The Imposter

by Marin Montgomery

  “I have to show you something.” She yanks her laptop out of her purse, which might as well be a suitcase, since I swear I’ve seen her remove a four-course dinner from there.

  “What’s that for?” I ask curiously.

  She scoots closer to me, pointing at the list of approved items on the rehabilitation center’s website. After reading out loud an underlined sentence about the type of clothing allowed—only comfortable garments such as sweatpants, athleisure, or lounge wear, nothing provocative—she shrieks in amusement. “Can you believe this?”

  “Hmm . . .” I raise a brow. “Is this an instance where my clothing will cause me unwanted attention, and it’s my fault if I’m hit on or assaulted?”

  “Clearly, they don’t want you to get the other clientele riled up.” She shrugs. “Or maybe the staff. After all, you are in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Ugh.” I motion to the rest of the list. “It might as well be a prison. Especially with no cell phones or laptops, no keys, and no snacks.”

  “Seriously, aren’t you scared shitless?” she asks. “I’m worried about your health. You do drink like a fish. You can drink me under the table!”

  “Adrienne, anyone can drink you under the table.” I roll my eyes. “Two drinks are all it takes.”

  We both giggle at this. Adrienne isn’t a big drinker. We both had an alcoholic parent. But where she hardly touches alcohol, I go through binges. If I’m honest, it was shortly after I met Nico Marcona for the first time that I started slipping again, but not because of him. I’d put more blame on my marriage.

  “Addiction doesn’t just pop up one day, Sib.” She squeezes my fingers before letting them go. “Your dad was an alcoholic.”

  I stare down at my wineglass, which is filled with water, a change from the Riesling I usually sip while relaxing on the couch, though this is hardly a time to unwind. “Unfortunately, that excuse doesn’t work.” I raise my glass. “But I do blame my husband.”

  “Spoken like a true addict,” she chides. “When you’re an alcoholic, you blame others for your judgment.”

  “I’m not trying to justify my behavior.” I’m noncommittal. “It is what it is.”

  “I’m just wondering if you’ve dealt with your past.”

  “In terms of?”

  “It holding you back,” Adrienne remarks. “You told me before that you just took off on a whim for the desert after you graduated high school.”

  “Yeah. A lot of kids leave home to go find themselves,” I add. “Or go to college out of state, like I did.”

  “But you didn’t have a plan. You just packed your car and left.”

  “It seemed like the right kind of weather.” I turn the volume down on the television. “And I met Holden and you and built a life out here. Not a bad choice—at least, not until recently.”

  “But what about your mom? You said she’s never remarried.”

  “No. She hasn’t. My mom has a lot of issues stemming from my dad’s death.”

  “Like health?”

  “Mental.” I stare down at my lap, twisting my hands anxiously. “She had a nervous breakdown after I left.”

  “I can only imagine,” she murmurs. “Your dad died unexpectedly. I’m sure it messed her up pretty bad.” Incredulous, she adds, “And yet you still left?”

  “It’s not like that,” I sputter. “She made some poor life choices that spiraled her out of control. A nervous breakdown compounded by everything that happened. Then we got in a big fight because she wouldn’t help me out with college even after she got all this money from my dad’s life insurance policy.”

  “Sib, I hate to break it to you, but at what point are you going to deal with your shit?” She narrows her eyes at me, the gold flecks sparking in anger. “This is one of your biggest triggers, and it’s only impeding your ability to move on and truly break the cycle.”

  “So . . . don’t go to rehab and deal with my mother instead?” I offer up hopefully.

  She says nothing, just glares at the television. The mood has soured, and I don’t even giggle at one of my favorite parts of my beloved series. It’s when Carrie uses her oven to store her shoe collection. It’s relatable that ample closet space would be more important than your ability to use kitchen appliances. I feel the same way.

  “Seriously,” Adrienne asks softly, “when was the last time you saw your mother? What’s her name? Deb?”

  “Deborah.” I cackle. “For some reason, she hates when people call her Deb or Debbie.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “The day after high school graduation.”

  “You haven’t seen her since then?”

  My face flushes. “No.”

  “Okay, um . . . what about the last time you talked on the phone?”

  “Years.” I swallow. “I don’t know, probably three or four years ago.”

  Adrienne shuts her laptop with a bang, unable to hide her peeved expression, and I know she’s struggling with my answer since she lost her mom at a young age.

  Quickly, I add, “I did write her a couple of times, but she never responded.”

  “And what did you say?” she asks. “Was it an angry letter or a nice one?”

  I shrug. “Probably a little bit of both.”

  “Then how do you even know she’s okay?”

  Remorseful, I shake my head. “I’m sure I would hear something. It’s not a big city; it’s a small town, nothing like what you’re used to. Everyone knows everyone and everything. If she didn’t call me in an emergency, a neighbor would.”

  Looking unconvinced, she chews on her lip while I aim for my nail. “What did you mean about your mom making poor life decisions?”

  “Forget it.” I turn the volume up.

  “This is important, Sib.” Adrienne watches me like a hawk, ready to swoop down on my twisted emotions and claw through them like a vulture circling a dumpster. I know she doesn’t mean it negatively, but I’m immediately uncomfortable with her prying.

  “I haven’t even told Holden most of this.”

  “Why not?”

  Swirling the water that doesn’t belong in the wineglass, I sigh. “His family life was so perfect. He gets along with his siblings; his family is überclose. There are no childhood scars of any kind, minus when he maimed himself from a bicycle accident when he was a kid.” I run a hand through my tangled hair. “Seriously, he is the poster child of a stable and thriving upbringing. His parents are still married, and beyond that, they are actually happy.”

  “Or do they fake it?” Adrienne says. “Maybe to everyone else they are, but behind the scenes, they are miserable.”

  “If they’re acting, they do a damn good job.” I frown. “Besides, why would I want them to be unhappy? I’m not trying to bash Holden’s idyllic upbringing, nor do I resent him for having loving parents; I’m simply pointing out his reality and mine are at opposite ends of the spectrum.”

  “Whoa, baby girl, my intent isn’t to pick apart their marriage but to convey how many people hide behind a facade.” She snaps her fingers. “Take, for example, the people who post relationship goals all over social media, talking up their marriage and partner, while their close friends know one’s having an affair or they’re miserable together.” Adrienne shrugs. “You can control the narrative when you are the one who owns the rights.”

  “Absolutely. I see it all the time with my clients.” I bite my lip. “But what makes me not want to confide in Holden is he can’t relate to my past.”

  “But he doesn’t have to.”

  “I disagree. If he can’t relate, he can’t help me.”

  “It’s not Holden’s job to help you, Sib.” She holds up a hand before I can retort. “Hear me out. I don’t mean it’s not his duty to support you; I mean it’s not his past to reckon with. Only you can do that. Just like you said, it’s not his childhood, so therefore he can’t fix it or make amends with it.” She nudges me gently. “Only you can do that.”

  I�
��m thinking about what she just said when she continues.

  “Your father didn’t die in a car accident like mine did. Yet I told you about him not because you know what it’s like or have lost someone close to you that way, but because you’re my best friend and I want to confide in you and give you context about my life.” She gives me another example. “Race. You’re a white girl from the Midwest. I’m a black girl from Alabama. We both ended up in the desert. You can’t relate to my struggles. I confide in you because we can see each other for the individuals we are underneath skin color. You aren’t happy with who you are underneath your pasty skin.”

  I tilt my head at her.

  “You cover up your insecurities and past experiences with alcohol.” She tugs at a strand of my blonde hair. “And only you can break the cycle in letting drinking be the catchall for what you haven’t dealt with.”

  “Adrienne.” I pat her shoulder. “You really are a smart cookie.”

  “You better mean that seriously, Sib.” She settles back against the couch, crossing her arms. “Don’t play with me.”

  Adrienne has known me long enough to tell that when I get quiet, it’s because the wheels of my mind are spinning down a path I need to explore.

  “Oh no,” she teases. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

  “Before I tell you this,” I warn, “I need you to trust me.”

  “When you say that phrase, it’s usually because you are going to do something asinine that is a huge risk.” She fixes me with a pointed stare. “Something that’s trouble.”

  “You’re a tad dramatic.”

  “I strongly disagree,” she refutes. “You said the same thing before we went off-roading down a canyon.”

  “It was a bit of a bumpy ride,” I admit.

  “We ended up in the water.”

  “It was a creek, and it was shallower than your swimming pool.”

  She sighs. “Just tell me what you have up your sleeve.”

  Taking a deep breath, I tell her what I’m thinking, ignoring her wide eyes and puckered lips, focused on delivering my monologue to the unimpressionable painting behind her.

  “Ballsy,” she hoots.

  By the time I wrap up my idea, I think she’s sold by the small grin on her face.

  “Risky,” she says, fist-bumping me. “But you got yourself a deal.”

  When Holden returns home later that night, before Adrienne leaves, my ears perk at the sound of my name, and even after I lower the volume on the television, their muted voices don’t carry from the kitchen. I wonder what they’re saying about me. He’s probably relieved she kept me company so I wasn’t left to my own devices.

  When I hear his footsteps creak toward the living room, I turn the volume back up so he doesn’t know I attempted to eavesdrop.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask when he strides in, a grimace on his face as if he didn’t expect me to be sitting on the couch in our home, watching reruns of my favorite show.

  “Yeah. It’s just, you know, it just looks so normal.” He runs a hand over his face, hiding his emotions from me. “We haven’t had a sense of normalcy in a long time.”

  Though I pat the seat next to me, Holden instead takes the armchair to my left. His outward rejection stings. It reminds me of a middle school dance when I was picked last, and only because my friend Kristin threatened to beat a kid up. He was a skinny twig. She totally could have.

  “How was class?”

  “It was good. The students are eager to learn this semester, which I love.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Did you eat?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Sib, I told you guys to order takeout.”

  “I don’t have much of an appetite right now.” I rest a throw pillow in my lap. “What did you mean about this being normal?”

  “We just live completely separate lives.”

  “Is that my fault?”

  “Not what I said.” He scratches at his beard.

  “It seems like a slight.” I tense. “You never take responsibility for being a shitty husband.”

  Swiftly, he stands back up. “Sib, not everything is meant to lead to an argument, yet you always go straight for the jugular.”

  Hunching over so he can’t see my face, I murmur, “Okay.”

  “We both are guilty of it. That’s all I’m saying.”

  I don’t bother looking up at him. “What do you want to do about it?”

  “I don’t know.” He rests an arm on the banister of our staircase. “You are selfish, Sibley. You have no regard for anyone else.” I start to cut him off, but he silences me with a deep growl. “Wrecking your vehicle, being irresponsible with your job. You didn’t consider how a leave of absence without pay would affect our finances.” He stares at me sadly. “And don’t think I didn’t notice our wiped-out savings.”

  “That’s all I am, isn’t it?” I screech. “A meal ticket for you.”

  If Holden hears me, he doesn’t answer. His next words are a slap in the face. “Not to mention your commitment to this marriage. I caught you in a lie a couple weeks ago, Sib.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You weren’t with Tanner on your birthday.” He sinks onto the bottom step as if he’s too tired to hold himself upright. “You lied to me. This is all . . . it’s all too much.”

  His words and tone would normally cause hostility in me, but I’m also worn out from mental exhaustion. “Do you want to . . . do you want to get a . . .”

  As much as we’re struggling right now, I can’t bring myself to say the D word out loud. Our marriage has been tested and broken, and no matter how many times we fight and talk it out and repeat the process, it’s another thing entirely to admit it’s irretrievably broken.

  “I’m going to move into the guest room for now.”

  “Don’t bother.” I slowly rise, careful of my now-pounding headache. “Since I’m going away, I can sleep in the spare room.”

  “Sibley.” His hand reaches out to clumsily touch my shoulder. “I want you to get better. Let’s take one baby step at a time. We don’t need to make any rash decisions about our marriage right now.”

  I don’t trust myself to respond.

  “It’s close to ten. Let me help you get into bed and get you some medicine. How’s the pain?”

  “Slowly getting better.”

  Gently he guides me up the stairs, his hand never leaving my elbow. When we get upstairs to our bedroom, he scans the ginormous closet as if he’s misplaced something.

  “What’re you looking for?”

  “Your luggage.” He shifts from foot to foot. “I need to get you packed. Anything you need before we leave on Wednesday?”

  “Yeah, not to go.”

  “Sibley.” He sighs. “Please.”

  I point in the direction of the hallway. “It’s in the guest room.”

  “Thanks.” He nods.

  “By the way,” I say casually, “I saw online they ask for all your medical records before checking in. Did you see that?”

  “I had them sent, yes.”

  “Wow! You are really on it!” I sardonically add, “How long have you been planning my vacation?”

  “Sib,” he groans. “Your firm reached out to me. We discussed an intervention, but a lot of times, that doesn’t work. One of the partners had a bad experience with that, so we went this route.”

  In the awkward silence, we both go into the master bath to brush our teeth and get ready for bed. He helps me out of my lounge clothing, a welcome break from the structured dresses I tend to wear. I wouldn’t be able to wear the formfitting material right now with my bruises.

  Sliding into a silk camisole and matching shorts, I ask curiously, “Are you packing for me because you’re worried I’ll try to slip in some illegal contraband or sexy clothing?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I tell him about the prohibited clothing, and it breaks the tension between us. “I’m assuming they don�
��t want anyone to feel uncomfortable if someone’s wearing revealing clothing. As a dude, I wouldn’t want to sit in group therapy with women in skimpy clothing when I’m supposed to be focused on recovery. One less distraction, I guess.”

  Smoothing the flimsy strap of my camisole down, I whisper, “You mean like this?” As I lean in to give him a kiss, he swiftly moves his head to the side, blocking me, so I catch his cheek instead.

  In a gruff voice, he chastises me. “I was serious about what I said earlier.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t fool around.” I wink.

  “You’re the only person who isn’t taking this seriously.” Holden helps me to bed before he stomps angrily away. Pausing at the door before he exits, he says, “We can’t solve all of our problems with sex, Sib. Not anymore. Good night.”

  For once, we’re in agreement on something.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sibley

  In the morning, Holden rushes around like a madman, dashing up and down the staircase, his heavy thuds adding to my impending headache. I’ve started to experience withdrawal symptoms, and my lack of sleep grates on my frayed nerves, along with his inability to stay still. Much to my annoyance, Holden paces in the bedroom, asking me a million questions while he’s trying to get me packed, triple-checking the items on the “necessities list.”

  I finally threaten to kick him out of the room, so he finishes in stony silence. He lugs my suitcase down the stairs, and a final crescendo strikes the landing when the bag hits the floor.

  It’s too much, and I snap at him in annoyance.

  His eyes flash at me in anger, then hurt. “I want today to be a nice day for us.”

  “Preparing me for rehab isn’t a ‘nice’ kind of a day,” I say through gritted teeth. All I want right now is a drink in my hand and my husband to stop his incessant chatter.

  “I don’t want to think of it like that. I want to think of it like you’re going to a spa and coming back rested and well.” He adds with false excitement, “Did you see all the activities they have? I looked at the facility list: you’ll have a yoga studio and a full gym and even a steam room.”