“I think the attitude that you have to have is that you have to do it until.”
“Until what?”
“Just until. People will probably not like your first books. Hell, you’ll be lucky to even find anyone to read them, but if you take the long-term view and decide for yourself that you’ll keep going until then you’ll keep getting better. Better at writing. Better at marketing. Better at everything.”
Brooke pays for the food and I grab the bags.
She looks down at her phone to see if maybe Liam has texted back, but he hasn’t.
I let out a sigh of relief.
19
Liam
I don't have Emma's contact info, but I do have her sister's. We had a nice conversation, but I also don't want to send her the wrong message.
I don't know why my thoughts keep focusing on Emma. She's the last girl that I should be thinking about.
Alex is a lot of things and he has a lot of flaws, but he's also a friend. Emma is his significant other. Maybe she’s not engaged to him anymore but whatever is happening between them, it’s very new and very raw and I can’t let myself think about her.
It's early morning when I climb out of bed and immediately slip on my running shoes. I haven't always been a runner, but I've gotten into quite a funk over the last few months and the only way out is to actually wake up and force myself to go.
When I was in high school, up in Seattle, I used to be on the track team. I ran hurdles and the two-mile run. I even did cross country. Long distance running was never my thing, but I always wanted to do a marathon.
I step outside of the hotel and turn on my watch. I've been tracking my mileage, however embarrassingly minimal.
I try not to think about it.
Just set the watch to an outdoor run and put one foot in front of the other, I say to myself.
My hotel is small and boutique-like, with no rooms under $500 a night. There's a nice pool and a hot tub as well, but it's in the low 60s in Santa Monica and filled entirely by out-of-staters.
The breeze coming off the ocean feels good against my skin. It wakes me up even if I don't want to.
There's a road going above the cliff with a view of the ocean, but I take the steps down and run along the water line. The sand is dark brown, almost gray, matching the early morning weather.
It's not warm, but it's not cold either.
The humidity makes the air thick and I manage to run without struggling for breath for over a mile and a half. Pushing myself hard, I feel the roaring of my muscles with each step.
Running out here feels so different from running back home. It's not just the sand under my feet, providing additional resistance and making my muscles work harder.
It's more than that.
The city is full of people. Most not awake yet, but I know that they will be emerging out of their apartments soon. So far, there are a few occasional homeless people walking with their bags of stuff in the park just near the ocean.
I swallow hard and remember my own life back on the streets in San Francisco. I had just graduated from college and I needed to get away from life. I had worked hard all of my life.
I did everything that I was supposed to do and I’d had enough. Maybe I read Into the Wild with Christopher McCandless a few too many times, but I was inspired to strike out on my own. I didn't have many material possessions. I gave up my apartment and I paid off the last of my debts on my credit cards.
I packed a small bag and drove down from Seattle all along the coast.
Instead of sleeping in hotel rooms or short-term rentals, I slept in my car. The first few nights were difficult and uncomfortable, but I had my books to protect me from all the evils in the world.
Books and music, that's all I needed back then.
When I got to San Francisco, I parked my car in long-term parking and made my way around the city. I knew that I wasn't really destitute the way that many of the people were out there. I wasn't abandoned by my family. I didn't have mental health problems. I was a tourist. I was there to see what life was really like.
What was it like?
It was hard, cold, and without much comfort.
The days were too long and the nights were even longer. I met a few friends, but then they didn't turn out to be that friendly at all. One of them stole my bag and another stole my wallet. It was then that I decided that city life wasn't for me.
I managed to get back to my car where I had some money stowed away. Then I drove south. I drove until I got to Santa Barbara. I walked into the first restaurant they had on the beach and asked for a job. I needed money to get by and they needed a server to charm the ladies. I was good at that.
Don't get me wrong. I'm well aware of my privilege. I made a choice to go on that trip and to live on the streets. Most of the people out there do not.
Once things got a little bit hard, I got back into my car and I tried out something different. I applied for a job and got it on the spot. That probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was young, attractive, and well-spoken.
Still, I continued to live in my car. I read my books and tried to figure out what to do with my life. I knew that I couldn’t go back to see my family, but I also didn't want to be a server for the rest of my life. I had a four-year degree, but I didn't want to have a nine-to-five job.
Besides, there was something else that I wanted to do. The only thing, really.
When I get to the two-mile mark, I bend in half trying to catch my breath. My phone buzzes. Running in the sand is a whole other thing from running on hard ground. Both are uneven, but back home there are hundreds of rocks that can sprain your ankle, here the sand feels like it's practically pulling you down inside of itself.
I click on the message app. It’s Brooke. I contacted her for only one reason, to get in touch with her sister and now I don’t want to write her back.
We had a nice talk last night. I was friendly, but it was Emma that kept me up all night. It is Emma that I can’t stop thinking about.
I take a deep breath and turn around. A seagull flies over my head and lands on the waves, plunging her head into the water.
Three surfers walk up behind me, laughing. They are dressed in thick neoprene suits, with only their heads exposed. The youngest one, who looks about twelve, pulls the hood over his head to keep extra warm. Even though the temperature is mildly warm in Southern California most of the year, the water comes from Alaska and it rarely gets into the mid-60s, even during the height of summer.
I lean over carefully to avoid the waves and scoop up a little bit into the palm of my hand. It's ice cold and when I throw it on my face, it cools me off immediately.
I take a deep breath and turn up the music on my headphones. Then I start to run.
Later that morning, I pick up the phone and text Brooke.
As soon as she replies, I want to ask her for Emma's number, but I decide against it.
Instead, I don't write her again.
20
Emma
I spend the afternoon alone.
Luckily, Brooke has a lunch date with a few of her friends. She invites me to join them, but I decline.
At first, she says that she’ll stay and hang out with me, but I tell her that I want to be alone.
It's true.
I need a lot of downtime. I'm not one of those people that can just go from social event to social event and get replenished from having contact with other people.
Before I found Alex cheating on me, I was looking forward to spending the weekend with just him and my Kindle. I thought that we would swim, order room service, make love, and then just hang out each doing our own thing.
I'm still trying to process everything that happened.
After I found him cheating on me, I should have gone home and climbed under the covers and stayed there. After all, that's exactly what I wanted to do. The party changed all that.
Now? I don't know, maybe going to the party was a good thing.
/>
I miss him, of course.
My heart is broken.
I want him back and I also want him dead.
It's hard to explain what it feels like to wake up one morning and have everything in your life different. The one person that I thought that I could trust is gone. What am I left with?
Don't be like that, Emma, I say to myself. You have a lot of things to be grateful for. You have a job you love. You have people who care about you.
You’re well-off, and even if you yourself aren’t particularly well-off, the fact is that your family is. There’re so many people in the world, in fact the vast majority, that are not in your situation. It doesn't mean that you can't feel sorry for yourself, but it does mean that you should keep things in perspective.
When I feel myself spiraling into a hole of depression, I decide to do something proactive. I have the apartment to myself so I pour myself a big mug of tea, grab a bar of chocolate, and sit on Brooke's thick, upholstered couch that probably cost Dad more than just a few thousand dollars.
I put my laptop on my knees and start reading the messages in search of D. B. Carter. A few people in the Facebook groups have replied to my queries, the majority of whom say nothing of importance. Most are only interested in talking about his books, but one person by the name of Matt Lipinski mentions that D. B. Carter lives in Pioneertown, California.
I immediately friend Matt and message him about his post. When I look up Pioneertown on Google, I discover that it's a dusty desert town about two and half hours east of Los Angeles.
It's about twenty-five minutes away from the famous Joshua Tree National Park. The thing that it's most famous for is a restaurant/bar called Pappy and Harriet's, which is a small venue but has had the likes of Paul McCartney and other famous rock musicians perform there.
Its other claim to fame is the town itself, which looks like an old Western movie set. There's a saloon, a little white church, and a number of weathered-wood shops selling turquoise jewelry and handmade horse saddles.
A few minutes later, I get a message from Matt.
What makes you think that D. B. Carter lives in Pioneertown? I write.
I really shouldn’t say, he texts back after a moment.
I would really love the opportunity to contact him or her.
For a moment, I wonder if I'm actually talking to D. B. Carter in real life. Stranger things have happened.
In case I am, I add, I just want to do a small interview. If D. B. Carter isn't interested then I'm not going to write an article at all, but I haven't had any luck contacting him or her directly through social media.
Should you take that as a hint? Matt asks.
My heart sinks.
I click on Matt's name and examine the avatar of a spaceship. We are not friends and he does not accept my friend request.
The only things that I have access to are the profile pictures and they all feature different science-fiction images including a cover of one of D. B. Carter's books from a few years back.
I'm not really sure if the messages are getting through to him, I say, now almost certain that Matt is D. B. Carter, or at the very least a family member or friend.
Okay, Matt says. Here's the address: 10745 Old West Ln.
I shake my head. This has to be a joke.
I'm about to write something back, but not before first putting the address into Google. Much to my surprise, he leads me to Zillow where I see that this house was purchased two years ago for $2.45 million.
I furrow my brow, not wanting to believe what I have just discovered. There's no name listed as the owner and that will require a little bit more research.
In the meantime, I turn back to Matt and text: Do you really expect me to believe that D. B. Carter lives in almost a 2 1/2 million dollar house in an old West town?
Believe whatever you want.
Do you happen to have a phone number where I could reach him?
I wait for him to write me back, but all I get is crickets.
21
Emma
Matt Lipinski, a.k.a. D. B. Carter, does not get in touch with me again.
I decide that's his name, but I'm only 50% certain.
He must be fucking with me, right? I mean why would he lurk on these Facebook groups and then reveal his name to me, a reporter, of all people?
No, this must be a joke.
I think about it for a long time, putting my computer away and stopping the search.
I have an address, but no idea what I should do with it. Brooke comes home later that evening and I tell her what happened.
She shakes her head and then says, “There's no way that it could be him. The only thing that's going to happen here is that we waste a day driving three hours all the way to Joshua Tree to disturb some random family who lives there. Do you really want to do that?”
I hate to admit it, but yes.
I know that the likelihood of that address belonging to D. B. Carter is quite slim, but I don't care.
Matt might be making fun of me or playing a game, but I also don't care.
“Why don't you go with me? We can make it a little road trip.”
“I'd love to, but I have a photography session set up for tomorrow.”
“If I do this, then I can only go tomorrow. I'll need to use Sunday to write up some sort of report.”
Brooke orders some Thai food on her phone and then turns to me.
“This is why you're doing this? You want to show your boss the lengths that you will go to uncover this mystery. You know that she's not going to appreciate it, right? Nothing you do will be enough.”
I shrug. She's right. I know that and she knows that.
“No, this isn’t about that,” I say.
My phone goes off and I look at the screen.
It's Liam, the guy that I met at the party.
He has messaged me on Instagram. I click on his profile. It doesn't seem to be very active. A few pictures here and there, most of landscapes with a few selfies.
Most of them are pictures of him running.
Hey, how are you doing? He writes in a direct message.
I know that he contacted Brooke earlier and I wonder if he's writing me to get in touch with her. But why? She wrote him back and it was he who didn't respond.
“What's up?” Brooke walks over and glances down at my phone.
I quickly close the app before she's able to see, but the moment feels suspicious.
I know that she likes Liam a lot, but I think I might, too. Of course, my situation is a little complicated given the fact that I am only un-engaged for a day, but it doesn't change the fact that I’m intrigued.
What is it that people say about rebounds? You have to go through them in order to find the one that you really want.
I didn't really believe any of that before, but now it hits a little bit too close to home.
Suddenly, I get this overwhelming feeling of needing to be wanted. Like most couples, Alex and I had fallen into a groove with our intimacy. It had its ebbs and flows.
It was never completely gone, but it wasn't like it was when we first met.
Then, walking into his office and seeing them together? Something changed within me.
Suddenly, I had this overwhelming need to prove that someone wants me.
Maybe that's all that’s happening with Liam.
Maybe we didn't really have a connection.
Maybe I was just intrigued by the attention that he paid me.
That evening, I make the decision that early the following morning, I'm going to drive out to the desert. I try to contact Matt a few more times, but all my messages go unanswered.
I scour other forums and posts, but no one else has a clue or volunteers any information.
“This is the only thing I have to do,” I tell Brooke that night when we split a bottle of wine. “If I go out there and it's just a ruse and an Internet joke, then so be it. At least I'll spend some time in the car thinking about everything t
hat has happened. If I don't go out there, then I'll always wonder what if? What if by some slim chance Matt is actually D. B. Carter? What if by some chance he is actually interested in giving me an interview and this is some sort of test?”
22
Liam
Alex and I meet up for lunch since we didn't get much of a chance to talk last night. I haven't seen him in a while and am frankly surprised that he called me up and invited me out.
I meet him downtown, not far from where he works.
“I thought that you were going to take off today,” I say when the server seats us at a table with a white tablecloth and takes our drink order.
He shrugs and looks down at the menu.
There's a nervousness to him, that I don't remember from growing up. He was always the alpha guy, confident, self-assured.
“Well, Emma and I had planned to spend the weekend in Laguna Beach, but she hasn’t been returning my calls so I decided to head back to work.”
“Why not just stay home?”
“What's the point? The only thing that makes sense in my life is my work.”
I give him a slight nod.
“So, what is it that you do?” I ask. “I mean, I know that you're in finance, but what does that entail exactly?”
Alex raises one of his eyebrows and gives me a look as if to say, I thought that you would never ask. Then he launches into a long discussion about his father's hedge fund and his role as one of its top directors.
“I know that over email you mentioned that you possibly wanted to invest some money with us,” Alex says. “Is that still the case?”
I give him a nod. I'm keenly aware of the fact that he hasn't asked me what I do for a living yet and I wonder how long it's going to take him.
“How much are you thinking?” Alex asks.
All the Lies Page 9
