Tell me to Lie

by Charlotte Byrd

  I stare at the message in disbelief. My heart starts to race and I take a few deep breaths to calm down. I repeat his name over and over again until it’s burned into my memory.

  “Who are you, Robert Bortham?” I ask under my breath. “Who the hell are you?”

  16

  Olive

  When we go out to lunch…

  I don’t tell Sydney about Pink Eye or much about what I have been doing to find out the truth about Nicholas. I want to, of course, but the timing has to be right.

  Right now is no different. I invited her out on a celebratory lunch to commemorate her buying her wedding dress. This is the time to talk about wedding plans, their future and their hopes and dreams, not my boyfriend’s murder charges.

  But I can’t seem to shake what I just found out. When she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, I grab my phone and start to look up every Robert Bortham in the area.

  The name isn’t that unusual but it’s also not that common. Most of the people that come up are the wrong age and a few live abroad. I thought that he would still be located in Massachusetts but there are no Robert Borthams in the state that even come close to being the right age.

  Outside of the ones who are British expats living in Australia and Portugal, there is one profile that I keep coming back to. His age fits but I can’t believe that this would actually be him.

  I stare at the picture of a psychologist with a boyish grin in front of a wooden cabin. According to his profile, he is married with three kids, all under the age of five. Not sure as to what to do next, I take a screenshot of a closeup of his face and send it to my mom.

  Could this be Pink Eye? I text her.

  Before I can make up my mind about whether or not I should contact him directly, Sydney comes back and I toss my phone back into my purse. We finish the first round of drinks and quickly move on to the next. Our conversation drifts without any particular purpose even though there is something that I have been wanting to speak to her about.

  The last time we spoke, she admitted some things to me about James and we just left it at that, but maybe that was wrong.

  Maybe I should’ve pushed her further.

  “So, how are things with James?” I ask, not wanting to come right out and ask if she’s really going to marry him.

  Sydney shakes her head.

  “What about him cheating?” I ask.

  “What about it?”

  “Did you guys talk about it?”

  “Yes, of course. He apologized,” she says with a shrug.

  I take a deep breath and look at her.

  She runs her finger around the edge of her glass and avoids eye contact with me.

  Then she takes a big gulp.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it—”

  “I don’t,” she cuts me off.

  We sit in silence for a long while. I don’t know what else to say and I can’t seem to let this go.

  “I just don’t understand why you need to do this. I’m sure that your mom will get over it.”

  “Really? Are you really sure about that?”

  I shrug.

  Well, no, I’m not entirely certain but she will just have to, right?

  “My mom will blame me for him cheating on me,” Sydney says, leaning back against the booth.

  “Okay, that is really fucked up. But even if that does happen, so what? You deserve so much more than him.”

  Sydney shakes her head.

  “You don’t think so?”

  “So, you would never forgive Nicholas if he cheated on you?” This time she does look up at me.

  She peers directly into my eyes and I’m the one to look away first.

  “I would never accept anyone treating me like that,” I say, clenching my jaw. “I deserve better and it would be a deal breaker.”

  I try to imagine Nicholas doing something like that and I just can’t.

  I didn’t want to say that but it’s true. He is capable of incredible deception and he does live a life full of secrets, but when it comes to cheating, I know that he would never do that to me.

  Sydney shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

  “Is it not the same for you?” I ask.

  “It’s not so easy for me, Olive. Things in my life aren’t just roses and chocolate. I have the real world to deal with.”

  I tilt my head to one side.

  What is she talking about? No, this is about something more.

  “What’s going on, Sydney?”

  She buries her head in her hands. I put my arm around her and she just shrugs it off. I do it again, and again she shrugs me off. When she finally comes up for air, her eyes are covered in tears.

  “Mom said she would cut me out of her will if I don’t marry him,” she says. Her voice is weak and barely audible. “She won’t leave me any of her money and she won’t support me anymore.”

  I nod and put my hand on hers. I know that it probably doesn’t seem like a big deal to most people who don’t have family money flowing into their coffers every month, but Sydney relies on it. She lives off it and without it she will have to significantly cut back on her spending.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say. “You have a good job.”

  “That’s the thing, though, I don’t. I got fired.”

  “Well, that’s okay, you have a good degree and experience. You’ll be able to find another job.”

  But Sydney just shakes her head.

  “Listen, you are just going through a tough time right now. But you can’t marry him. He doesn’t love you. And you can’t just be with him because your mom likes him and will cut you off otherwise.”

  I regret my words as soon as I see the fire in her eyes. I don’t regret what I said just the way that I have said it.

  “You know what, Olive, you have some nerve,” Sydney says, getting up from the booth and grabbing her purse. “Why don’t we review all of the things you did for a little bit of money? You went all the way to Hawaii to meet some stranger and let him do who knows what to you—”

  “It was all consensual,” I interject.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. So, you wouldn’t have done it if he was old and ugly?”

  “To tell you the truth, no, probably not.”

  “And what about your debt?”

  “I would’ve tried to pay it off some other way.”

  “It doesn’t matter!” she yells so loudly a waitress comes over and tries to calm her down. “Just remember that you did that for a little bit of money. Not the multiple millions that I stand to inherit.”

  “Sydney, I didn’t—”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the waitress says sternly. “You are disturbing the other diners.”

  “Fine, fine. I’m leaving,” Sydney snaps and starts to walk away from me.

  I’m about to follow her when the waitress reminds me that someone still has to pay the bill. I pull out my card and wait for it to process, hoping that I can catch up to her in time.

  While we stand here, my phone vibrates and I glance at the screen. It’s a message from my mom that says, yep, that’s him.

  The words ring in my head as I walk out of the restaurant and run down the street. Sydney is leaning against the wall with her head in her hands. When I rush up to her, she opens her arms and pulls me in.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumble.

  “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of those things.”

  We hold each other for a few moments until she pulls away. Looking straight into my eyes, she says, “I’m pregnant.”

  17

  Olive

  When I invite her on a trip…

  Everything happens so quickly that it leaves my head spinning. My mom just confirmed that the guy up in Maine is Owen’s old friend Pink Eye and Sydney just told me that she is pregnant.

  Somehow, I manage to get her back to our apartment and we both change out of our street clothes into pjs. I put on the k
ettle for me and make her a fresh pot of coffee. Then we curl up on the couch together.

  This time, I don’t press her. Unlike at lunch, I give her space to open up to me. I know that she wants to talk to me, she just might not want to speak to me right at this moment.

  Sydney opens an issue of Oprah magazine and leafs through the pages. I turn on my iPad and start to read my mom’s latest release. I haven’t read one of her books in a while and the story captivates me right from the beginning.

  “Don’t you want to know about it?” Sydney says in a huff, closing the magazine on her lap and turning toward me.

  “Of course, I do. I just didn't want to push you.”

  “Well, push away.”

  “Okay, tell me everything.”

  Sydney takes a deep breath and starts at the beginning. She tells me about how hard she fell for him when they first met and how she thought he was the love of her life.

  She loved sharing him with other women and men but when he cheated on her, it broke her heart.

  They had strict rules about that kind of thing and have talked about it in detail. There was to be no cheating and no romantic or sexual talking or texting with anyone when the other person wasn’t there.

  And then the day after she caught him and broke up with him, she found out she was pregnant.

  “How far along are you?” I ask.

  “Six weeks.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I'm going to keep it.”

  I smile at her, in awe of her bravery.

  Honestly, I don’t know what I would do if I found myself in her situation. To say it would be a difficult decision would be a gross understatement.

  “It was sort of around the time that I was talking to my mom on the phone and I casually joked about what would happen if we broke up,” Sydney says. “And she just interrupted me and said that she would cut me off.”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “Just because she likes him so much?”

  “Yes and no. It’s more than that. She basically thinks I’m a fuck up and if James were to break up with me then it would be my fault.”

  “But what if you told her he cheated on you?”

  “She’s one of those old school women who thinks that men cheat only if they aren’t getting what they need at home.”

  “That’s…disgusting,” I mumble. “Sorry, I mean, I know she’s your mom but that’s awful.”

  Sydney shrugs. “Yeah, it’s pretty shitty.”

  I don’t say anything for a while, feeling her predicament.

  “But you can’t marry him and start a life with him if you don’t love him,” I say.

  “First of all, people do it all the time. And who said I don’t love him? The problem is that I do. And he’s the father of my child. I have to try to make this work.”

  I nod.

  “The other thing is the money. I can’t argue with that. It’s millions and millions of dollars, Olive. I can never make that much money and my child deserves to have access to it.”

  “Maybe she’s bluffing?” I ask.

  “Maybe, but I can’t risk my whole future on that gamble,” Sydney says. “I don’t have a job and even if I were to get one, I don’t want to raise this child alone. He or she deserves to know their father and I want their father to be in their life. If there’s some chance that I can make it work with him, I can’t throw it away.”

  The afternoon quickly turns into evening as we sit on the couch and talk like we haven’t since I met Nicholas.

  I tell her all about my life back in California and everything that has happened since then.

  I fill her in on all of the details about Nicholas’ arrest and the investigating that I have been doing to find out the truth and get him back to me.

  As expected, Sydney is not so quick to believe in his innocence and plays the devil’s advocate for a while. I actually appreciate it because it allows me to go through all of the theories of what might have happened, given what I know now.

  Luckily, what she is receptive to is in helping me find out the truth.

  “I guess we should go to Maine then and try to talk to this Robert Bortham,” she says.

  “Really? You want to come with me?” I ask, taken a bit by surprise.

  “Of course, I’d love to go on a little road trip and Maine is quite beautiful this time of year.”

  “If you like winter,” I joke.

  “The nature is breathtaking, you’ll love it.”

  We leave the following morning. I pack light with only one pair of leggings, two tops, a sweater, and a coat while Sydney brings a large suitcase that would have to go underneath the plane if she were flying.

  “Are you planning on moving there?” I joke. She shrugs her shoulders.

  “It’s mainly just makeup and shoes. Boots take up a lot of space, you know.”

  “I do, that’s why I’m wearing mine.”

  She throws her arm around my shoulder and gives me a peck on the cheek. “You know you love me.”

  “Of course, I do. What I don’t love is your packing.”

  The drive from Boston to Bangor is just around four hours and we get there by early afternoon.

  Surprisingly, his address wasn’t that hard to find and required just a quick search through the white pages online.

  The listing states that he is married to Allira Bortham and they have three kids together, and the kids’ ages match his Facebook profile so the address must be correct.

  “Is this really his house?” Sydney asks when we turn onto a long driveway heading toward the mansion at the far end of the property.

  She searches the address on her phone and informs me that it has six bedrooms, six baths, a two-bedroom guest house, and sits on two-hundred acres.

  The driveway is lined with towering pines and the occasional oak tree and the majority of the property is dotted with birches. The fresh snowfall makes the place look like a winter wonderland.

  “This is so beautiful,” Sydney mumbles.

  “Are you sure we have the right place?” I ask.

  She shows me the phone with the address that I had found and memorized last night.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I say, gripping the steering wheel.

  “C’mon, this is nothing.”

  “You say that but it’s not true,” I insist. My mouth feels parched.

  “Olive, don’t worry. You already went to see your biological mom and you did that all on your own. This is…”

  “What?” I ask.

  “This is…Pink Eye! You can’t be intimidated to talk to Pink Eye.”

  I look at her and then we both burst out laughing.

  18

  Olive

  When I knock on the door…

  After a little bit of prodding, I finally go up onto the porch and ring the doorbell. No one answers for a while. We wait. I ring again and again no one answers. Finally, I hear someone. I’m tempted to run back to the car, but Sydney blocks the exit.

  “Can I help you?” a woman with a petite frame and thick red curls piled up on top of her head asks.

  “I’m looking for Robert Bortham. Is he home?” I ask.

  “Yes, he is. Are you one of his students?” she asks with a smile while holding a wet pan and a drying cloth.

  I stare at her without saying a word. But luckily, Sydney comes to my rescue.

  “No, we’re not but we really need to speak to him.”

  “Sure, he’s in his office. Do you want to follow me and I’ll show you where it is?”

  I’ve either been spending too much time in the city or with criminals but I am really taken aback by her hospitality.

  The house is an old Victorian that has been completely remodeled and updated. The furniture is sleek and contemporary and is a perfect complement to the interior.

  We walk on a polished wooden floor, down a beautiful foyer, and through the living room with enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that look out into forest behind the hou
se.

  Mrs. Bortham stops and knocks lightly on the door across from the open-concept kitchen with an enormous marble island in the middle.

  “Honey?” she asks. “I’m sorry to interrupt but there’s someone here to see you.”

  She opens the door just as Robert Bortham swivels around in his chair and faces us. Unlike many home offices, his desk is facing away from the door and looking out of the window at the birch trees.

  As I stand debating whether or not I should bring up his past in front of his wife, she solves the dilemma for me by closing the door and politely disappearing back outside.

  “How can I help you?” he asks, getting up from behind the chair. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you from class. Which one are you in again?”

  “We’re not your students,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m actually here to talk to you about something that happened a long time ago.”

  “Okay…” he says slowly, drawing out the word as he speaks.

  He furrows his brow and waits for me to continue.

  Enough already, Olive, I say to myself. Stop prolonging this anymore than necessary. Just say it already.

  “My name is Olive Kernes,” I mumble. Clearing my throat, I add, “Owen Kernes is my brother.”

  I search his face for an inkling of confirmation but his expression remains flat.

  Did I make a mistake?

  Is this the wrong person?

  “You used to go by the name Pink Eye,” I continue with newfound urgency. “You were very close friends with him back then.”

  He still doesn’t react.

  But he also doesn’t look surprised.

  “Please, I’m not the police, I just have some questions about something that happened to Owen’s girlfriend…are you Pink Eye?”

  The walls of his office are lined with bookcases and he runs his fingers along the spines of the books for a moment before descending onto the worn couch across from his desk.