Inner Secrets

by Suzie Carr

  Now that Hope lived with us, I worried about how I looked all the time. I couldn’t get away with lounging around the living without makeup anymore. I couldn’t wakeup and grab my first cup of coffee braless and in pajamas anymore. I wouldn’t dare leave my room in the morning without swishing a capful of mouthwash. I wanted her to see the very best of me always.

  If I were gay, I’d probably be in love.

  One night Adam broke from writing long enough to ask me, “So, she really left her husband because she’s gay?”

  “I was just going on rumor, but Reina confirmed it.”

  “Huh.” He pondered this for a moment, tapping his fingers on the desk. “She’d make an interesting character. Maybe I can mold her into a princess role in the next Zylon sequel.”

  Adam’s brain worked in story mode all the time. He’d challenge a waiter just to see what he might do, and then he’d jot the scene down in his pocket notebook. He’d take me out to the mall often just to people-watch. We’d sit there for hours and watch person by person cross in front of us. He’d zone in on all types, from old to young. He’d point out the ones who tipped the point of edgy, mysterious, and I’d just think they looked like every other person. He could dig deeper than the surface and uncover traits of mediocrity, superfluity, confidence, and arrogance just by the way they walked, talked, carried their shopping bags, and pushed their children around in strollers. He should’ve been a brilliant writer with his focus and drive.

  He loved any chance to people-watch and place himself in unusual settings.

  Adam curled up out of his desk chair and sat beside me in bed. I was scanning a brochure of a 10K, thinking of how I could talk him into joining me and getting out of the rut of writing, of people-watching, of boredom.

  He asked me, “Do you think she was gay all along or do you think that kind of thing just pops up when the right person struts into life?”

  “I’m sure a person knows this sort of thing for a while.”

  “Hmm.” He sank back against the pillow. “I’d love to get in her head and know for sure.”

  “Always characterizing.”

  He simply smiled at this.

  I continued to read about the 10K. It looked like a blast. It looked like something fun we could do together that didn’t involve laptops and spiral notepads. A couple dressed in colorful running gear and sporting vibrant smiles and bibs across their tummies graced the centerfold. I handed the brochure to him. “Let’s do this together.”

  He looked at it in a flash. “I’m not a runner.”

  “Well, neither am I. But it looks like something we could do together. We could run every morning. We’d just get up half an hour earlier. Think of the characters we’d see,” I said desperate for a way we could connect outside a mall or a park bench.

  “This doesn’t look like fun to me.”

  “Oh come on.” I pointed to the happy smiles on the couple’s faces. “They look like they’re having fun.”

  “Hon, you know I need every second in the morning to write. I can’t dedicate that kind of time to train for a 10K.”

  “It’s research.”

  He rolled over on his side and held my hand. “Perhaps, but it’ll take too much time to train for a day of research. Someday we’ll be able to do these things together. I promise.”

  “Of course.” I patted our folded hands. Deflated and drained from yet another failed attempt to get him outside his writing box, I turned over. “I’m tired. Are you ready to shut off the lights?”

  He reached up and flipped the switch. “Done.”

  Such an efficient man. He could jot that into his biography one day if he ever got published.

  The next morning I woke and decided I was running this 10K with or without him. I got dressed up, pulled my hair into a twist, slapped on a little mascara and lip gloss and ventured to the kitchen to load up on some coffee. Hope was fixing herself a cup of coffee. Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. Even without a trace of makeup her skin glowed.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “What do you have there?” She fixed on the brochure in my hands.

  “Oh this?” I tossed it on the counter, flippant to its grueling challenge. “It’s a brochure about a 10K I’m considering running in a couple of months.”

  Her lips curled up around the edge of her mug. She picked up the brochure and scanned it. “I should do this, too. It’d give me a goal to work towards.”

  I moved in closer. “We could do it together.”

  “I’d need to train,” she said.

  My eyes traveled down her fitted tee, past her erect nipples, stopping momentarily at her flat tummy and back up to meet her curious eyes. “Yeah, me, too. I haven’t run since high school.”

  She straddled the stool in one bold move. “What made you sign up for it, then?”

  “I thought it’d be a nice way for Adam and me to spend some time together. But, he can’t.”

  She questioned me with a tilt of her head.

  “It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s just the whole timing issue. He’s got his eye on a goal to complete his novel soon.”

  She squinted, probing me for more.

  “He’s the most determined man I know.”

  “That’s quite an admirable trait,” she said, sipping again.

  “Sure is.” She didn’t know Adam’s writing obsession. “I really want Adam to focus on finishing up his novel, and this would just get in the way. It’s not worth stressing him out and derailing his writing mojo. It was just a flimsy thought when I saw the brochure. I don’t mind training without him, really.”

  She slinked off the stool and stood closer to me, staring at the brochure. “This does look like fun.”

  “A blast, really.” I wanted her to invite herself to train with me.

  “We should do this.” She smacked the counter with it.

  Every cell in my body sang out in joy. “We really should. I was going to start training this morning.”

  She scanned my skirt, my bare legs and chuckled. “Really?”

  I flushed. “Well, in a little while.”

  “We could start with a light jog and see if this is worth pursuing.”

  “Let’s do it,” I said.

  “Meet you down here in ten minutes?” she asked.

  “Five.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Alright. Five, then.”

  I flew up the stairs as if I’d just grown wings.

  ~

  Adam had completed his first novel a year ago and sent it out to a dozen agents and every science fiction publisher in the country, and he received enough rejection letters to cover one of the walls in our bedroom. He actually taped them all to the wall one night and cried. So sad.

  One time, a publisher asked him to forward the entire manuscript. You would’ve thought they offered him a hundred thousand dollar advance and a movie deal. He prepped this manuscript for days, formatting, reformatting, printing, reprinting, until finally he cradled the package in his hand, kissed it for good luck, and handed it over to a bewildered postman.

  I would’ve bottled up this adorable side of Adam if possible. Energy flowed from his fingers and his toes, and we all caught it and swirled with him.

  Then, the three weeks that followed tortured him. He paced. He called several times each afternoon asking Ralph if the mailman had delivered yet. He sat up in bed most of those nights rambling on about how great life was going to be once his baby was published and sitting on store shelves across America. He dreamed up his publicity tours, book signings, and the movie opening.

  His big dream crashed hard when the rejection letter arrived. He opened the letter and read the one paragraph form letter thanking him for sharing his manuscript, but regretfully it didn’t meet their publishing needs.

  He spent the next week curled up in a ball in bed, refusing to write, to work, to even shower.

  I tried everything to cast away the murk that enshrouded him. I baked cookies. I rented the entire fir
st season of “Star Trek.” I detailed his car. I bought a new lamp for his desk. And sadly, none of these things brought Adam back to life.

  When I couldn’t stand the foul mood another second, I decided to step up my game and knock this bad mood out of our lives with a good old fashioned lie. Call me extreme, but a girl’s got to do, what a girl’s got to do. With as much pride as I could humanly stand, I flew open the door, raced to his side, and dirtied up any possibility of future claim that I, Lucy Hastings, was an honest-to -goodness girl. I turned him on his back, stared straight into his hazel eyes, and told him my coworker read the manuscript and devoured it in one night, leaving no word unread. I finished his rebirth to reality by telling him she begged me to tell him he must, no matter what, continue writing and pursuing his dream because to not would be the ultimate slap in the science fiction genre’s face.

  He gobbled this up, sight unseen, claim untested. Nothing could’ve swiped that smile off his face, not even another rejection letter. A fan was born, and that made all the difference.

  He perked up, showered, and began pounding his keyboard again. My Adam was back. Weathered, but all the more advanced than his prior unknown self.

  Now, his second book, The Zylon Temple Part II was almost complete. Soon, he’d be begging me to read it. I had to say, that being the girlfriend of a not-so-interesting writer required a delicate balance of love, respect, and a whole bunch of white lies.

  I didn’t want to be that unsupportive girlfriend who killed her boyfriend’s dreams with her unusually brash inner thoughts. So, I guarded those thoughts with the bravado of a warrior princess. I was sure if he wrote something interesting, I’d love his writing. I just hated science fiction so much. I’d rather endure a monotone speech on the process of dissecting a cell than have to read about aliens from other alternative universes ransacking planet Earth. Ugh.

  I’d tried to pick up that first manuscript and read it to the last page, but I just couldn’t. It sucked. I couldn’t stand the violence, the eternal worlds, the strange getups of the characters, the ridiculously flawed plot where one community existed in the synapses of brains in an alien species. Give me a break! Why couldn’t he just write something mainstream, normal, pertinent to real life? I had to lie and tell him I loved his story and I couldn’t wait to read more. I hated lying. It went against every moral code. But so did hurting him. I’d rather suffer the scorn of my inner rants than cause him harm.

  I loved to read. I read love stories, contemporary fiction, compelling biographies, and lots of self-help and each time, he’d eye me, then he’d eye the book, and then he’d comment on how much more interested I seemed to be in those than in his. How was I supposed to respond other than with another lie? So, I told him he needed to keep writing so I had more to read. So, he did.

  And the cycle had continued to haunt me, and I just knew one of these days it’d bite me in the butt and I’d be stuck reading a four hundred page novel about starships and aliens with cone heads.

  Unfortunately, the cycle was about to get even more brazen.

  I had just arrived home from my Monday night teaching, and Adam greeted me with a smirk and a skip in his stride.

  “I just bought our ticket to freedom today,” he said, removing my laptop case from my shoulders and dropping it to the ground, setting me free to sweep him into a congratulatory hug.

  “Oh,” I stretched my smile real wide, bracing for the unknown.

  “I’m estimating that in about six months, I’ll be able to quit the engineering firm and write full-time.”

  “Okay,” I said, provoking him to continue.

  “Book one of The Zylon Temple is now up for sale online!” He lit up like a Christmas tree, bright, alive, and hopeful.

  “What? Seriously?!”

  He picked me up and swung me around. “I already sold two copies this afternoon.”

  “How? When? Who is publishing you?”

  He stopped spinning me. “I did. I took control. I’m self-published through Sloot. I uploaded my manuscript, paid a small fee, designed a book cover with their templates, and voila! I’m published.”

  “That’s it. Just like that?”

  “Yeah, imagine? It was that easy. The number one online bookseller is selling my book. I am a novelist. I am a real novelist now.”

  I cheered him on, hugging him, squeezing him, leading him to the couch in case he passed out from pure adrenaline.

  He talked up our future life of him writing novel after novel in our log cabin on the top of a mountain somewhere in North Carolina. He named our future dogs, King and Twain, and even selected which holidays we’d venture back to Maryland and celebrate with family. I encouraged him to get excited, live in the moment, and revel in the success that he deserved so badly. And, the whole time he carried on about this crazy, ideal life, I battled with the question of why anyone would’ve already raced to purchase copies of his poorly plotted book. He must’ve written one hell of a masterpiece for the jacket copy. I prayed the reviewers would be kind because I couldn’t imagine the crash and burn of this ultimate high.

  Chapter Five

  HOPE

  When I wasn’t trying my hand at the piano or wading by the kitchen to get some face time with Lucy, I was busy stalking PJ’s, Rachel’s and Ryan’s Facebook profiles. They bantered and commented on each other’s postings. This angered me, yet, why shouldn’t they comment? They did before I shacked up with Nadeen and Isabella.

  At least three times a week, PJ would ‘poke’ me or send me a ‘big hug’ followed by a series of Xs and Os. She wanted to include me, but her random prodding just widened the rift. I hated pity, especially when I didn’t deserve it. Then, she began tossing comments to me like “Haven’t heard from you in a while. What’s the matter, new friends holding you hostage now?”

  I just needed time and space away from them. I needed to live this new life and regain my edge. I couldn’t do this in the shadow of my old life where the three of them still hung out and continued to build memories.

  Yet, I stalked. This stalking just magnified this ugly picture I had drafted of myself, and rendered it impossible to feel good about any progress in my life. Just last week, I had won the marketing award for best advertisement, and I hid the certificate under a pile of reports because when I looked at it I imagined Ryan sneering at it.

  Running helped lighten the pressure in my head and tune me back into real life and all that really mattered in the world, like oxygen, greenery, Lucy.

  She had talked me into this 10K race three weeks ago, and now we were up to running for eight minutes straight without a walk break.

  Lucy was more of a dancing queen than a runner. She pranced, rather than opened her stride. I loved sneaking peeks of her hair flowing in the wind and her face reddening to the tone of ripened cherries. I craved to see beads of sweat roll down the nape of her neck. She talked on and on about the weather, about the new elaborate housing development rising across the street, and about the rise of tomato prices.

  The air around her flowed more freely and always filled me with a sense of giddy joy.

  We ran. We walked. She talked. I listened. She summoned intelligent thoughts. I fought naughty ones. For reprieve, I talked about her and Adam. When she spoke of him she raised her voice up in sing-song fashion, which steered me back to our run, our walk, our platonic friendship status.

  Running cleared out the clutter in my brain. In just a few short weeks of running, not only had I become more fit, but I’d realized something pretty important—I could get by in life without the help of PJ constantly by my side. This proved major growth and highlighted an area in my life where I might actually seize back some control. I had always relied too heavily on PJ for direction, for advice, and for support. She deserved a break from this pressure, and I needed a break from issuing it.

  With the wind in my hair, the vibrant fall leaves blanketing my view, and a growing friendship with Lucy, I learned to block out the look of disgust on Ryan�
��s face more each day. I only winced a few times a day now instead of a few dozen.

  I could once again taste the spicy side of life, thanks to my solo bold move out of a life in which I no longer belonged. I no longer tumbled down in a hapless ball, but gained some footing.

  I loved my roommates. Well, the verdict was still out on Ralph, of course, but the rest of them were starting to really seal into my life. Reina was working hard trying to find my new love. Hana surprised me with plenty of tidbits about my new roommates, like how Ralph was afraid of the dark and slept with his overhead light blaring all night long, and how Adam meditated in a headstand for fifteen minutes prior to any writing session.

  As the weeks passed, I adjusted and started to sniff out my place among them all. As far as I could tell, everyone liked me except for Ralph. He never stuck around when I entered the room. He’d stop talking and exit, nodding down at me, inspecting my hair, my clothes, and ensuring I followed house rules of no shoes. He walked like a marine, upright, proud, authoritative, and sure-footed, just like my brother. His serious gaze, stone cold and intimidating, destroyed the honor. He was no cute teddy bear. He was a ferocious grizzly bear who would bite me in a flash if provoked.

  I avoided him; he avoided me; until finally, one day, I flew straight into him on my way into the kitchen. He caught me in his burly arms. Talk about an awkward moment. His eyes softened for the briefest moment when I lost my balance, and then hardened up to cast-iron again when I regained my footing. One thing about me—I was a scrapper. I couldn’t ignore his hatred of me for a moment longer. “Do you have a problem with me?”

  He caught my question with care. His mouth hung open. His stiff arms dropped to his side. My question poked at his rigid bubble, toying, taunting, and pricking him with great unease. Then, finally, “I’m not sure about you yet.”

  “I don’t bite.”

  “I don’t trust people easily.”

  “I’m a good person.”

  He stopped our volley and stared at me, scrutinizing, probably combing through my mind, uncovering all my ugly secrets one by one, tossing them aside, digging for more, tossing useless scraps to the side to find the real meat, the real proof, the real me exposed.