The Lies We Tell

by Butler, Brittany

  “Wow! No, Tab. How did you go from him being a saint to him being the worst guy in the world?” I try to laugh it off.

  “Continue,” She says.

  She adjusts her glasses and looks ahead. The cars are thinning out, and the scenery is getting greener. I can breathe again. Almost. Just a few more minutes, I tell myself.

  "I told him I thought he should leave," I stop, needing to compose myself. "I didn't want to be around myself, so I didn't think anyone should have to tolerate me. He didn't fight me hard on it, so I guess that's what he wanted," I say, but it isn’t entirely a lie.

  I can't feel sorry for myself. I tend to do this. When my parents divorced, I broke up with my high school sweetheart the day before our wedding. If I was going through something, I push people away. I would rather deal with it myself than them leave me over my attitude. With his drinking and his attitude, I knew he wouldn’t stick around much longer.

  She sighs, "Natalie, he didn't want to upset you. You know he wants to come back."

  I shake my head. “I asked him to see you since you were in. He said he had plans…he was gone a lot before I asked him to leave.”

  “He doesn’t have anyone else…he’s just trying to give you space. I can feel it,” she says. I wish I believed her, but she doesn’t know everything.

  “He’s done, Tab. Besides that…we grew apart. We were always in different places.”

  Sometimes I wonder if we were doomed from the start. I know she doesn't believe me, but she doesn't press the issue. It is quite the rest of the drive. I try to enjoy the scenes that are so different from Dallas and ignore my failing marriage. I turn on the street of my mom’s neighborhood. Her house sets at the back on a cul- de- sac. I park in front of the modest, two-story brick home.

  “Don’t say anything…she doesn’t know,” I say.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” she says, smiling. And I believe her.

  I slunk in my seat, not ready to get up. I need another hour to drive and clear my head. I slapped around the backseat until I connected with something. I lifted the bag and opened the door. I guess this is it; my safe haven for the weekend.

  When I was in eighth grade, I read my first romance novel. It was about a girl dying and a boy who loved her. Morbid, I know, but I ate it up. I spent the summer hoarding all the books I could find. I was going to find love like that one day. I just knew it. I wanted to spend my life, loving, reading and creating. That was the summer I began journaling, and it turned into short stories sometime later.

  That very next year, I started writing for the school newspaper. I wrote quietly in my journal and even short stories. I thought I was living out my dreams until my parents got divorced while I was in college. I threw one of those dreams out of the window.

  I pursued my English degree at a university near home. I fought against being conformed to a classroom learning about all of the great writers. I wanted to be one myself. There were days I wouldn’t leave the apartment. I just wrote. I was a mad woman on a mission and everyone around me concerned about my future.

  It wasn't until the next year that I uploaded one of the masterpieces online, and it became a sensation. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I wanted more support in my life. I needed a different life. I left, and I thought I was living the dream until I met someone that truly belonged in my life. He just happened to share my passion for creating.

  Collin and I spent all of our time together, sometimes not saying anything. Tonight I am on the couch twirling a piece of my knotted black hair. He is lying on the floor beside the sofa. He did this most nights. It is like having a dog more than a friend.

  His humming soothes me as I fight through my thoughts. I have a small idea about a book, but I always take my time coming up with ideas before I take the pen to paper. He has a way of helping me solve my issues in the book world.

  “What do you think of Constance?” I asked, gazing up at my ceiling. It was illuminated by the skyline of Dallas peeking through the floor to ceiling windows. My white sofa was my happy place. I pat it and smile.

  “Constipated,” he says from the floor.

  I lean over the couch, careful not to spill my drink on him. It would be a shame to waste wine. He shrugs to the best of his ability while he lay on an awkward spot between the sofa and coffee table.

  “That’s not the answer I was looking for, but okay,” I say, laughing.

  “You are asking me for honest answers. Why can’t you give your characters normal names?” He asks, holding his hands up.

  He has a point, but where was the fun in that. I would never tell him that I understand him. I like to give the readers that read my book the best experience possible. Quirky names included.

  “Pass,” I say, pretending to gag at his boring idea.

  “I am just being honest. That's what readers would think when they read that name,” he says, and I roll my eyes at him for the millionth time since we became friends.

  The doorbell rang, and I jump up and run to the door, sliding in my socks before I get there. The pizza delivery guy hands me the pizza, and I thank him before closing the door. I made a show waving my hand in front of the box, pretending that it was a prize and Collin laughs. That was the best thing about being around a friend; you could be as weird as you want.

  I set the box on the counter, and we stand over it, stuffing our faces. We didn’t even bother with plates anymore. I hit the jackpot with Collin.

  “Sadie,” he says.

  “That’s a little better,” I say, shrugging. “What about you? Are you working on anything new?”

  He looks at me. Looks at me to the point that I want to look in the mirror because I am confident I have something on my face. I turn ten shades of red before looking down at my pizza.

  “I am working on something. I am at the very beginning stages,” he says.

  “Do tell,” I say.

  I took a seat on the bar stool and held my wine close. I love picking apart his brain. It is like a mental orgasm to hear his stories when he describes them to me. I am a great writer with excellent ideas, but he is a storyteller. And his stories need to be told.

  “I am seeing where it goes," he says, shyly. Weird.

  He doesn't look at me, and he doesn’t elaborate. I take a sip of my wine and wonder what that was about. I am the first person he tells things to, and I do the same to him.

  “Are you over her?” I haven’t asked in a while, but I am curious. He always says yes, but I think he feels guilty for hurting her. I am not sure why I ask, but I still feel the need to know.

  “I am,” he says, with a smile. “I have been for a while.”

  “How’d you do it?” I only ask because I have some shit I need to work through. I am curious about the healing process of people.

  "I tried new things, and met new people." He looks at me. “Eventually that was my past life. There is no room for your past when you have a new future.”

  That was deep. “Are you writing a psychology book?”

  He laughs at me. “I guess you could call it a romance in a way.”

  "There is no room for your past," I repeat, thinking about what that means.

  Hell has frozen over. He included love in most of his books, but it was always troubled and haunted. I can't imagine what this book will be like. Is he going hearts and flowers on me?

  "You really won’t tell me anything?” I ask, my interest is in overdrive.

  “If I tell you…you might change the ending.” His eyes are glued to my lips. Weirdness again. When he notices, he looks away.

  I pull my brows together, wondering what exactly he meant by that. That could go so many ways. I shrug and drop the conversation.

  “If you need me…”

  “I know where to find you,” he cuts me off and winks.

  Six months later, Collin Adams was a bestseller. I saw the New York Times before he called, but I wouldn’t tell him that. Collin shows up on my doorstep with his new book, U
nchanging. He is acting oddly; but he has his quirks, so I try not to read into him.

  “Read this,” he says. It is almost a plea. His eyes held mine, desperately.

  “Okay,” I say, smiling at his odd behavior.

  Tearing my eyes from him, I open the book, letting the pages run through as I grip them with my thumb. I love the smell of a book, and I can’t wait to read this one. The cream pages are already drawing me in.

  “But only when I am not around,” he says, and my eyes snap up, searching for any sign that he is joking. He’s serious.

  “Now you are acting weird. Even for you,” I say, laughing awkwardly.

  He’s leaning on the door frame. He’s so close I can hear his breathing. I hold the door open, waiting for him to come in and give me book details. We always do this after a book release, but he has been distant lately. He was adamant that I wait for him to give me a copy of the book. I’ve been impatiently waiting.

  “I have to go. Let me know when you are done,” he says. I watch him walk to the of my condo complex. He is so odd.

  Shrugging, I close the door behind me with my foot while I balance the book in my hand. I open it, flipping through the pages. I stop at the dedication.

  For my unchanging,

  You are the only constant in my life

  Intrigued entirely, I set the book on the cabinet before pouring myself a glass of wine. Balancing the stem of the glass and the open book, I take a seat on my couch and begin ant chapter one.

  I stay up all night reading the book. It is one of those stories that you can't help but skip pages find out what was going on. I promise myself I will go back and read what I have skipped, but I have to know. The next morning, I was exhausted and confused.

  The book is about me. I think that was the day I fell in love.

  The next day, I call him. He shows up exactly twenty minutes later. That is the first time I really saw him. Our first encounter I thought he was a self- centered dick. Over the next few months, I thought he was my best friend. He was always there for me, but I thought he would eventually find someone and move on.

  Today I saw a guy who had been hurt, but he knew he found something special. He never made advances or led me on in anyway. If I had dated, he wouldn't have been mad. He would have understood. He was waiting for the right moment without either of us ending with broken hearts. He was the real deal.

  I grabbed a fist full of his shirt and pulled his mouth to mine. It didn't taste like rainbows or fairytales, and there weren't fireworks in my brain. But God, it felt right. I manage to kick the door shut while I walked backward to my bed. I can't bring myself to break the kiss. I haven’t been waiting for it to happen these last few months. I’ve never thought about kissing him, but now I need it to breathe.

  In an instant, I am flat on my back, with him to top of me. His lips tease my neck, brushing my skin as he runs along my jaw. But it is not enough. I can’t get him close enough. My fingers dig in his back, urging him closer.

  The trail of kisses down my neck is almost my undoing. I tug on the hem of his shirt. I pull it over his head and toss it to the floor. My fingers eagerly trace the new territory. I’ve always had this idea that bad boys have tattoos, but I was dead wrong. Collin is perfect, and his skin is untouched. I roll on top, slowly kissing the lines. I tug my clothes off when they hit the floor his eyes snap open. He scans my body.

  “I didn’t come over here for this,” he said. His voice is strained. It is as if he’s warning me, but without a lot of strength.

  “I know,” I said. “This is my choice.”

  He bends down and kisses me. It is deep, yet soft, hinting he wants more. I feel him holding back. My hands glide down his bare back. They travel to the top of his jeans and stop at his zipper. He presses his hips to mine, and I feel how much he wants it.

  “Are you sure?” He groans. “There’s no going back after this…we will never just be friends again.”

  “We never were,” I say, but he doesn’t look convinced. I place my finger over his soft lips. “I have never wanted anything more than I want this.”

  His lips stretch into a smile before returning to mine. As he unsnaps my bra, his reluctance slips from the room. I pull his jeans down, but he stops and pulls a square package from the pocket.

  I pull him back to my mouth. His hands slide down my body, stopping at the top of my panties. He slides them off then does the same to his boxers. I can’t look away as he tears the foil package and slides the protection on.

  His mouth comes back to mine when his finger pushes into me. I gasp in surprise. He pulls back and inspects my face.

  “It is fine,” I say.

  He retracts his finger. My eyes find his amber irises; they watch me with intent. With a thrust of his hips, he’s inside me. I clench my eyes from discomfort.

  “Look at me.” His voice is hoarse.

  I pry my eyes open, fighting to keep them on him with each thrust. His movements become jerked and rigid before he collapses on top of me. He lies beside me, panting for breath.

  “I’ll never be the same after this. You can’t ever leave,” he says. It is so quiet that I almost think I imagined it. I ignore him, but my heart attempts to fight its way out of my chest. He doesn’t know he just fell in love with the queen of running.

  To my surprise, we were inseparable from that moment. Everything was right. He was perfect.

  Six months after Collin and I started dating, I released another book. I thought it was brilliant, and I was rather proud, as were most of my readers. But there are always a choice few. And they are brutal. I am reading through ugly reviews, mean social media comments, and even worse emails. My looks are the only thing I have going for me because I can't write. At least that's what I am told almost every day.

  When I was a little girl, my dad told me I was a princess. I dreamed of the day prince charming would arrive and I would live happily ever after. In reality, my prince could control a confined bubble, but in reality, he didn't let me live happily ever after without outside interference.

  My movie sucked. It was a flop. I am being thrown under the bus for not being involved. I am over everything and ready to throw in the towel. My obsessive behavior won’t let me stop reading. I need to know who hates me and why. Maybe I can convince that I am a badass. I shouldn’t read this. I should let my assistant handle emails, but I can’t look away.

  “Why do you let that bother you?” Collin asks. He walks up behind me, wrapping his arms around my middle.

  “I don’t see how you don’t get upset,” I say flatly.

  I knew he read his. We writers couldn’t help it. It was like a train wreck. You couldn’t look away from reviews and the venom being spat. It is a hate/love relationship with feedback.

  He leans over my shoulder, getting a better view of what I was looking at. “For starters, I’ve never been told that my tits are distracting everyone from the fact that I can’t write.”

  We burst into laughter. He has a rare gift of making me smile. I am Negative Nancy, always looking at the glass half empty, but he never allows it.

  “I think I want to take a little break from writing and everything,” I say, defeated.

  “If that’s what you truly want. Don’t let these assholes stop you from doing what you love.”

  “I need it for my sanity,” I say, sighing. I turn around, facing him. He lifts one side of his mouth, giving me a side smile that I can’t say no to.

  He wraps his arms around me, tugging me away from my desk. I shut my laptop down and go with him. I can’t stand to look at their harsh words anymore. Tonight, Collin can shield me from their ugliness. He can give me a happily ever after for one night.

  “You could take this time to plan a wedding,” he says, smiling. I toss a throw pillow at him as I sat on the couch. He flinches and dodges it.

  "Go away!" I laugh, but I love how vocal he was about our future.

  This is it. This is the guy I am going to be with for the r
est of my life. Nothing else in my life was defined, aside from him. My words will come and go, fans will let me down with harsh words, but he is forever. He is the only constant in my life.

  Sometimes I think about getting even. For the past few months, I hoped things would change, but it didn’t look like we were coming out of this. I held on to his younger years far longer than I should have. That was then, and this was now.

  The front door opens, and my mom steps out. God, I hope I age like her. Her hair is dark, but don’t let that distract you from the fact that she dyes it. Her skin has an olive complexion which makes her green eyes shine.

  She reaches for a hug. I cringe at first but melt into her arms. It is incredible what mothers can do. Even I enjoy hugging my mother sometimes. I hate people touching me.

  “I am so happy you are here,” she says, almost squealing. "What's it been Four? Almost five years?"

  “I know. I know,” I say, stepping through the door. “It has been a while.”

  “Good to see you again, Tabatha,” my mom says. Tab is much more affectionate, and she welcomes the hug.

  This place was like I left it. White; so much white. The blue and white plaid couches are centered and facing the fireplace, and the cherry dining room table is visible through the opening. Coming home is like college all over again.

  I left after college, and I never came back. It is only a few hours away, so I have no excuse. I should come to see her, but she visits me often, and I think she needs the getaway weekends. I know I do now.

  “Where’s my handsome son- in- law?” My mom asks, grinning.

  Don’t roll your eyes; don’t scream; don’t binge drink. I have to talk myself out of craziness when he’s mentioned.

  “He’s working. He’s sorry he couldn’t make it,” I lie. I look at Tabatha who smiles, encouraging me.

  She pulls me in for a side hug. “That’s alright. I’ll give him a call. I haven’t talked to that boy in months.”