A Lie for a Lie

by Hunting, Helena

  “So is the weather today—it doesn’t mean he’s right for you.”

  “And just because RJ keeps showing up here doesn’t mean he’s right for me either.”

  “Or maybe it’s a sign. I mean, think about it. I get a job out here, and all of a sudden they need someone who specializes in dolphin reproduction behaviors? How many people are qualified for that specific job?”

  “Anyone who specializes in aquatic mammals has the right background.”

  “But they hired you—after a phone interview, which never happens, by the way.” She gives me an I told you so kind of look.

  “They’d already met me in person, because I’d been here before.”

  “Okay, I can give you that one. But what about the fact that his teammate’s wife funds the initiative you’ve been hired for, and then they throw a birthday party and he ends up here. It feels a lot like fate intervening to me, and I usually don’t even believe in things like fate. You have to give him a chance, Lainey.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  The following day RJ shows up while I’m covering the information desk. It’s a Tuesday, which is one of the slower days of the week. Not that it’s ever slow per se, but there are fewer staff on days like this one. And it means I can’t run away and hide in one of the anterooms of the exhibits.

  He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. His hair is styled instead of covered with a ball cap. He looks just as gorgeous as he did a year ago, if not even more so. Today his arms are loaded with white flowers. Truce. Surrender. Peace.

  I plaster my hands to the countertop so I don’t give in to the urge to touch my hair. My heart stutters in my chest and then kicks into a full gallop as he approaches the desk.

  “Hi.” His voice is soft and warm, like marshmallows melting in hot chocolate.

  “Hello.” Mine is hard and sharp like knives.

  “I brought these for you. I don’t know if you’ve gotten all the other things I’ve left for you or not—”

  “I got them all.” Each one has been like twisting a knife in a wound, because they’ve all been attached to memories from Alaska—which is clearly the point.

  He sets the bouquet of flowers on the desk; the fragrant scent of the blossoms surrounds me. I want to reach out and stroke the pretty petals, but instead I keep my hands on the counter. “Lainey, please, can we talk? I know I lied to you, and you have every right to be angry with me about that—but if you just give me a chance to explain, then maybe you’ll understand that it wasn’t my intention to ever hurt you.”

  “I can’t right now.”

  “I understand that, but can we set something up?” His hand covers mine before I can pull it away and hide it under the counter. “Just—please, Lainey, all I want to do is talk.”

  My heart aches, and my skin burns where he touches it. “Fine. We can talk.”

  He clasps my hand between his, lids fluttering shut as he lifts it to his lips, brushing them over my knuckle. I can’t breathe through the sudden emotional deluge. I pull my hand free from his grasp and take a step back, even though my head feels light.

  “Tonight? Are you free? I can come to you if that works best.”

  “No!” I lace my fingers together to keep from fidgeting. “I mean—tonight won’t work, and I would prefer if we did this in a public place.”

  “Uh, that might not be the best idea. Chicago is a hockey city—I get recognized a lot here, so it would be ideal if I either came to you or you come to me.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t considered that. “It would be better if I came to you, then.”

  “Would tomorrow night work? Or—Thursday’s your day off, right? That might be better for you.”

  “How do you know Thursday’s my day off?”

  “Uhhhh . . .” RJ taps on the counter nervously. “I might’ve asked about your schedule in exchange for tickets to the first game of the season. I can get you tickets too, if you want—for whatever game you want, really.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you about Thursday.” I also need to speak to Eden about taking bribes.

  “You’ll call me—or text?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  I remain stone faced apart from my arched brow.

  “Okay. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  On Thursday morning I’m standing on the curb waiting for a car to pick me up. Apparently RJ has sent a taxi for me—or something. I assume he didn’t come to pick me up himself so as not to make me uncomfortable. I have a car, but I’m not sure driving is a good idea, considering how anxious I am.

  I looked up his address on my computer. It’s in a very nice neighborhood, from what I can tell. A black SUV with dark tinted windows pulls up to the curb. I step back, assuming someone is going to get out. I don’t want to get hit with the door.

  A man dressed in a black suit, wearing sunglasses, rounds the hood of the SUV. “Miss Carver?”

  I look around, expecting someone with the same last name as me to breeze by, but there’s no one there.

  “Miss Lainey Carver?” The man looks at something in his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here to take you to Mr. Bowman’s.”

  I glance at the nondescript black SUV and then back at the man in the suit. “Can you give me a minute, please?”

  “Certainly, Miss Carver.”

  He folds his hands in front of him and stands beside the SUV while I pull up RJ’s contact and hit the Call button.

  It doesn’t even finish ringing once. “Please tell me you haven’t changed your mind.”

  “Welllll, that depends,” I say slowly.

  “On what?” His panic is frustratingly endearing.

  “There’s a black SUV and a man in a suit claiming he’s here to take me to you, but I’ve watched enough crime shows to know better than to trust a man in a suit driving an SUV with tinted windows.”

  “You can ask him to tell you his name—it’s George Oriole.”

  “That sounds like a fake name.”

  “It’s not. I promise.”

  “And I should have faith in your promises? How do I even know RJ isn’t something you made up?” It’s a legitimate question. He’s been dishonest with me before. In fact, everything I know about him is based on a lie.

  He sighs. “RJ isn’t a made-up name for me either—it’s what my dad used to call me, and my brother and sister still do most of the time. It’s only my teammates and non–family members who know me as Rook or Rookie. Please ask him his name, Lainey, so I can see you.”

  “Fine. Give me a second.” I relent, because as angry as I still am, I want some answers. “Excuse me, sir, can you please tell me your name? First and last,” I call to the suit. He’s eerily still.

  “George Oriole, Miss Carver. I’m in Mr. Bowman’s employ as a driver. Please allow me to take you to him.”

  “Thank you.” I hold up a finger and give him my back. “He gave me the right name.”

  “So you’re on your way?”

  “What if he’s not actually George Oriole? What if he hijacked the SUV on the way here and he’s posing as him? What if George’s body is in the trunk?” I realize I sound like a lunatic, but this is the kind of thing that happens in crime shows all the time. Also, last night I couldn’t sleep, so I stayed up too late watching TV, and I woke up on the couch after midnight to that exact scenario playing on the screen.

  To his credit, RJ doesn’t even question my sanity—he simply tells me to take a picture of the driver and message it to him, so I do, and he confirms that it is, indeed, George.

  “I’m getting in the SUV now.”

  “Okay, great. I would’ve come to get you myself, but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about that.”

  “This is better, thanks. I’ll see you soon.” I end the call, and George opens the back door, holding out a hand to help me in.

  I feel very much like I’ve entered the twilight zone. Bottles of water, both still and sparkling, s
it in an ice bucket in the center console. There’s also a take-out cup containing a hot beverage. I pick it up and give it a sniff.

  “Mr. Bowman requested a hot chocolate for you, Miss Carver—I hope it’s to your liking.”

  “Thank you—I’m sure it’s perfect.” I settle in and watch the scenery change as we leave the Loop and head toward the outskirts of the city. The farther we get from my apartment building, the bigger and nicer the houses are. We pass grand-looking estates with manicured front lawns and gorgeous landscaping.

  I shouldn’t be at all surprised when the SUV pulls down the driveway of one of the really nice, really big houses. It’s a two-story Craftsman with a huge wraparound porch. In some ways the rustic-ness reminds me of his cabin in Alaska, except tailored to the city.

  I pop a breath mint and crunch down on it as George pulls up to the front steps and puts the car in park. My palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry as I gather my purse and run my hands over my thighs. I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. I went light on the makeup, only covering up the dark circles under my eyes and throwing on a coat of mascara—and, okay, maybe a bit of eyeliner and a hint of shadow too. I want to look decent but not like I tried too hard for him.

  George opens the door and extends a hand, helping me out of the car. “I’ll be here to take you home when you’re ready, Miss Carver.”

  “Thank you, George.”

  “It’s been my pleasure.”

  As I climb the front steps, the door opens. I almost expect to be greeted by a butler, but it’s RJ standing there, waiting for me. He has one hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans; his black T-shirt stretches across his broad chest.

  “Thank you for agreeing to come.” He moves back, allowing me to step inside.

  “You’re welcome.” I’m both relieved and disappointed when he doesn’t try to hug me.

  I take in the spacious entrance, cataloging the decor. Despite the house being huge, probably twice the size of the cabin in Alaska, it still manages to have a homey, cozy feel to it. The floors are rough-hewn hardwood; the color palette is warm and light and the decor a combination of rustic country and modern elements.

  I leave my shoes at the front door, a habit I’ve never been able to shake, having grown up on a farm. I follow RJ down a wide hallway to a state-of-the-art kitchen. I wonder if he cooks at all or if he has someone who does that for him. All the articles I’ve read about him and the horrible pictures I’ve seen chronicling his womanizing ways come to mind, and I have to wonder how many women he’s paraded through this house—how many parties has he thrown?

  “You have a nice house,” I croak, feeling awkward and vulnerable.

  “Thanks. I just moved in at the end of last season, in June.” He stops in the middle of the kitchen. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Water would be good, please.” I loathe how relieved I am about the short span of time he’s lived here, which significantly reduces the number of women who are also intimate with this space and him.

  “I have grapefruit juice.”

  My heart skips a stupid beat and takes off at a sprint. “Just the water, but thank you.”

  He nods, chewing on the inside of his lip as he turns away, retrieves a glass, and fills it with water. “We can sit outside, if you want.”

  “Sure.” I hate how uncomfortable things are between us. I don’t know how to deal with any of this. He feels like a stranger despite the fact that we lived together in a tiny little bubble a year ago. A bubble that’s left me with no end of repercussions.

  RJ’s sprawling backyard is heavily landscaped, with a covered sitting area, an outdoor cooking space, an in-ground pool, and beyond that, an outdoor hockey rink. The amount of money it would cost to have all of this, especially in a place like Chicago, is mind boggling.

  I’m fortunate my apartment is subsidized by my job at the aquarium, otherwise I’d never be able to afford it.

  I take one of the single chairs, and RJ sits on the love seat perpendicular to me. “How are you?” he asks.

  “Very confused and anxious,” I say honestly.

  He nods. “I’m sorry I lied about who I was.”

  “So am I. It feels like everything between us balanced on that lie, RJ—or should I just call you Rook?”

  “I like it that you call me RJ.”

  “I’m sure that was purposeful, giving me a name that would be impossible to search.” Before I found out who and what he is, I’d idealized him in my head, but now . . . I don’t know.

  “Not the way you think.” He exhales a long, slow breath, his expression pained. “I had a reason for keeping the truth from you, Lainey, and I never meant for it to hurt you.”

  “Because you never planned to see me again after Alaska,” I shoot back.

  “That’s not true.”

  I arch a brow. “We lived on different ends of the country—it wasn’t like a long-distance relationship was an option after six weeks together. It was a summer fling.” I say the words because it’s what I’ve told myself in my head this past year. But my heart says something different, and hope beats like a hummingbird’s wings against the fragile cage inside.

  “Maybe it started out that way, but it was a lot more than that. At least for me, anyway.” RJ keeps running his hands over his thighs. He props his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “I know we weren’t together long. And maybe we never talked about it being anything beyond a fling, but I wanted it to be more. And then Joy went into labor, and I had to—”

  “How is Joy? And the baby?” For the past year I’ve wondered if everything was okay—if they were okay or not.

  “She’s great, and so is Max.”

  “She had a boy.”

  “She did. He’s growing like a weed. They’re not planning on having any more children because it was such a high-risk pregnancy, but everyone is happy and healthy.”

  I nod. “That’s good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I tried to call when I got to LA, Lainey, at least twenty times. Things were hectic and stressful, but I didn’t want you to worry—and then I was worried because you weren’t answering, and things were really touch and go with Joy and the baby. Kyle was beside himself. Stevie and I have never seen him like that before. I thought he was going to have a complete breakdown.”

  “I’m so sorry.” And I am—for the pain he endured, for the fear he must have experienced, for the danger they might have been in.

  “It was rough at the time, but everyone is doing well now. Would you like to see a picture of Max? He’s a real bruiser.” RJ slips his phone out of his pocket and waits for my nod before he pulls up his photo app. “Do you want to sit here? It’ll be easier to see them.” He pats the cushion beside him.

  I stare at the empty space. He’s a big man, taking up a lot of that love seat. He shifts to make more room for me, obviously sensing my hesitation.

  “Or you can stay there. Whatever’s more comfortable for you.”

  I relent again—partly because the way he’s sitting will make it awkward if I don’t move next to him. I shift to the spot beside him, and he moves the phone so it’s between us. “This is Max in the hospital. Apparently babies are a lot bigger when the mom has gestational diabetes, which I didn’t realize.”

  “Geez, how much did he weigh?” I cringe at the idea of pushing that head out of my vagina.

  “Almost eleven pounds, I think?”

  “Oh my goodness, that’s huge! Some three-month-olds barely weigh that!”

  “Yeah, Joy ended up having a C-section. He was breech, and there was something going on with the placenta. I don’t know all the details, but it wasn’t an easy pregnancy or birth for her—or anyone, really.” He flips through pictures showing his nephew at various stages over the past year. There are pictures of RJ holding him as an infant, of Max in a tiny Chicago jersey, of him holding on to RJ’s hands as he takes a wobbly step.

  “It looks like you’re a good uncle.” My voice cracks, and I ha
ve to clear my throat as I fight to hold back tears.

  “Being an uncle is easy. I get to spoil the shit out of him and then give him back to his mom when he gets cranky.”

  “Sounds about right.” That’s always the way with uncles, aunts, and grandparents.

  “I don’t get to see them as much as I’d like since they’re so far away, but I try to make the most of my time when I’m with them. I’ll get to spend time with them when I play in LA, which is good.” RJ covers my hand with his. “I should have taken you with me—to LA. I should’ve booked two seats and brought you, but my brother was so panicked, and I didn’t think it through.”

  “You couldn’t bring me with you, though, because you’d lied about who you were.” I slip my hand out from under his; he tightens his grip for a second before he lets me go.

  RJ sets his phone on the table and scrubs a hand over his face, muttering a curse. “I wanted to tell you so many times, but I didn’t want to ruin things between us. I figured if I told you the truth, you’d leave, so I kept putting it off—and the longer I did, the harder it got to tell you.” His gaze meets mine, imploring me to understand. “After I left you, I realized I had so many things I still needed to tell you, including my truth. I had this plan in my head that, once I got to LA, I’d tell you everything.”

  “Why lie at all? Why taint everything with untruths?”

  “You didn’t recognize me.”

  It’s a simple explanation that tells me nothing and everything. When he doesn’t continue, I push. “And? That’s supposed to explain why you built what we had on a lie? You had weeks to tell me the truth, but instead you layered on more lies to support the one you started with.”

  “I omitted more than anything, but I regret not saying anything. I just wanted to be normal for a while. You don’t understand what it’s like—”

  “You mean all the parties and the women?” My stomach rolls as the images I’ve seen online come back to haunt me. I can’t get them out of my head. “I looked you up, RJ, as soon as I realized you’d lied. What I found is nothing like the man I was with in Alaska. I don’t even know who you are.”