All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  Looking down, red seeps towards the drain, mixed with the last of the water.

  It’s like a B-horror movie, the knife connecting with my flesh, over and over again, his frenzied pace showing no mercy. I feel as if I’m being repeatedly punched, with no time to recover in between blows.

  Then I go numb. My limbs are visible but useless.

  Starting to lose consciousness, my eyes become heavy as my breaths become shallow, each one more of a gasp for air.

  I hear Loras screeching, his paws frantic against the steamed shower.

  All I can think of, my last cognizant thought, is of him.

  And my cat.

  Who’s going to feed him? He might starve, his extra weight sliding off him as he becomes malnourished, waiting to be fed.

  His voice, I want to hear him say my name, but there’s only silence.

  My eyes bulge, his hands a vise-grip until my lungs fill up with air, the final plunge into one side of my neck.

  I go slack, his fingers relaxing around my throat.

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Reed

  When I slam the door shut to Talin’s, I’m fumbling with my laptop bag and the rental car keys.

  Instinctively, I reach down in my pocket. It’s empty, except for a leather key ring.

  My phone’s missing.

  Gritting my teeth, I exhale.

  I shake my head, considering the consequences had I left it at Talin’s house.

  In Portland.

  When I’m supposed to be in Dallas.

  Or at least that’s the story I told my wife.

  I’m pissed and I don’t want to go back in the house, to the fight that started that has no good ending.

  Pushing the door back open, I stride across the hardwood floor and swipe my phone off the kitchen counter where I set it down. Our dirty dishes are out - we never got around to cleaning up after dinner. I dump the leftovers in a Tupperware container and store it in the fridge, washing out the pots and pans and stacking them in the dishwasher with a bang.

  All but the knife.

  It needs to be hand-washed.

  I clasp it in my hands. It’s smooth, brand-new, and sharp.

  It could slice an artery, I think. Cause permanent damage.

  Before Tally angrily stalked off to the bathroom, we were in bed, tangled up in her sheets, the moments I live for with her fleeting but real. I could barely make out her features in the dark, but I don’t need to. Her face is memorized, etched like a scar I can trace but never remove from touch or sight. She has that effect on me, permanency, a lasting impression far after I’d unraveled myself from her body. Her white-blonde hair is spread out around her.

  My phone was the cause of the mood tanking. It vibrated, my wife’s picture flashing on the screen. She’d been fairly silent this evening, but I owed her and the boys a phone call.

  “Do you have to answer?” Tally mumbles. I don’t have to look at her, I can feel her pupils drilling into the side of my face, daring me to move from our cocoon.

  “Shhh… baby. Go to sleep.” I squint at my watch out of habit, unable to see the small numbers on my wrist, the clock on the side table illuminating 9:57 pm in fluorescent green.

  “Want me to walk you out?” She rolls over to look at me, the gray satin sheet falling away from her body, the rest of her now naked. Even without light, she’s perfect. Smooth supple skin, a few freckles smattered on her chest, pert nipples, a small scar, a keloid from her belly button ring in college.

  “Nah, you stay in our bed.” I lower my voice. “I’m already missing it.” She sighs, but it’s not her contented one that comes after sex, it’s miffed.

  I reach out a hand to touch her arm. It’s cool to the touch, raised goosebumps from the ceiling fan circling above our heads. Pulling away slowly, as if the sudden movement will cause a cataclysmic chain of events, I murmur. “Sleep well. I’ll text you in the morning.”

  Backing up, I don’t bother to check behind me to see the orange ball of fur curled up on the hardwood floor.

  Loras, her obstinate orange cat.

  My foot connects with his overweight form, a hiss and then a loud meowing sound as he shoots off into the night. Catching myself, I grab the knob on the bedroom door before crashing into the wood. “Shit,” I exclaim.

  “What’s wrong?” She’s rolled over now, her back to me.

  “Damn cat.” I groan. “Loras never stays in one place long enough.”

  “Neither do you,” she whispers.

  “Baby, let’s not do this after our night,” I soothe.

  Her voice has an edge to it. “When are you going to leave, Reed? How much longer?” A shakiness enters her tone, replacing her half-asleep one.

  “Not long.” I stop listening, the words going in one ear and out the other, this conversation like a re-run, a repeat episode you’ve seen enough times to know how it ends. The same can be said of this talk.

  I’d made vows to one woman I wasn’t following and empty promises to another.

  “You have to stop asking me to leave,” I admonish. “It makes me want to run.”

  “So run.” She abruptly sits up, slamming her feet on the floor. Anger lights up her face, knitting her eyebrows together. “We’re always going to be each other’s second best.”

  I know what she means, and I want to shake her like a rag doll. She’s in love with the ghost of her ex, and I’m bound by contracts and agreements that supersede my relationship with her. And as much as I want to, as much as I ache when I leave her bed, the list of responsibilities and priorities hold me back.

  I put the knife down.

  Phone and laptop bag in hand, I head out the front, slowly closing it behind me so it doesn’t slam. Her Craftsman-style home only has one heavy door. She tells me a screen door would ruin the appearance of her bungalow.

  I glance back as I walk down the driveway, my rental car parked around the corner. This trip I decided to park it there - less chance of a nosy neighbor commenting on who they see.

  Or what they hear.

  My shadow follows me into the night as I climb in the nondescript rental, my mind wandering. Sitting in the car, I play with the radio, indecisive on what type of mood I’m in. I decide on some blues as it matches my lonesome demeanor.

  Driving around the block a few times, passing Tally’s house. It’s as if I’m stuck in a loop, my hands clenching the steering wheel in frustration.

  I need to distance myself from Mountain Aire Road. Every beginning must have an end, I muse.

  A man’s walking, his steps hurried as he disappears around the corner. His head’s down, but he seems fairly young and he looks familiar. Must be the neighbor on the next street over.

  I pull over two streets away, punching her alias in my phone, Todd.

  She doesn’t answer.

  I leave a voicemail.

  “You’re right. This is over. I’m not leaving my wife anytime soon. Thanks for the memories. I’m canceling your credit card. Find a new man to antagonize. This is a dead end for both of us.”

  Before I head to the airport, I stop a few miles from her house on a secluded road that we claimed as ours. We would stop, our hands and mouths frantic, when we couldn’t wait even the short distance to her house to have each other.

  The thrill of getting caught.

  A rush of adrenaline kicks in as I think of how it felt, the sense of calm after we were spent, panting, a quickie in the backseat.

  I guess this entire affair has been like that - the potential to make a reckless mistake that results in our being found out.

  Punching the steering wheel in anger, I’m filled with remorse. Why, why did she have to push me to leave?

  It’s for the best, I know. That I get on a plane and go back home and pretend nothing happened here.

  My wife is growing suspicious.

  I stopped claiming Portland as a business destination when she started asking questions. My work had never taken me to Ore
gon as much in the past ten years as it did in the last six months.

  Flicking off the headlights and reclining my seat, I close my tired eyes, wanting to disappear. I picture the knife on the counter, how both women in my life want more from me than I can give. I’m drained, and it’s all because of their constant nagging.

  A car horn beeps, forcing me upright. I scan my surroundings. Not much to see in the dark, twinkling lights in the distance. A black pick-up truck passes me, narrowly missing my taillight as it swerves to avoid a collision.

  I rub my eyes and squint at the dashboard.

  Cursing, I notice the time. It’s past eleven, and my flight leaves in less than an hour.

  Switching my lights on, I drive to the airport, the freeway not as busy as I expect on a Friday night. Houston is two hours ahead of Portland, and my body never seems to adjust to the time change. Tally and I don’t spend our short-lived time sleeping. The red-eye allows me to catch up on some much-needed zzz’s. Our focus is on other things in bed.

  My eyes barely stay open as I drop off the rental car and take the shuttle to the main terminal.

  I’m pushing it, I’m the last passenger to board as the final announcements are made.

  The Boeing 747 always leaves me with mixed feelings. When I visit, I’m giddy with excitement, my feet tapping the floor, my hands gripping the arm rests, headphones shutting out the world as I close my eyes and imagine Tally Forrester’s face and body.

  After I board the plane, for once, it’s half-empty, a rare occurrence in this day and age. I plop in my business select seat and shove my laptop bag underneath. Tonight, the plane seems claustrophobic, closing in on me.

  Guilt.

  I’m tempted to try Tally again from the dummy number I use to contact her. I switch back and forth between her Todd number and an app I pay for that doesn’t show up on the wireless bill. If my wife saw how much I talked and Facetimed Todd a.k.a. Tally, it would seem I was gay or having an affair.

  I’m sent straight to voicemail.

  Guess she got the hint.

  And as much as I know we’re both going to suffer, what happened tonight is for the best.

  I call Meghan as I buckle my seat belt. The flight attendants are walking down the aisle, handing out blankets. I raise my hand in the air and motion for one. I also ask for a stiff drink.

  “Hi babe.”

  “Hey, I didn’t know if you were going to answer.” She’s agitated, no doubt from my lack of communication.

  “I’m on the plane now but wanted to say goodnight.” I suck in a breath. “How’re the twins?”

  “Been asleep for hours.” I can hear the exasperation through the phone. “You were supposed to let me know what time you got in. I never got your flight itinerary.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that. Should be home by 4 A.M.,” I say. “I’ll take a taxi or Uber.”

  “Ok, I’m going to go to bed. The boys will be glad to see their daddy when they wake.” She adds, “They miss you.”

  “I miss them too.” The reality is, I bury myself in business trips and purposely choose to stay away from home as much as possible.

  A classic avoidance technique.

  Part of the continuing argument we have - my Disneyland Dad parenting. I’m never home to know what goes on.

  We’ve been married since our early twenties. It’s crazy to think I’m now forty-two and she just hit forty. The flight attendant hands me my drink. For some reason the vodka tonic instantly sours in my stomach, unsettled like my nerves.

  I absentmindedly twist my wedding band on my finger. “I’ll sleep on the plane so it doesn’t disrupt our day tomorrow. We can find something fun to do with Henry and Rolly.”

  Both of our twins are named after our fathers, the names antiquated, same with our dads, but they both have a rich history where oil and land are concerned. Henry Reed was born four minutes and forty-five seconds before Roland Edgar. Edgar is my brother’s name - or should I say, was my brother’s name. He died of a heroin overdose in his late twenties. He’d struggled with back problems, unemployment, and addiction. Since he was a kid, he couldn’t say no to drugs, pills, alcohol, or women. An addictive personality to say the least.

  She says nothing, and I hear subdued breathing.

  “We need to talk.” She’s muffled through the phone. I hear a flight attendant over the loudspeaker make an announcement.

  “Megs, I gotta go. We’re about to take off.”

  “K, see you in the morning.”

  “Love you. Night.” I disconnect without waiting for her response, switching my phone to airplane mode.

  Absentmindedly, I wipe at a dark spot on my wrist. It looks like a scratch. I push my watch down to cover it.

  The airplane circles the runway for a few minutes and then braces for takeoff. At this point in my life, it’s a lullaby, the sound of the engines soothing me to sleep as the force of the plane propels us up in the air.

  I’ve got the blanket tucked around my lap, headphones in my ears, white noise that’s supposed to relax me. Yet, fifteen minutes later, my eyes fly open, a sense of panic washing over me. My mouth is bone dry, eyes blinking in rapid succession, trying to tamp down the sense of nausea in my belly.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket. A picture of my boys is the screensaver on the lock screen, a picture of my wife on the home screen.

  In a hidden app, I have pictures of Tally.

  I close my eyes, willing myself to think of our first encounter. I met her six months ago when she stood in front of me in line at a coffee shop. She was reciting a complicated order that ended with ‘almond milk’ when she knocked her purse off the counter. The contents of her handbag proceeded to roll down the tile floor in all directions. I heard her utter a cuss word under her breath, stumbling over her heels. She leaned down, blonde hair covering her face as she picked up the items she lost - a tube of breath mints, car keys, loose business cards, and lip gloss that had scattered across the floor. Her face turned scarlet red as a tampon spun and landed on the toe of my wingtip loafers. I picked it up and did the best I could not to laugh. “I’m sorry, miss,” I said straight-faced. “Is this for a bloody nose?”

  She was taken aback at the joke, and a grin spread across her face as the color died down on her cheeks.

  We locked eyes.

  Her eyes - they took my breath away. I’d never seen that color, perfectly suited to the pale green sheath dress she was wearing.

  “I’m sorry.” She laughed. “It’s one of those mornings.” She stood up straight, the contents of her tan leather purse shoved back inside.

  The barista impatiently waited for her to collect her wallet and pay her tab, eyeing the line growing behind us.

  “Can I buy your drink?” I had asked.

  She looked confused.

  “Or is that a little forward?” I grinned at her.

  “You wanna buy me coffee?” She shrugged. “I’ll ditch that guy over there then and sit with you.” I looked across the room, and it was my turn to look flabbergasted. I saw a woman in her mid-forties shoving a scone down her gullet and a man that was pushing at least seventy leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

  “Is that your grandpa?” I asked.

  “No.” She motioned her head towards him. “My boyfriend.”

  I paused, deciding how to react.

  When I hesitated, she reached a hand out and touched my arm just for a second. Only a second, but a tingling sensation followed.

  “I’m just kidding. Add your drink to my order and I’ll let you pay.”

  “Your coffee had more syllables than I know what to do with. What was it again?”

  She repeated the long, complex drink. Today, I’m proud to say I can recite it in my sleep. A ‘skinny iced caramel macchiato with almond milk.’

  Not my style.

  I ordered my coffee, black, room for cream.

  That chance meeting changed everything, for better or for worse.

  Chapter Two
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br />   Rafael, Elite Transportation Driver

  I’m coasting along, rush hour traffic not in effect since it’s Sunday, my mind on everything else but the freeway. My wife’s threatened divorce again, her screams and the whizzing coffee cup that smashed against the wall this morning her only communication with me. Better than the status quo of silence, I suppose.

  My hands grip the leather steering wheel, my first ride of the day. They’re almost always airport runs. We contract with a variety of companies, driving employees to and from Portland International Airport.

  I sigh, glancing at the concrete jungle this place has become. I settled here twenty-five years ago, adjusting to a rainy climate and hipster mentalities. I grew to love the Cascade Mountains and the vast amount of craft breweries.

  Mile marker two-nineteen comes up on my right.

  Two miles to go.

  I swerve, almost missing my exit, my mind back on Marika, my wife of twenty years. She’s battling cancer, brain cancer, and she’s angry at the world, especially me. She’s tired, depressed, ragged, her body raging.

  She’s pushing me away due to a terminal prognosis. Forty-five years old. My knuckles turn white, grasping the steering wheel like a lifeline that can hold the fragments of my discombobulated life together. I try not to think about the hospital bills, now in the six-figure range.

  People always ask why I chose this profession. The assumption is that driving is boring, the runs like clockwork, the people unmemorable, unless they’re rude or display obvious distaste for their drivers.

  But I enjoy it. I hear story after story. It’s like reading one of those adventure novels that have alternate endings, always a beginning and a middle. Many start with the same idea, just different characters, day in and day out, interchangeable until you have one that really stands out.

  That day was today.

  I get off at my exit, drumming my fingers to the mindless chatter of talk radio. The debates and arguments that stem from both political sides are too vocal as they lambast each other’s viewpoints. Music seems redundant, the same top ten on the popular stations, the oldies I’ve replayed too many times, the sports channel a recap of games I’ve already watched.