: I am outside!
I send a smiley face back before locking my screen. I linger on my background before I lock my phone. Those people were happy. I don’t even remember them anymore. His face was nestled in my neck as I smiled at the camera. I don’t know why this is still my background. I fall into the category of needing to keep up with everyone else. I need to pretend my marriage isn’t a bust.
I am adding changing my background to my mental list. The list is growing, and brain cells are decreasing.
At one time, I was somebody. I was one of the few writers that made it. Not to sound arrogant, but I've been told I am hot. By everybody. I don’t necessarily believe that, but I don’t like calling people liars; only myself…and my estranged husband. So, why can’t he see that? Why can’t he see me like the rest of the world?
After my first film flopped, I gave it all up and became a housewife. Why? Who the hell knows? I have nothing. I sit around and think about the past. The past is the only thing that keeps me here.
I am losing my mind.
"Hello?" I hear from the hallway, and I immediately perk up. This is what I’ve been waiting for since I found out she was coming to see me. My face breaks into a grin before I see her.
“In here, Tab,” I call back to her.
My beautiful best friend- my only friend trudges through the curved archway and appears in my unnecessarily large kitchen. She is a site for sore eyes. After she moved three states away, I never saw her. When she comes into town, my life gets better.
She flicks her blonde hair to the side before pulling me into a hug. I hate touching, and she knows this. I think she does things to make me uncomfortable. It is nice though, but only right now since I haven’t seen her in so long. I’ll allow it. I step back, finding my stool again, and I wait for the compliments to pour in. I need them, Tab. Tell me I am pretty.
“When was the last time you looked in the mirror?” She asks as her nose scrunches up.
I glanced down at my black robe and pull it tighter. My long, black hair is still dripping after the shower. My fragile ego is hurt, and I respond the only way I know how. The finger.
I am making a mental note to read a screenshot. I take pictures of nice things people say about me and read them when I am down. This oddly enough happens every day now. I only pretend I am tough. I hide behind sarcasm and bitchiness. My walls are crumbling.
“Kidding,” she laughs. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Let’s go see my mom!” I threw my crazy idea out there and waited for her to respond.
“In Tyler? You haven’t been there in years. You still haven’t told me why, by the way.” Her brows bump together. She’s never enjoyed small towns. I am positive she was hoping for a weekend out on the town in Dallas.
“That’s a tale for another day. Will you go with me?” I ask, grinning. I know she can’t say no to me right now. She knows I am mentally stable enough to hear that word.
“I am all yours” she replies, shrugging.
She looks skeptical, but she knows I am having a midlife crisis. Am I to that point yet? Is quarter-life crisis a thing? I think I read that on Facebook once. I am 28. I am basically at midlife.
“I’ll be ready in thirty!” I call as I slung myself off the stool. I run to the bathroom, hiding before she changes her mind.
I need a break and seeing my mom always helps. Of course, she always comes to me when I need her. I haven’t been home in years; because of him. I stop in front of the mirror in my oversized bathroom. That is why I am going, right? To get better and see my mom? I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. He probably doesn’t live there anymore. I pull out the hair dryer and start it to the loudest setting.
I love drying my hair. Well, I love the noise. It is loud and chaotic, and I can't think. I hate thinking. Recently I can’t stop thinking about writing. I can’t start that right now because I am afraid if I started, I would dig deep into my mind, and the result of my bitterness would turn into an ugly book that nobody would want to read.
Actually, my life has turned into an ugly book. No would read it, not even me. Even my journal entries are depressing. What was once an "insta- love" story that I made millions from, has now taken a turn for the worse.
Maybe that's why we never write about marriage. We spend months building up to the moment our characters finally notice each other, but none of us writers dare cross the borders of marriage. Who the hell would read about some has- been sitting in her home wondering if her husband is screwing someone else? It is all fun and games until you say ‘I do.’
I toss my hairdryer in the cabinet and walk in my closet. I throw everything I can find in the beautiful duffle bag I just bought for my birthday.
Treat yo- self.
I tug on a white shirt and opt for my holey shorts and sandals. When I inspect myself in the mirror, I am satisfied. Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I walk down the hallway full of fake, stupid pictures peppered on the wall, and meet Tabatha back in the kitchen.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods as she finishes chewing the glob of candy that is in her mouth. We eat our feelings around here. I glance around the gorgeous house with natural light beaming from every direction. The living room is my favorite. The walls are dark gray. The floor is dark, and the couches are white. The decorations set the mood for the whole room. It is my favorite place to write. This may be the last time I ever see this place. I can find another writing room. Spaces come and go. Honestly, I don't want to go back to this hellhole.
I type three words again and delete them. My brain isn’t flowing. Everything I say is awful. My phone buzzes beside my computer. I look at it then back to the computer screen at least a dozen times so fast that I am confident I'll have a neck cramp. I've been writing for a while, and it is an unsaved number, so I decided to have some fun. Maybe it is a prank call. I need inspiration.
“Hello,” I say, almost too happy. Gross. I sound like I don’t have a life.
“Is this my friend speaking?” He asks.
As soon as his voice came through the speaker, I roll my eyes. I hate how beautiful his voice is.
“How’d you get my number, stalker?” I ask. I look around the room, frantically, wondering what is happening.
“I asked a friend,” he says, nonchalant. He sounds confident and much nicer than the first encounter I had with him.
Again, I roll my eyes. They are going to stick. At least that’s what my mom told me. I know Tabatha had something to do with this. I wish she would put her attention back on him so I don't have to become his primary focus.
“What are you doing right now?” He asks after the long pause.
“I am trying to write…” If he’s waiting for me to ask what he’s doing, I won’t, because I don’t care. I slip a Cheeto in my mouth, quietly. I don’t need any extra judgment in my life.
“Trying? It sounds like you have hit a block. Let’s meet up,” he says.
“Now?” I ask, looking down at my Cheeto stained yoga pants. I get messy when I write. It helps, okay?
“Yeah, I thought I would put you on the spot so you wouldn’t have a chance to say no.”
“I can still say no.” No, I can’t. Awkward encounters are my worst enemy. I should hang up and text him no. That would work.
“Say no,” he says, bored.
“Fine. Meet me at my place. With pizza.” I heard him laugh before he hung up.
I text him my address and stare at his number. Should I save it? He's kind of weird. One mi
nute he hates me, and now we're best friends forever. Maybe I should wait until another mood swing hits. Smiling, I saved his name under handsome douche bag and tossed my iPhone on the table. I shut the computer off and change into a fancier pair of sweats.
One hour later, there is a knock at my door. I stop in my small foyer, looking in the mirror. Gross. My long black hair is doing its natural wave, curl thing where I don’t know what’s going on. It is just there. Everywhere. I swat a few strands out of my face and pull the door open. If he wants to hang out, he is about to get the natural Natalie. I am mortified, but I am also lazy.
“Hope you like supreme,” he says as he walks through the door.
“And what if I don’t?” I retort.
“More for me,” he says, unfazed.
“Kitchen is on the right,” I say as I close the door and follow after him.
“So, what’s it going to be? Am I getting the whole pizza?” He asks. A small smile appears on his face.
"I eat anything. How unfortunate for you," I say. I steal a slice and collapse on a bar stool in front of the box.
“Very well,” he says, grinning. I like when I make him smile, so I look away from him.
We eat in silence. Well, kind of silent. I’ve been self- diagnosed as psychotic, and I thought he could hear me chewing the entire time. I wipe the crumbs away, pretending like the last ten minutes of my life didn’t happen.
“So, tell me about this book you are trying to write,” he says.
“If you’ve read one romance novel, you’ve read them all,” I say.
I am trying to change the subject because I don't want to have this conversation with him. Romance novels are the shit, and my books are fantastic. I don't need his help.
"Ah,” he says, nodding. “You are trying to decide which half-naked man to put on the cover, yeah?”
“Something like that.” I rolled my eyes.
“There is more to it than that…you are not a hearts and flowers kind of girl. That’s Tabatha. Tell me,” he says, sincerely. I catch him looking at me, and I know I can’t say no.
I nod my head. That is Tabatha.
“I think I have an excellent idea and then when I write it…and I think its shit every single time I read it. I am hard on myself when it comes to writing."
He nods, knowingly. “We all get like that. You do realize that your book is being filmed for a movie as we speak. You have to some talent.”
I like that he didn’t go on about how great I am. Most people do. He helped me discover that on my own. Okay, I like one thing about him.
He is leaned my counter, still positioned in the same spot. He looks me in the eyes when I speak. He seems interested in what I have to say. He’s too good looking to be a writer. The fact that he has a brain to go with those looks scares me. I want to hear his stories and pick apart his mind. Damn, I like more than one thing about this guy.
“Yeah, but it could have been luck. Maybe people liked the idea more than anything.”
“I read it,” he says, watching me. My face heats.
“So, that’s why you were moody when you met me! You didn’t want me to see you fangirling.” I say, snapping my fingers. I make jokes when I am uncomfortable.
"You are either self- conscious or oddly overconfident. No in between; Noted," he says. “We can meet up and talk about writing.” He shrugs. “It’ll help us both out.”
“Friends?” I eye him.
“Friends,” he agrees, holding his hand on his chest. I arch my brown, staring at him until he drops it. I don’t trust dramatic people.
“So, what’s your problem with writing?” I ask.
I walk in the living room, and he follows. My curtains are pushed back, allowing the beautiful skyline to shine through my condo. The room is dark grey with pops of color throughout. This room is my heaven. I will recreate it in every home I live in.
He walks to the windows and looks out at the scenery. I stand by the couch, checking him out, but telling myself I am not doing that.
“When I am angry, my stories reflect that,” he says, blankly. Oddly enough, I want to ask why he is angry. I usually don’t care to have small conversations with people, but he is intriguing.
“I have a collection full of those. People love dark shit,” I say. He turns and smiles at me.
“I guess you are right,” he says as he walked to the couch. We sit on opposite ends.
“What happened with your ex?” I ask intrigued. I am probably overstepping my boundaries.
“It wasn’t going anywhere. I asked her to leave. We both knew it was coming” he says.
He looks shaken up about it. Most guys would be out celebrating their single status, but he is beating himself up. Maybe he isn’t that awful after all.
“If you ever need to talk,” I say, and he nods.
I have a feeling he needs someone. Not necessarily to talk, but to be around. I turn on the television for noise since he doesn’t say anything else. It is weird being this close to him. He doesn't try anything strange. He acts as he needs me. Which is odd, I push people away, but I am going with the flow tonight.
“You are different,” he says.
“In a good way?” I only ask because I hear that I am weird all of the time. It is just acceptable when I say that.
“In a broken way,” he says. My mouth twists to the side, thinking.
I thought about that, not sure how to respond. Sarcasm and insults are my go to, but something makes me want to say more. He sees through me. Maybe most people do, but he’s the first one to call me out on it.
“Maybe broken people recognize each other,” I finally say.
“What’s your story?” His eyes are on mine.
I twisted my lips, thinking. “Daddy issues.”
“Mine was gone before they could screw me up. But the women in my life handle that well,” he says. A small smile briefly shows.
“Are you a player or an insta- love seeker?” I already know the answer to this, but I like watching him think.
“Somewhere in between.”
Liar. He wants to love someone, and he wants to be loved. At this point, he’s laying across my couch with his head propped on the armrest. I am across from him in a chair. It feels therapeutic.
“Collin…”
“Yeah?” He pops his head up to look at me.
“Are you an orphan?”
“Yeah, I guess I am…my grandma took me in, but she’s gone, too.”
His grandma raised him, ah. “That’s why you are an old soul.”
He smiled a little and laid his head back. I wonder what he’s thinking. I would love to spend a day in the mind of an artistic soul.
The skyline is a little brighter tonight. I studied it, wondering what is different about it. I picked up my glass of wine and took a sip. The muffled voices on the television were at the back of my mind as I studied the scene through the windows for what felt like the first time. I looked over at Collin, and he smiled. I lingered on his face for a moment before fixing my gaze in front of me. Something has changed.
Today sucks. I hope it is not the first day of the rest of my life. The rain slams into the top of my car as I leave my driveway. How fitting. The sky is crying with me. My life is a county song. I don't like symbolism, and I don't like country music.
Thankfully, the road is quiet today. All the slow drivers decided to stay home, and I weaved out of the neighborhood and on the freeway like a champ. I squeezed the steering wheel, wondering if I would ever be back again.
I need to get out of here.
Tabatha is quiet as I navigate my way out of Dallas. She took the weekend off to spend with me, and I am thrilled. Bonus friends point for her going to stay with my mom for the weekend. She knows something is going on and she dropped everything for me. I don’t want to tell her, but someone has to know. I have to vent. And that person should be Tab. She will talk sense into me or get me drunk. Sometimes both. She’s my soul mate.
“I thin
k he has someone else, Tab,” I say. I am not entirely sure what’s going on, but that the only thing my overactive mind can come up with. Why hasn’t he apologized or asked to come back?
"Um, who? Because I know you are not talking about Collin,” she says. She takes her large sunglasses off her round face.
“I didn’t want to believe it either,” I say, clenching the steering wheel.
I exit and drive toward Tyler, where my mom is waiting. The more I spoke, the faster I wanted to be there with her. If there were any way around it, I wouldn't share our problems, but the last six months have been wrong. I envision telling Tabatha everything, she talks sense into me, I ask Collin back, and everything is perfect. In reality, though, I'll probably wake up hungover with my face stuck to the bathroom floor.
“He worships the ground you walk on…how in the hell did this happen?” She asks, taken back. Maybe I should have told someone from the start. I exhale a long, shaky breath as I wondered where to start.
“I guess it all started with my writing issues,” I say.
I didn’t need to elaborate on that further. Tabatha has been through it all with me. From the movie flop to me being ripped entirely apart, and eventually me taking time from writing. She knew the ugliness, and she knew that my fragile ego couldn’t handle it.
"I needed a break from writing…again. We decided I would take care of the home and…and we had just found out I was pregnant," I say.
I stop, letting her process that. She covers her mouth, smiling. She looks from me to my stomach and notices my face.
“Oh God, Natalie. I am so sorry,” she says.
Yeah, that's why we didn't tell anyone else. I want to handle things on my own until I can't anymore, and everything has blown up in my face. My life, my pregnancy, and now my marriage. I have great coping mechanisms. I shouldn't write any more books until I have better advice to give readers.
“It was the stress. It never got better. I was depressed, and he was stretched thin,” I say. I never wanted children. I didn’t understand how I could be so upset, but here I was, depressed over a child I never thought I wanted.
“So, that asshole left you during this?” She asks, instantly angry. Her mood has shifted for the worst.
The Lies We Tell Page 2
