Two Truths and a Lie

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  Rebecca poured a glass of Cabernet and indulged in an energetic round of crying while she listened to “The Space Between.” Bernice came and sat on her feet, and she got through “Satellite” and “Crash Into Me” before the tears subsided.

  Peter had loved lots of things, not just Dave Matthews. Hazelnut ice cream. Lobster tacos. The soft skin on the inside of Rebecca’s arm. Travel! He’d been so excited to go to Dubai for the first time, and then he’d gone and died before he made it all the way home. From Dubai he had texted them the most stunning pictures. The city skyline at dusk, with an orb of pink lowered over it, as if by the hand of God. The flamingoes at Ras al Khor. The observation wheel at Bluewaters. A farmers’ market with signs in Arabic in front of a rainbow of peppers and tomatoes. I have all the time in the world, he probably thought, as he touched the camera button on his phone again and again. This is just one of the amazing things I will see in the rest of my life, and there are many, many more to come. It tore Rebecca’s heart in tiny pieces when she thought about what his face must have looked like, the way his eyebrows shot up when he got excited, the way he looked around for someone with whom to share the wonders. He was probably eagerly nodding at perfect strangers the whole time he was taking those pictures. That was Peter.

  Morgan had Katie. Alexa had Tyler. All the ladies at the Deck had husbands they’d left behind with the children so they could have cocktails and fish tacos. Rebecca was a puzzle piece discarded under the corner of the carpet at the end of the vacation, forgotten.

  Her phone rang. Daniel. She didn’t have him put in as a contact—she didn’t want the girls to pick up her phone and see his name—but by now she recognized his number, even knew it enough to dial it by memory. She wiped her tears and cleared her throat.

  “Any chance you can grab a bite?” he asked. “Or are you saddled with children and responsibilities for the evening?”

  She turned the music down. “As it happens,” she said, “I’m available. And hungry. Suddenly I’m really, really hungry. For a steak, or a burger. Something like that. Do you want to pick me up?”

  “Sure! Where would you like to procure this burger or steak? I’m open to anything.”

  “Anywhere but the Deck.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” said Daniel.

  Rebecca turned off her phone and waited outside, on the porch, watching the cars go by, the occasional bike and dog walker. As it turned out, the summer evening really was sort of lovely.

  25.

  Alexa

  Before Alexa had too much time to think they had parked in one of the lots behind the casino, given over their tickets, been ID’d and braceleted. Alexa’s bracelet marked her as under twenty-one. Cam had a really good fake ID and his demeanor and haircut both suggested maturity; it went unquestioned. Alexa was surprised Cam even had a fake ID. Did he go to Confession after procuring it?

  Cam got them both beers and warned Alexa to be mindful of the security guys. The band took the stage. The music started. Cam and Alexa sipped and swayed to the music with the old people and the drunk people and the people who acquired their hairstyles, like, more than two decades ago and never changed them, and Alexa started to feel a subtle shift in her attitude toward Hampton Beach. It was refreshing to be close to home and yet feel so far away. Nobody knew Alexa here, and she knew nobody. The band’s rendition of “The Space Between” was not half bad, and the not-Dave-Matthews Dave Matthews was wicked cute. All things considered, Alexa was beginning to have a good time.

  You cannot quit me so quickly, Cam, she thought. She swayed a little closer to Cam, allowing her Ramy Brook silk to rub up against his scratchy plaid shirt. He smelled good, clean and masculine. She gave her hair a toss and wondered what he would do if she leaned over and kissed him. Just as that thought was forming she noticed a man staring at her from across the room.

  The guy was older, like Peter’s age, and at first she wondered if he could be the dad of one of her friends or the husband of one of her mother’s Mom Squad members. But then she realized that he wasn’t looking at her that way, like a dad or an uncle, but in a different, creepier way. No, she thought. No no no.

  “The wicked lies we tell,” sang not-Dave Matthews. The wicked lies we tell, thought Alexa.

  “Going to the bathroom,” she told Cam. “Be right back.” She hightailed it toward the restrooms but she knew—she was positive—that the guy was following her. She could feel his presence behind her, and of course she was right. It was quieter by the bathrooms, the music was muted, so she heard him loud and clear when he said, “Hey!”

  She ignored him. She was almost at the bathroom door. She was about to open the door.

  “Hey,” said the guy again. “Aren’t you that Silk Stockings girl?” And he had his hand on her shoulder, just like that.

  She turned. “You must be mistaken,” she said quickly. “I think you have me mixed up with somebody else.”

  He slid his hand down her arm and kept it there. She wanted to shake off the hand, she wanted to call for help, but a), she didn’t want Cam to know any of this was happening, and b), she was still holding the beer and she didn’t want to attract attention and get arrested for underage drinking, which would also get Cam in trouble for buying it for her.

  “You’re lying,” said the guy. Up close she could see that he was maybe in his late thirties or early forties, younger than Peter, with a stubbly beard and small brown eyes that were set far apart, like the eyes of a snake. “You know what my friends and I call you? Little Miss BTP.” She didn’t want to know what that stood for, but she had a feeling he was going to tell her. “Better than porn.” He licked his lips. “Because you wear those fancy clothes, but all we can think about is what you look like without them.”

  Alexa flicked his hand off her arm so hard she was surprised it didn’t hit him in the face, and pushed the bathroom door open. Her heart was racing and her pulse was racing and she felt like she was going to throw up. She’d never been recognized like that before, and it felt more disconcerting and invasive than she’d ever expected that it would. She knew her videos got a lot of eyeballs; if they didn’t, she wouldn’t make any money. But she’d never thought about all of those eyeballs belonging to specific people, to potential perverts or stalkers.

  There was so much pot smoke inside the bathroom that Alexa thought she might have gotten high just from walking in there. Alexa dumped her nearly empty beer cup in the trash and joined a woman with frosted hair and frosted lips and frosted nails at the mirror considering her frosted reflection with a sour expression.

  “I look like a friggin’ corpse,” the woman said, glancing up at Alexa and then back at the mirror, frowning. “This friggin’ light, why do they have to make it so bright? It’s like, you’re out there dancing, feeling good, then you come in here, and bam. Reality.”

  Alexa said, “Amen, sister,” though she herself avoided the mirror, not wanting to see how scared she might look.

  “You okay?” said the woman. “Because you look like something just spooked you.” She had a real North Shore accent and a cigarette-addled voice.

  “Yeah,” said Alexa. “Fine. Thanks.”

  26.

  The Squad

  Text from Georgia to Rebecca, 6:42 p.m: We R here holding the table

  Text from Tammy to Rebecca, 6:57 p.m: Where are U? R U coming? Should we order U a Drink?

  Text from Gina to Rebecca, 7:12 p.m: Hello????

  27.

  Alexa

  “You were gone awhile,” said Cam when she made her way back to him. “Everything okay?” The band was taking a break.

  “Yes,” she said. “Good.”

  Her hands were shaking so much that she dropped her phone and it went skittering across the floor. Cam retrieved it, and she saw him glance down at the screen before handing it back to her. Three more texts from Tyler had come in in the last ten minutes. She watched Cam see the texts. The last one said Where R U I thought we had plans. Then her phone rang
and Tyler’s name flashed across the screen.

  Cam set his mouth in a tight line and said, “Should I answer?”

  “No!” said Alexa, horrified.

  “You don’t seem so unencumbered,” Cam said. “Is that why you were gone so long in the bathroom?”

  “Oh, calm down,” she told Cam. She meant for it to strike a light note, but it came out wrong, she was too shaken up by the guy near the bathroom to joke properly. She wrenched a smile from her jittery lips, but she could tell by Cam’s face that he didn’t think it was funny. On the contrary, he was looking at her regretfully, the way her mother looked at Morgan when she knocked over a glass at a nice restaurant. She could feel his regard for her slipping away.

  “Listen,” said Cam. “I have to ask you a question.” He gave the impression of straightening a tie, even though, obviously, he wasn’t wearing one. “Is Tyler still your boyfriend?”

  “No,” said Alexa. “I mean, yes. No. Sort of.”

  Cam looked stern and disappointed. “If you have a boyfriend, then why’d you kiss me?”

  “Why’d you kiss me back?” she countered.

  He stared at her.

  “Screw this,” she said under her breath, but not so much under her breath that he couldn’t hear her.

  The band began to play “Crash Into Me.” Appropriate.

  Cam shook his head. She recognized that shake. She’d seen it before. It was a sign that people were disappointed in her. She’d seen it on Caitlin and Destiny when she’d stormed out in March. She’d seen it on Morgan when she’d closed her bedroom door and told Morgan she wanted to be alone. Cam glanced at his watch and said, “You about ready? After this song?”

  Alexa thought of Morgan saying, “Why can’t you be nicer?”

  (Why couldn’t she be nicer?)

  “Sure,” she said to Cam, keeping her voice even. “Ready when you are.”

  Because nice doesn’t get you anywhere, Morgan, she thought. Nice just gets you to the back of the line.

  On the way out, Cam didn’t touch Alexa. He didn’t put his hand on her lower back to guide her through the middle-aged crowd. When they were on the sidewalk, moving toward the minivan, he kept a safe distance. On the way home, he talked to her some, but his words were clipped, and she could tell that he was trying his best not to engage fully.

  She glanced at him as he drove, looking at his strong profile, the small dent underneath his cheekbone. Alexa was experiencing an unfamiliar feeling. If she had to put a name to it she might call it . . . yearning. She wanted to kiss that stupid dent. Alexa Thornhill was not accustomed to being the yearner; she was always, always the yearned for.

  These fickle fuddled words confuse me, Cam, she thought.

  When he pulled up in front of her house she said, “Thanks. That was fun.” She waited a half second before opening the car door.

  Cam said, “No problem. See you around.” He didn’t look directly at her.

  She slammed her door extra, extra hard. How dare he make her feel this way. He was the one who invited her to the concert. All she did was make one comment, under her breath, even, and he gave up on her.

  Bernice was sleeping in her dog bed; she woke up long enough to thump her tail twice and then she went back to sleep. For a few minutes Alexa stroked Bernice’s ear, which was as soft as a silk blanket.

  She sat with Bernice for a long time, watching the rise and fall of her ribs, what looked like a smile on her giant black lips. Bernice was the least judgmental creature in Alexa’s world.

  Alexa Thornhill, how would you rate your evening at the Hampton Beach Casino, with one being not very irritating and ten being very, very irritating?

  Eleven, she thought. No, twelve. Definitely twelve. And a half.

  July

  28.

  The Squad

  Text from Rebecca to Mom Squad Group Chat, July 2nd, 3:06 p.m.: I invited Sherri to come along on Gina and Steve’s pontoon ride on 4th, Hope ok??