Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

  “No, I just wasn’t sure what name you wanted me to use.”

  “And that’s a problem,” I say definitively. I’m overtaken by a sudden feeling of exhaustion. I turn with slumped shoulders and walk toward a cluster of empty benches. “I think we’re done with this.”

  “Did I do something?” Brad asks, his voice edged with both concern and bewilderment.

  “Sort of. I mean, you did something good.” I sit down on a bench and gesture for him to do the same. “Last night, what you did for me . . . I don’t mean when you stopped me from putting myself in physical danger, I mean when you listened to me . . . you’ll never know how much that meant to me.” I finally raise my eyes to him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but—”

  “But,” I say, gently cutting him off, “you shouldn’t have done it.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t change my name to hide from my family, Brad. They’re not looking for me.”

  “Yes, I know why you changed your name. You told me last night,” he says slowly, in a voice you would use with a confused child. But it doesn’t bother me. This was never going to be easy.

  “I told you that Melody is dead,” I say gently. “I want her to stay that way. I don’t want to ever think about my past. That history, it can’t exist for me, not if I’m going to stay . . . well, maybe not sane, because that ship might have sailed. Still, I can live. I can survive. But only if I let go of Melody completely, and I can’t do that with you anymore. Besides, your world can never be mine. I can visit it, but if I stay too long I’ll just screw something up. It’s what I do. And as for the rest of the band, if I see Traci or Tonio again they’ll want an explanation for what happened at that restaurant and then they’ll see me as Melody, too, and I . . . I just can’t.” I wipe my palms on my jeans. “I think . . . I know, that this was . . . it’s the best day of my life.” I need to keep myself together, steady voice, no tears. “You gave me that,” I continue. “But . . . we . . . we have to keep it to a day. We can’t maintain this, I can’t maintain it . . . I—I just need you to trust me on this, okay?”

  He stares at me for a long time. And I almost reach out, give his hand one last squeeze. But then he straightens his posture and his eyes flash with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What?” I say with a shocked laugh. “I’m talking about me!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh okay, I see where this is going,” I say. “I don’t need to listen to this.” I start to get up, but before I’m more than an inch off the bench, Brad reaches forward and yanks me back down.

  “You’re going to listen to this,” he says in a cold voice. “You don’t think I see you, but I do. I watch you and I see how many times you fall into quiet contemplation. And what’s causing you to scowl at the floor or shake your head when no one’s talking to you, it’s not what’s happening in the present. You’re always thinking about your past. You live there.”

  “Yeah, well I’m trying not to. That’s what I’ve been telling you.” A couple of teenagers walk by us as they head to the magic of the lampposts.

  “Yeah, you’re trying to get your mind out of the past by running away from it. But that’s like running away from a mountain lion. Soon as you start to run it’ll give chase.”

  “Oh, and what should I do?” The air has taken on the chill of night and I have to will myself not to shiver. “Should I hang around and let my past—or as you would call it, a mountain lion—devour me?”

  “No, you have to face it, stand your ground. Let it know that you’re stronger than it thought you were. That’s how you survive!”

  He’s still holding my arm. The man is so strong. There are people around. I could make a scene, but even now I don’t want to do that to him. So I suck in a breath through my gritted teeth and try to reason with him. “My past is not an animal. It’s abstract.”

  “Not to you it isn’t.”

  “Brad!” His name shoots out of my mouth with enough volume to attract some looks, and I have to bite down on my lip to restrain myself again. “You have to let me do what I need to do,” I say, pleading now. “We had a beautiful day. I love the museums, the park, my stuffed animal—” I stop myself before I add his name to the list. “You’re a poker player. You know what it means to quit while you’re ahead.”

  His hand doesn’t leave my arm. “What about Ash?”

  “What about him?” I ask wearily.

  “He said that the two of you go back for some time. Does he know . . . Wait a minute.” And now he finally releases his grip and his expression changes from one of frustration to one of pure shock. “Is he . . . Mercy, is he the father?”

  My whole body tenses to the point of immobility. I can’t even loosen my jaw enough to answer.

  “He is,” Brad whispers. “Jesus. Does he know?”

  A couple and two families stroll past us, and the people stuck in traffic honk their horns in the deluded hope that raising a commotion will get them somewhere. Finally I shake my head no. It’s the only answer I’ll give.

  “So let me get this straight.” Brad is looking aggravated again, but now I think he might actually be within seconds of grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. “You say you want to erase your past,” he continues, “but you’re dating the father of the child you lost? Really, Mercy? How messed up are you? You can’t even decide if you want to save yourself or punish yourself, and you clearly don’t know how to do either!”

  “Oh, oh I’m messed up?” I ask. I look up sharply; my left hand is in the shape of a claw. “Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hmm, well let’s see.” Glaring at him I put my fist under my chin as if in deep thought. “Harvard didn’t work out and you’re probably not going to be president at thirty-five, so you give up on everything and start playing poker for a living. Is the world really that black-and-white to you? You can’t have it all so you’ll have nothing? Or perhaps it’s option B and you’re just one of those people who falls so deeply in love with their own plans that when there’s a detour they fall apart. I mean, UCLA is right fucking here! If you want to go to law school, stop spending all your time brooding like some kind of frat boy with a James Dean complex. Go already!”

  “It’s not easy being a single dad,” he growls. “My mother works. She can only watch June on nights and weekends. I can support her by playing poker. I pulled in six hundred on that night you watched her for me.”

  “Ah, so it’s option C! You can’t walk and chew gum at once! June’s going to kindergarten next year, right? So sign her up for after-school care, go to law school, and play poker! I’m sure it’s been done before! And what’s the deal with you carrying a torch for a woman who came this close to accusing you of rape?”

  “She didn’t accuse me of anything—”

  “Oh, whatever. Your baby mama’s a mess and I’m a mess and that gets you off, doesn’t it? You got that whole white knight thing going on, but that doesn’t make you a hero. All it means is that you go around trying to save screwed-up women like me because you don’t know how to save yourself.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says again, this time with even more venom. “And while there are those who may wish it otherwise, white knight is not a derogatory term.”

  “You’re right, it’s not. It’s an archaic one. Because let’s face it, today’s distressed damsel is more likely to reach for a White Russian than a knight of any color. But you’re still galloping around trying to save damsels who are giving you the finger. So I guess that makes us both clueless, doesn’t it?”

  And now I do get up, storming away from him. I’ll have to take the bus home because I just can’t afford to shell out for any more cabs.

  Brad doesn’t follow me this time. It’s what I want, of course it is. I wait until I’m sure that I’m completely out of his sight before I press Cuddly Bubbles t
o my chest. By the time I get to the bus stop I’ve done the calculations. I’ll have to transfer three times to get to the street where I left my car. Traffic being what it is, it’ll take me at least two hours.

  That’s two hours before it’ll be safe to cry.

  CHAPTER 27

  FOR THE NEXT few days, despite the ten to twelve messages Traci has left for me on my answering machine, I only answer my phone for Ash. He tells me things are going great. The director loves him, the other actors love him, he’s having a fantastic time. He’s even taken to calling me baby. That’s how Hollywood he’s become.

  Eventually I send an e-mail to both Traci and Tonio, confirming what they already suspect, I’m done with Resurrection. But while Tonio doesn’t respond, Traci keeps calling. Each message is a little different. One joking that we need to set up exit interviews before we disband (and of course she points out her painfully obvious pun). Another is an invitation to a rave, and in yet another message she demands to know why I lied to her about my name and why I won’t return her calls. A huge part of me wants to just disappear on her, but I can’t do that. I owe her a good-bye.

  So after five days of this I stop by the medical marijuana clinic during her shift. I find her chatting with one of the sales reps at the back of the store where the different kinds of weed are displayed inside glass counters, like fine chocolate. When she sees me she stops talking to the rep and beelines to me, brushing past the few customers here to grab me by both hands.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” she says with a giggle, but the sound quickly dies on her lips as she takes in my expression. “Shit,” she mutters under her breath. “This is the last time I’m going to see you, isn’t it?”

  My silence gives her the answer. She sighs and pulls me through the store and then through the door that leads to a small office papered with Reefer Madness posters. She walks around a small bleached-wood desk, pulls a small bag of weed from the top drawer, and dangles it in front of me. “Amnesia Haze,” she says. “Ranked as one of the top-five cannabis for stress relief by High Times magazine. Want to light up and chill for a few hours?”

  “Tempting,” I admit. “And I do like the name, but I’m not staying.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says as she rolls a joint. Her tone is light but I can tell by her posture that she is stung by my refusal. “I don’t care, you know.”

  “Care about what?” I ask cautiously.

  “That you had an abortion. You did, right?” When I don’t answer she puts the joint between her lips, retrieves a Marilyn Monroe lighter from her pocket, bringing the flame to the paper as she sucks in. She holds the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds before blowing it out between pursed lips. “I’ve had two abortions myself. It’s no big deal. Certainly nothing to change your name over, M,” she says, pronouncing my initial with an accusatory tone.

  I turn slightly away, unwilling to take the bait.

  She takes another long drag as the silence between us grows. “You lied to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Hey, everybody lies, right?” Traci says, a tinge of desperation in her voice now. “One of these days you can tell me the whole story. And we can cool it on the band for a while if that’s what you want. You know what? Maybe we should take some shrooms together. Remember when we did that? We could find a remote spot in the hills, or maybe the desert, and just meditate on things. Let the visions guide us, you know?”

  “I got you something,” I say softly, not acknowledging her offer. I search through my purse and pull out a thick envelope. “I got the pictures developed from Benji’s disposable camera, remember? The one he had on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Yeah.” She pauses a moment to take another hit before continuing. “I remember.”

  I hand the envelope to her. “It seems he had his camera trained on you throughout the entire performance that night. I know you guys have had your ups and downs but I think he really does love you.”

  “Yeah, I think he does, too,” she says, her tone a little gentler now. “But . . . it’s, like, the wrong kind of love. I don’t know how to describe it but . . . it’s the kind of love that hurts more than it heals. Does that make sense?”

  I shrug. “You know best,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. Something about that statement makes me want to change the subject. I nod at the envelope now in her hands. “The first photo’s my favorite. I made a copy for myself.”

  Traci raises her eyebrows and then, putting the joint down in an ashtray, pulls the picture out. It’s the group shot. The one of Brad, Tonio, Traci, and me in the back of Apocalypse. She stares at it for a long time and when she looks up, there are tears in her eyes. “I loved this night.”

  I smile down at my shoes. “It was certainly memorable.”

  “Our band wasn’t always perfect,” Traci says. “Brad’s a pain in the ass, but still, I liked it. Getting into all these clubs, being treated to drinks, being the cool kids in the room . . . I really liked it.”

  “I liked it, too.” I bite down on my lip before adding, “But it’s time for me to move on. The wind is blowing and it’s . . . like it’s pushing me forward. I got to go with it, you know?”

  She goes quiet, her eyes back on the photo.

  “Well,” she says after a minute or so has passed, “if you ever need a great deal on some Amnesia Haze, you know where to find me.” Then she looks up with a teasing grin. “Or if you ever decide to share your Johnny Depp, I’m game for that, too.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m going to miss you, too, M.” She throws her arms around me and suddenly I realize that Traci is one other person who has hugged me, if only briefly, in the last several weeks. I am going to miss her. But I can’t keep singing with Resurrection. Even with Brad out I would never be able to be part of that group without thinking about him, missing him. And every time Traci called me M, I’d know that it stood for Melody.

  No, this is the end for our little band of merrymakers.

  And it’s yet another beginning for me and for Ash.

  CHAPTER 28

  IT SHOULD BE easy to move on, if for no other reason than Brad doesn’t call and Ash does . . . albeit not as often as I’d like. But still, he wants me and he’s coming back to me. I’m not alone. And Brad . . . that was a bizarre little whirlwind of an almost romance. He and I were never going to end up together. It was never even a question.

  But oh my God, do I miss him. How ironic that I planned that dinner at the restaurant because I thought it would keep me from losing him. But instead it cost me so much, more than I even realized I was willing to pay.

  I’ve upped my phone sex hours and I’ve convinced Matt to let me dance at Envy every Thursday night. So while money’s still tight, it is there. I can pay my rent, pay for my groceries and my alcohol.

  I’ve actually been buying a lot of alcohol lately. I don’t know why. It’s never been my number-one choice for escapism. But more and more often I find myself at home, alone, in front of my TV with a bowlful of popcorn and a glassful of vodka.

  And sometimes I take out that piece of broken glass. I never threw it away. I don’t cut myself again, but I think about it.

  I think about it a lot.

  There should be an explanation for that. There’s usually something that triggers these kinds of thoughts. But I don’t know what that trigger is this time.

  When Ash flies home I meet him right at the gate, and this time I’m the one holding the roses. He doesn’t know I’m going to be here. It’s a surprise. The plan is to whisk him away, take him out on the town, buy champagne I can’t afford and toast his latest success. Once again I have taken extra care with my appearance. I’m wearing a long shaggy coat, a cropped top that stops just a few inches below my bra line, and straight-legged, low-rise jeans. It’s a look—which is why I’m getting looks, not all of them approving, but I know Ash. He’ll like it, and more importantly, he’ll get
it.

  There’s a long stream of passengers getting off the plane and I stretch my neck to the left then the right as I try to spot him. Finally, I do. He’s got his duffel bag draped over his shoulder, standing a little taller than usual, his walk a little more confident. He’s absorbed in a conversation with one of the other passengers as they exit. He looks straight-up gorgeous.

  I start jumping up and down, the bouquet of roses stretched up in the air above my head like an Olympic torch. “Ash!” I cry. “Over here, Ash!”

  He stops in his tracks, almost tripping up the people behind him. I beam at him, probably the brightest smile I’ve been able to manage since that day at the LACMA.

  But Ash isn’t smiling back. And the passenger he’s talking to . . . the woman he’s talking to with the bright pink top and chestnut hair piled up in a purposely messy bun, she’s looking at me, too, and then her eyes shift back to Ash. She looks a little confused and maybe . . . a little guilty? Does she look guilty?

  But then Ash just flips a switch. His stunned look is gone and he flashes me his signature impish grin and walks right up to me without so much as a look at the woman he was speaking to. He weaves his fingers into my hair, holding my head as he gives me a deep, beautiful kiss. “I can’t believe you came to meet me. I love that,” he says, brushing my hair from my face. “You have no idea how much I missed you.”

  “Yes?” I wince when I hear how insecure my voice sounds.

  “Yes, of course!” He gives me another kiss, lighter this time. “Come on.” He links his arm with mine and starts pulling me toward baggage claim. When I turn to glance back at the woman, Ash inadvertently stops me by giving me a rather provocative kiss on my neck, making little chills run up and down my spine.

  At least, I think it was inadvertent.

  “There’s a party tonight,” Ash says once we’re at the carousel waiting for them to unload the bags. “It’s going to be off the hook. Are you up for it?”

  “If you’re going, I’m all about it,” I say, throwing my arms around his neck and leaning in to nibble on his ear. And as I do I look at the woman he was speaking to earlier. She’s on the other side of the carousel, watching us. But the moment she sees I’m looking at her, she starts studying her nails.