Best Friends & Other Liars

by Heather Balog

  “Wow is right,” I say, taking in the amazing landscape. The incredible juxtaposition between the view to the right and the view to the left leaves me breathless.

  “Come on!” Vi calls out to me. I blink to reorient myself and discover she has run off toward the beach, holding her oversized floppy sun hat on her head, completely cured of the potential illness that was plaguing her not five seconds earlier.

  “I’m coming!” I smile to myself as I speed walk to catch up with her. Painfully. My body is a little sore from the incident on the treadmill. And the stairs. And sleeping on the floor so that Vi could have the bed to herself the other night.

  Vi reaches the sand and kicks off her flip-flops. A few feet later, she completely drops her beach bag, allowing it to land in the sand with a hefty thud. She runs to the edge of the ocean and keeps running until she is ankle deep in water. She throws her head back, that ridiculous hat flying off and rolling away in the sand. Vi’s hair whips gently across her face in the breeze and I hear her laugh.

  I get a fluttery sensation in my chest—my heart is bubbling. I love to see her happy. This must be what it feels like to be a mother on Christmas when your child unwraps the gift that he’s been wanting for weeks.

  “Leah!” she calls, extending her arms out toward me. “Come here, Leah! This is incredible!”

  I drop my own bags on the sand and slip out of my flip-flops to join her at the edge of sea. There I remain.

  “Come in!” Vi waves to me.

  “I’m good right here,” I tell her as I wrap my arms around my body, the tropical breeze somehow chilling me.

  “Don’t be a baby!” Vi calls out. “It’s amazing!”

  Don’t be a baby.

  Those four words spark fear, and then defiance.

  Who is she calling a baby?

  “I’m going to stay on the beach!”

  “Seriously, Leah! It’s so calm. It’s like a swimming pool.”

  Well, a swimming pool isn’t bad…

  I take a step toward the water, despite my shaking legs.

  “Is it cold?” I ask timidly as the first surf rushes toward my freshly painted coral toenails.

  “Oh, God, no,” Vi says. “The water’s not cold at all. It’s perfect.”

  I step in to discover she isn’t kidding. It’s like bath water.

  “Oh wow.” I take another step, deeper into the water. It’s amazingly calm, not rough at all—not like the ocean I grew up with on the Jersey shore. Some of those waves could knock a grown man on his ass.

  I keep walking toward Violet, the fear leaving my body with each step. Before I know it, I’m actually knee deep, water gently lapping at my legs.

  “You’re in!” Vi calls out happily, clapping her hands like a child. “You know, I don’t think in all the years we’ve been friends that I’ve ever seen you in the ocean? I don’t think we’ve ever even been to the beach together! Isn’t that crazy?”

  I don’t say anything as I continue to wade toward her. For me, it’s not so unusual that Vi and I never went to the beach together.

  I used to go in the ocean all the time when I was younger, with my dad. Then, one of those waves knocked me on my ass when I was about twelve years old. Flailing for the surface, I got disoriented and swept further out to sea. Water was pouring in my mouth and nose, choking me, drowning me.

  My dad grabbed me and pulled me back to the shore. When I could stand, I ran back to the beach towel where my mom was sitting and vowed never to go in again. She, of course, rolled her eyes at me and told me I was being a big baby. Typical response from Mom.

  My dad tried to coax me to come back in and I refused. He had jokingly picked me up—I was kicking and screaming—and tossed me in. I was so angry with him that I stormed out of the ocean and back to the beach house we were renting. I spent the rest of the vacation holed up in my room. I was mad at both my parents and refused to talk to them.

  It got worse when we returned home from our trip. For years my mom and I had struggled to get along, mostly due to the fact that she basically couldn’t stand that my dad paid more attention to me than to her. I was sullen and hormonal and she wasn’t much better.

  But fighting with my dad was something new and different entirely. After the beach incident, Dad would get on my nerves all the time, and I would find all sorts of reasons to pick a fight with him or ignore him altogether. And it didn’t seem to get any better—nothing he said or did was right. In fact, I was hardly speaking to him at all when he died later that year. I don’t even know why I was so mad, to be honest. Hormones, I guess. I’ve tried to push that incident out of my mind, though—other than my dislike of the beach.

  Vi absolutely loves the beach. As one can probably tell by the fact that she’s floating in the sea right this very moment, making moaning, orgasmic-like noises.

  “What is wrong with you?” I ask in a joking tone, but I glance around, slightly embarrassed by her behavior.

  “This is actually heaven. I have died and gone to heaven.”

  “Maybe.”

  She lifts her head. “Isn’t it like heaven to you?”

  I smile at her. It isn’t too bad. I could go for a drink, though.

  I shield my eyes and gaze where the boat is docked. Crew members are carrying out boxes and bringing them to a small bar area, set up not too far from us on the beach. People are already swarming the area, apparently unable to go more than a few minutes before they needed to refuel their alcohol level.

  It will take me forever to get a drink at this rate. I will just have to wait till later when the area clears out. No big deal. I certainly can go an hour without a—

  “Drink, miss?”

  I turn around and see Nick standing knee deep in the water, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and a satisfied smile on his face. He’s holding out a margarita in a plastic margarita cup. My jaw literally drops. Nick laughs as he steps toward me. He reaches over and pushes my lower jaw up to meet the rest of my face.

  “Did you read my mind?” I ask as I take the margarita. It sloshes over the side a bit and dribbles onto my hand. I wish I had a napkin to wipe it with.

  Once again, reading my mind, Nick reaches into his pocket and hands me a napkin.

  “You’re amazing, you know that?” I tell him as I dab at my sticky hand.

  “Nah, I’ve just been a bartender for so long that I know how to anticipate people’s needs.”

  “Oh yeah, don’t you have to work?” I ask, jerking my hand with the balled up napkin in it toward the bar. The crowd is descending on it like ants at a picnic. “I bet it’s gonna be really busy.”

  “I set up, so they don’t need me right now. They have plenty of people behind the bar. Trust me. But none of them can actually carry the bar onto the sand.”

  He flexes a muscle and growls to demonstrate his brute strength. “Come on.” He gestures with his hand. “I’ve been to this island a dozen times. I’ll show you all the local spots and the waterfall.”

  “Oh, but I signed us up for the waterfall tour—”

  “My tour is a little better than that one,” Nick says with a sly grin, practically reducing me to a puddle of lusty goo.

  “I’d love to, but I promised Vi—”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Vi says, floating by on her back. “I’m perfectly fine. Um, hi, Nick,” she says sheepishly. Her face is red and I can’t tell if she’s sunburnt already or embarrassed.

  “But I—” I glance back and forth between my best friend and this awesome guy I just met that I’d love to take a waterfall tour with.

  “Seriously, Leah,” Vi says, floating away. “I don’t mind. Besides, I ruined your date the other day. I owe you.”

  Well, this is true.

  “Are you really, truly sure you don’t mind?”

  “Seriously, Leah. Have fun. I’m fine.” Vi offers me a confident smile and waves me away.

  “But what are you gonna do?” I ask.

  “I’m going to enjo
y heaven, of course.”

  VIOLET

  I know it’s terrible, but I’m so glad that Leah went off with Mister Macho Bartender and left me alone in peace. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to talking to him after the spectacle I made out of myself yesterday. Eventually I will have to apologize to him, but not today. Today is beach time.

  I love quiet time at the beach and I never seem to get it. When I take the kids, they’re rowdy and throw sand and whine and eat all the food before noon. I spend half the day applying sunblock to their backs, and the other half of the day biting my nails when they’re in the water without me. I’ve gone to the beach by myself once or twice, but as Leah pointed out just a few weeks ago, I packed it in early. Even though the kids weren’t there, I was worried about them anyway.

  But here, this is different. They’re out of my mind for once, a concept that I would have never thought possible. My fortieth birthday is in a couple days, and I think this is the first time in twenty years I have just relaxed. It must be the island atmosphere. This place is even more magical than I ever could have imagined.

  Why did I wait forty years to come to an island?

  I float blissfully in the water until my fingers and toes shrivel up. Standing, I wring the water from my hair, noticing that crowds from the bar have made their way onto the beach. My bag is at the edge of the water where I left it, so I grab it and toss it over my shoulder, wincing when I feel the sting from sunburn.

  I really need to put more sunblock on before I look like a lobster tomorrow, I remind myself as I crane my neck, looking for a place to spread out my blanket and relax.

  As I’m searching, I hear a voice call out, “Violet! Over here, Violet!” I don’t know who it is. It’s not Leah, that’s for sure. It’s a male voice.

  For a split second, I think it’s Richard. But then I realize that it doesn’t sound anything like him and plus, he’s hundreds of miles away. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Violet!” I hear again, this time I see a man in a blue bathing suit jumping up and down at the top of the beach, underneath a palm tree. He’s waving his hands around wildly.

  I squint and shield my eyes, cursing myself for forgetting my sunglasses back in the cabin. Walking closer, I realize that it’s George calling out to me. He smiles pleasantly at me as I approach.

  “Gosh, I’m really glad that was you out there,” he tells me as I pull a towel out of my bag and wrap it around my dripping wet body. I blush.

  He was glad it was me?

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Well, I think I would have looked crazy waving and calling your name if it wasn’t you, wouldn’t I?”

  I laugh. “Maybe. But you looked crazy anyway.”

  That’s not nice! My Logical Brain immediately chastises me.

  But I didn’t say it to be mean, I argue with myself. I meant it as a little bit of a joke.

  Oh, Logical Brain replies. That’s okay. Unless…well, you weren’t flirting with him, were you?

  Flirting! Are you kidding me? I don’t think I would even know how to flirt! I’ve been out of the game forever.

  And you’re married. Don’t forget that. Still married, Logical Brain reminds me.

  “I know!” I cover my mouth when I realize I’ve spoken out loud.

  “Are you okay?” George asks, squinting at me.

  “Um, yeah,” I say, shaking off my annoying argument with my brain. “I’m fine. I was just in the sun for a while.”

  “Here, have a seat,” George says, offering me a beach chair.

  “Oh, I couldn’t take your—”

  “I’ve got two chairs,” he explains, pointing. “I don’t need two chairs. My rear end isn’t that big.”

  I laugh and sit down in the chair he has offered, wondering why he got two chairs to begin with. Did he think he was going to run into me? Or was the chair for someone else altogether and he’s just being polite by offering it to me?

  As if he can read my mind he says, “I saw you bobbing there in the water and the beach was getting crowded. The boat crew was putting out chairs, so I grabbed two in case you wanted one. As you can see, they got snatched up pretty quickly.” He sweeps his arm around to all the other beach patrons in similar beach chairs.

  “Thank you. That’s very gentlemanly of you.” I settle into the chair and stretch my legs out in front of me.

  “I try,” he says with a laugh, blushing.

  His blushing makes me a little uncomfortable for some reason. I lower my eyes and pretend to rummage through my bag. Well, actually, I don’t just pretend to rummage through the bag—I actually do rummage through it and retrieve my book.

  I open up the book and realize my bookmark has fallen out somewhere in transit. Now I have to go through the pages to figure out where I left off.

  “Whatcha’ reading?” George asks me as I flip through the pages.

  “Um, just a chick-lit novel,” I reply, suddenly embarrassed by the fact that I’m not reading something with a little more substance. Richard is constantly telling me I should read the classics instead of “filling my head with fluff”. (His words, not mine.) But Richard isn’t here, and besides, “fluff” makes me happy. So what if it’s not Shakespeare, or some other boring old book that we were forced to read in high school and dissect for the author’s use of color imagery and nonsense like that. Maybe this book doesn’t make a difference in the world, but it makes a difference to me. It makes me laugh, and right now, that’s the most important thing to me.

  “It’s called Note to Self: Change the Locks,” I tell George.

  “Nice cover,” he replies, peeking at it. “What’s it about?”

  “This guy shows up on his ex-wife’s doorstep looking for a place to live when he gets kicked out of his own apartment.”

  George wrinkles up his forehead. “God, I hope she doesn’t let him stay.”

  I grin sheepishly. “She does. And she’s about to get married, too.”

  “I bet her fiancé isn’t too happy about that.”

  “Well, that’s the fun part. He doesn’t know.”

  “He doesn’t know the ex is there? That’s crazy!” George is leaning on the armrest of the chair.

  “Even crazier, he doesn’t even know she was married before!”

  “Sound nuts.”

  “It is,” I tell him. “But it’s a fun book and I’ve been enjoying it.”

  “Maybe when you’re done with it, you can let me read it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, just stop right there. It’s a chick-lit book. You’re a guy. And a psychologist. You probably read classics and non-fiction. Why would you want to read it?”

  “Because sometimes I like a lighthearted read. I can’t just read thrillers and books about psychology all the time. It gets kind of depressing.”

  “So you’ll read a chick-lit novel?” I narrow my eyes at him skeptically.

  “Yeah. Don’t tell the Manly Man Association, but sometimes I even watch romantic comedies. I’m a very versatile kind of guy.”

  I shake my head.

  “You’re just trying to sound charming to impress me or something.”

  Whoa, hold on there! You don’t know that, Violet! You sound cocky and sure of yourself. Where’s all this confidence coming from? It’s almost like flirting. Ugh, the Logical Brain again.

  Honestly, I’m not sure where it’s coming from at all. All I know is that George is easy to talk to, and I feel like I can be myself around him. But I don’t want him to think I’m flirting with him.

  “Not all women like rom-coms, you know,” I point out.

  “Oh, I know. My ex couldn’t stand romantic comedies. Or chick-lit books. Or anything funny at all. She has a very dour personality. Very serious about everything. Especially having sex with her trainer.”

  My eyes widen at that. “Her trainer?”

  He nods his head. “Yeah. The guy she was cheating on me with was training her for years. I guess I should have seen it coming. She was in
the best shape of her life and she was working out obsessively.” He shrugs. “It’s a little cliché, but then again, so is my whole life, so why wouldn’t this be any different?”

  “That’s so weird. My husband...er, ex-husband is a trainer.”

  “He didn’t happen to move to Colorado with my ex-wife, did he? That would really be strange.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. He still lives in New Jersey.” I didn’t add, with me and our three kids.

  “Oh good. That would have been too much of a coincidence. It would have been like a chick lit book itself.”

  “For sure,” I reply, leaning back in the chair. He mimics my movements, doing the same.

  “I didn’t bring a book,” George says. “But I’ll shut up and just listen to the sound of the waves so you can read.”

  Normally I would be more than happy for someone to just let me read, but I don’t mind talking to George. Maybe it’s because he’s new and I don’t know anything about him, but I find him really interesting. Almost like one of my patients. They fascinate me—they’ve lived such interesting lives.

  “That’s fine,” I say. “I don’t need to read. I wouldn’t want you to be bored.”

  “Oh, no, I could never be bored at the beach. I just love sitting here, feet in the sand, relaxing. I think crashing waves are one of the most soothing sounds on earth.”

  “Me, too! I probably spent hundreds of dollars in CDs when all those nature sound CDs were popular. Richard, er, my ex, was so mad.”

  George laughs. “I didn’t spend quite that much, but I do love the nature sounds. The only thing that would make this better would be a drink. Where are my manners? Would you like a drink?” He jerks his thumb toward the makeshift bar that the crew set up on the sand, not too far from where we are sitting. Throngs of people are swarmed around it, the bartenders completely overworked. I wonder how Nick has gotten the day off. It looks like they could definitely use a hand.