Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

  “Where else?” I counter, clinking my glass against his. I stare down at my plate. “Almost all my food is gone,” I point out. “How did that happen?”

  Logan laughs. “You’ll work it off during one of your pole dancing classes.” I roll my eyes. Pole dancing is a point of contention between us. I say it’s an amazing workout. He says it’s silly and not real exercise. One of these days I’ll insist that he watch me work a pole like an athlete, but until then we’ll agree to disagree.

  Just then the buzzer for our flat sounds and Logan checks his phone to see the time. “They’re early,” he says, referring to our friends who are meeting us here before going to the stadium. He excuses himself as he goes down to greet them and lead them back up here while I busy myself with licking my plate.

  But when he comes back up it’s not with friends, it’s with a small package. “It was a delivery,” he says with a smile, handing me the box. “Seems someone sent you a birthday present from America.”

  “I bet it’s from Olivia,” I say eagerly as I get up to take it. But then I stop.

  The return address is a latitude and a longitude.

  And just like that, the world changes.

  “Let me do the dishes before everyone arrives,” Logan says, not noticing my shift in mood. “You just relax. It’s your day!”

  I don’t answer. I can’t. I can hardly even breathe. As Logan deals with the plates, I take the package into the living room, drop down onto the couch, and tear it open, using my fingernails in lieu of scissors or a knife. Inside is a small box and a card . . . a postcard featuring a bunch of yellow tubes hanging delicately from a grid. It’s the LACMA.

  Before I even turn the card over to see the note, my hands are shaking.

  Happy Birthday, Mercy.

  Thank you for giving me some of the most beautiful moments of my life.

  Brad

  I open the box and find that it contains two sterling silver earrings shaped like little mammoths.

  My heart is pounding so hard now I think it might actually be damaging my rib cage. I should probably be wondering how he found me. Here, all the way in Belgium. But . . . but, oh my God, he wanted to find me. He went to the effort, and the earrings . . .

  Six years, one month, five days. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve spoken to this man. Since I’ve held his hand. Even longer since he took me into those yellow tubes and touched his lips to mine. Six years, one month, and five days ago I laid my head against his chest and told him good-bye.

  And now he’s given me this gift, letting me know he still thinks of me.

  My eyes move from the card to the earrings, the earrings to the card. Carefully, I take off the earrings I put on this morning and replace them with the little mammoth studs.

  “Mercy?”

  I turn to see Logan standing behind me. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Yeah, of course it is. Just a gift from an old friend.” I discreetly slip the card into my purse before crossing to him, kissing him on his cheek as I take one of the glasses. “Thank you for this. And for coming to the concert last night and for taking me to this match and for the night we’re going to have. It means so much to me . . . you know that, right? You know how much this means to me?”

  “It means a lot to me, too, to celebrate your twenty-ninth birthday with you.” He studies me for a moment and gestures toward my ears. “New earrings?”

  “A gift.”

  “Mammoths,” he says thoughtfully. He walks over to the coffee table, where I left the earrings I had been wearing earlier. “Different from these,” he notes as he holds up the two dangling white tear-shaped earrings I had been wearing earlier.

  It’s only in that moment that I remember that Logan had bought me those, from a street vendor after an overly indulgent lunch. My stomach knots as the realization hits me. “Logan, I . . . I was just trying these on, that’s all.”

  “No, it is good,” he says, waving away my concern. “The new ones, they are whimsical, unique, they suit you,” he says, his eyes still on the earrings in his hand. “These are nice, just not quite as exciting.”

  “They’re just earrings, Logan.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he looks up. He’s wearing his uniform of dark jeans and a T-shirt, his blazer draped over the back of his chair in the kitchen. He’s a poster boy for casual sophistication. But he seems to have gotten something on his jeans while doing the dishes. A small stain that I know he won’t be able to overlook. “This is your day,” he finally says. “And it will be wonderful, but I think I must change clothes before we begin.”

  “Right,” I say, relieved. I start to take off the earrings, but he stops me before I can.

  “No, keep them on,” he requests. “As I said, they suit you.” And now it’s his turn to give me a kiss before he slips past me, heading into the bedroom where he can change.

  Everything is about to change.

  CHAPTER 39

  SETTLING MYSELF INTO the guest room Logan and I share as a home office, I spend the bulk of the next day on Google. It’s been almost two years since the last time I did a search for Brad. I had found virtually nothing, and then . . . well, Logan had walked in, and while he never figured out what I was searching for, the guilt combined with the futility of the exercise had made me resolve not to try again.

  But now I can’t help myself. I mean, how can I not search for him after that letter? Dear God, what if he’s in Europe?

  But when I figure out the coordinates, it becomes clear that he’s in San Francisco, or maybe Daly City? Marin? He’s near San Francisco. I sit back in my chair as I absorb this, then glance up at the wall where Logan has hung his photo of the Golden Gate Bridge. My fingers automatically lift to my earlobes and touch the silver studs. I haven’t taken them off.

  Turning back to the computer, I refocus on the digital map in front of me. “I have a life here,” I explain to my Mac. “A real life. I have friends and a boyfriend and a job and a band that’s beginning to really take off. My life’s in Brussels now.”

  Not surprisingly, my Mac doesn’t answer. I start searching again, this time plugging “Brad Witmer” into the search. That’s when I realize, Brad has a life, too. He’s a lawyer. That alone is enough to bring a big smile to my face. He did it! He’s a lawyer! The Secret Service better be ready, ’cause he’ll be strutting into that Oval Office in no time.

  And here, right here, is the name of the law firm he works for. I quickly go to the firm’s website and immediately click on the tab that says Attorneys. There’s his name, and it’s connected to a link. If I press the link there will be a profile.

  There may be a picture.

  My fingers hover over the mouse. Am I ready for this? For three and a half years, the only images I’ve had of him have been in my head. But if I click this, that changes.

  I probably shouldn’t; I’m only asking for trouble. Big, big trouble.

  But then, come on! Of course I click the link.

  And then . . . oh wow. My stomach does a little flip-flop. The man in the picture is clearly recognizable as the man I remember. Deep-set eyes, strong jaw, chiseled features. Short, well-groomed brown hair. But there are distinctions between the picture and my memory. The faint lines in his forehead, the very beginnings of crow’s-feet around his eyes. Even in his suit and tie he looks a little more rugged than he did in his twenties. A little more worldly. I swear, men don’t really start hitting it until they’re thirty. That’s when the real hotness starts to set in.

  My eyes go down to the text of his profile. It lists his degrees at both Stanford and UCLA (yay!). He’s part of a few professional associations, his areas of practice are . . . Oh, this is good. His specialty is sexual harassment and discrimination suits, and apparently he’s had some success bringing civil suits against sex offenders.

  In other words, he’s still saving women in distress. Ha! Except of course these are women who want a little sa
ving. That’s gotta make things easier.

  The last lines of his profile are about his hobbies. According to this, he enjoys reading, rowing (really?), going to museums, and spending time with family and friends.

  Spending time with family and friends. What family are we talking about here? His daughter? His mom? Does he have a wife? A married man sending a girl mammoth earrings . . . that’s some messed-up shit. The SOB better not be married.

  But then, it’s probably messed-up to spend this much time Googling a man if you’re living with another man. Googling—even the word sounds vaguely perverse. What were you doing all day, sweetie? Oh, I was just Googling my ex.

  Can I even call him my ex? We only officially went out for, like, three weeks. We knew each other for just over half a year. And yet . . . how is it possible that a love that built up over mere months and ended years ago can still be stronger than a love that has built up over years and continues to be nurtured today? I will never understand time.

  But the physics of time isn’t really important here, is it? It’s the physics of love that matters. If numbers are the language of the universe, then what are the numbers that will explain this undying feeling I have for Brad? Like that tar that bubbles up through the earth at La Brea, it’s irrepressible.

  But I have a life here in Brussels. And he has a life in San Francisco.

  I let the cursor hover over the ominous little X that will close the tab. “Press it,” I whisper to myself when my finger refuses to move. “Press it, press it, press it!”

  “Mercy!” sings Logan as I hear the front door open and slam closed.

  My previously rebellious finger immediately leaps into action and clicks the tab closed, and I slam the computer shut. “Je suis ici, chéri! ” I call out.

  A moment later he’s at the door. I get up and give him a warm hug and quick kiss, but then withdraw before he can pull me in for something more passionate. “I’ve been home all day, wasting time online,” I say in French. “So glad you’re here to finally get me away from it.”

  “Home,” he repeats. His gaze moves from me to the closed computer. He’s dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black tweed blazer. His hair is as lovably mussed as ever. But there’s something . . . severe about his countenance today. “Home,” he says again, “it can be many different things, yes? Most of us have more than one.”

  “Oh?” I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “How’s that?”

  “Okay, there is this,” he says, gesturing to our flat as a whole. “There is the home our parents raised us in and cared for us in . . . oh, I did not mean . . .” His voice fades off and he makes an apologetic gesture as the possible insensitivity of that statement dawns on him. These days other people seem more sensitive about my childhood than I am.

  “It’s okay,” I rush to reassure him. “For most people, where they grew up is home. I’m an exception. What else is home?”

  He sighs and leans against the frame of the door, crossing his legs at the ankle and his arms across his chest. “It is as you Americans always say, no?” he asks as he locks me in his gaze. “Home is where the heart is.”

  My lips part slightly as I let that sink in, for the first time seeing the full implication of the cliché. His tone, the words, it all hovers between a question and an accusation. How much has he figured out? I have not let the postcard out of my sight since it arrived, so I know Logan hasn’t stumbled upon it. Of course the mammoth earrings . . . but really, they’re just earrings.

  Sure, a little voice in my head says, and Lady Liberty is just a statue, a statue that represents hopes and dreams and, well, everything. I swallow hard and look at my hands. “You have my heart,” I mumble. “You know that.”

  He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence is so loaded I’m surprised neither of us is completely flattened by it.

  “Well,” he finally says with a sad little smile playing on his lips, “at least I know there is a little room in it for me.” He steps forward and musses my hair. “Shall we go out to dinner tonight?”

  IT GOES ON like that for about a week. A week of my reading and rereading Brad’s card, his professional profile, gazing at his picture. A week of giving myself virtual smacks upside the head and trying to force myself to see the futility of it all. Forcing myself to recall all the truly great times I’ve had with Logan. How much I love the little dimples that appear when he smiles. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Logan, and so much that is very right.

  Last night we made love. Sex with Logan is always fun. He’s playful, apt to use pillow fights and spirited wrestling matches as foreplay, which is surprisingly effective. And yet last night, as he held me in his arms, I felt guilty about it. It’s ridiculous. This is the man I live with . . . but . . . when he touched me, I didn’t see him. I saw Brad. I imagined Brad. It’s not the first time that’s happened, but this time the image was more vivid, and the line between fantasy and reality is dissipating at an alarming rate, making my imaginings far from innocent.

  I try to compensate for my mental infidelity by putting the earrings away, tucking them deep inside my jewelry drawer . . . which only means that my jewelry drawer is now a mess because I’m constantly digging through all the stuff in the front so I can gaze at the earrings in the back. And I’m positively bending over backward for Logan these days. I’ve been making his favorite meals every night and have them waiting for him when he gets home, even on the nights when I have a gig. I do his laundry, iron his clothes (and I hate ironing), and I’m as attentive as I can manage . . . which is not as attentive as I should be because, well, I’m distracted. There’s simply no way around that.

  And then one day I take my BlackBerry to a café and write an e-mail to Brad. I know what I’m doing is wrong. But I do it anyway. I only include two words of text:

  Thank you.

  Pressing send is absolutely terrifying. I sit there sipping my coffee, thinking, wondering, hoping, fearing . . . and fifteen minutes later I get a response:

  You’re welcome.

  How are you? I’ve read about Tar (love the name) and seen some performances on YouTube. You continue to be amazing.

  Are you well?

  I stare at the words, at the automated signature. His name, his law firm, his contact info, everything that was on the website, but now it’s in a private e-mail . . . to me.

  I have to still my shaking hands before I e-mail back.

  Thank you, and yes, I’m doing well. It looks like you are as well, Mr. Lawyer. Is that your full-time gig, or are you still raking it in at poker? And what about the drums? Do you still play? Do you write songs?

  This time it only takes a minute for him to respond:

  Yes, I’m a lawyer, and I’m one of the few who actually enjoys my work. I have a weekly poker night with some friends, but that’s it. As for the drums, well, I try to keep in practice. Every once in a while a performer here will need a drummer for a one-time gig and sometimes I’ll do that. But it’s rare. I have written a handful of songs, all of them with you in mind, but to be honest, they’re not as good as the ones you’ve been playing.

  I miss you. Would love to get together to catch up.

  I stare at the words. Is he kidding? He’s been writing songs for me? I look up as if maybe the woman serving coffee behind the counter can explain what’s happening here. But no one seems to notice me. I look back down at my phone and type:

  I miss you, too, but we can’t. I’m in Belgium.

  I press send and then start refreshing like crazy. And in no time at all, there’s a reply:

  I know that, it’s where I sent your gift ;-). Maybe it’s time for me to take a European vacation?

  He’d come to Belgium, for me? At the next table two girls are laughing; at another a couple appears to be quietly arguing. And I’m just sitting here silently freaking out. It’s been so long and I have a life here, and he has a life there. This just can’t work. I e-mail back:

  I can’t see you. I’m sor
ry.

  God, how can I be so cold? But to respond any other way . . . I mean, I’m living with another man! I press send and then start jabbing my finger against the little circular arrow again. And then the reply comes:

  Can I at least call you?

  Don’t do this, Mercy. Just don’t. I prepare my fingers to say no.

  Yes.

  And I give him my number. Why did I do that? What the fuck am I thinking? I can’t—

  My phone rings, and swear to God, I nearly pass out. I’m seriously shaking now. It’s a minor miracle that I’m even able to pick up. But I do and I bring the phone to my ear without saying a word.

  “Mercy?”

  Oh that baritone! Everything inside me just melts. I didn’t even know I was missing him this much! It’s like all these emotions that I had practically forgotten about were just hanging out, crouched in a corner somewhere deep inside me, and now they just pounce, completely flooring me. “Yes,” I say weakly, “it’s me.”

  A long pause, and then a large shaky exhale on his side of the line. “I didn’t think you’d contact me. I hoped, but . . .” His voice trails off and then he adds, “How are you?”

  “I’m . . . I’m good,” I manage. “I’m . . . well, I’ve been singing a lot.”

  “Yeah,” he says softly, “I know.”

  I glance around at the few other people here who are completely preoccupied with their laptops and whatnot. “So, you saw some things online?”

  He laughs ruefully. “I have spent hours on Google image search. You . . . you look great, Mercy. You look . . . beautiful. More beautiful than you even did before.”

  “Brad—”

  “You’re going to tell me that I shouldn’t be calling you,” he says, cutting me off.

  “Yes,” I agree. “I’m going to tell you that.”

  “All right,” he breathes. “I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. I have been reading up, and I’m just so happy for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, trying to sound cool, and completely failing.

  “Okay, well then I’ll—”