Tell Me Lies

by Carola Lovering

  The words coming out of CJ’s mouth were calling me spoiled and ungrateful and apathetic, and for once, I knew she was right.

  I had nothing to say in response. I watched the white tiles some more. I closed my eyes and Stephen flooded the blackness behind them, like he had all summer. I felt his hands pressed against my hips in the bathroom at Hawaiian Luau.

  You’re so beautiful, Lucy. Fuck.

  I can’t wait to take you out on the boat this summer. You’re gonna love it.

  I’m gonna go mingle. I’ll find you soon.

  And then his lips pressed to Diana’s, right in front of me. Their hands interlaced in Safety Van, like another reality. Like I’d dreamed the whole thing.

  Why, why, why did he fill up my whole head? My whole body? All the time. To the brim. A person like that. Why? It was over, anyway. Even if I chose to decide that he wasn’t a manipulative jerk, it wasn’t like he was banging down my door with apologies. I hadn’t heard a peep from him. I was beyond pathetic.

  I heard CJ walk out of the bathroom, her voice trailing. She was still yelling that she was absolutely going to make sure I saw a nutritionist at school, as though she had any authority over my life in California. After she left I closed the door, took off all my clothes, and examined myself in the full-length mirror. My body was a sliver of what it had been. I could see the bones in my shoulders and through my chest. I’d gone down a whole cup size and was borrowing A bras from Bree, who, despite her nonexistent figure, ate whatever she wanted. My skin was golden brown from lying on the beach in Chatham for the whole month of August; the tan lines ran right above my nipples. My brown hair was streaked with lighter pieces from the sun. I was skinny but I wasn’t gross-skinny. I looked good. I looked better than Diana. He would have to notice.

  En route to LaGuardia CJ sped down the Long Island Expressway and rambled on about her cousin Linda’s terrible battle with anorexia.

  “It’s something she never got over, Lucy. To this day she won’t use anything but skim milk in her coffee. Not even two percent, not a droplet. That’s how messed up she is in here.” CJ tapped her head with her pointer finger.

  She pulled the Lexus curbside at the terminal and helped me haul my bags out of the trunk. She squeezed me hard.

  “I love you, Sass.” When she let go, her eyes were wet.

  I felt tears rise in the back of my own throat, and I pushed my sunglasses down. “Bye. See you in November.”

  “Please eat well. Lots of protein and carbs. And call me when you land in LA.”

  I rolled my suitcase through the sliding glass doors and down the shiny black ceramic flooring toward the check-in kiosks. The airport smelled of stale, overused air. I glanced over my shoulder when I reached the end of the United line and could still see CJ through the windows, standing on the sidewalk in a stream of sunlight, watching me, her hands clasped together in front of her chest.

  20

  STEPHEN

  SEPTEMBER 2011

  I was sweating bullets as I flipped through chapter five of the LSAT Logic Games Bible: “Grouping Linear/Combination Games,” while I waited for Diana on the back patio of Giuliana’s. There were just seven weeks until the LSAT and I couldn’t afford to lose a minute of studying. I’d already torn through two other LSAT prep books over the summer—I was going to be the most prepared bastard at the test.

  “Law school?” the short Asian waiter inquired as he filled up my water glass.

  “That’s the plan. Can I get a Scotch and soda on the rocks?” Diana was always late.

  “I hear it’s tough to get in. Good luck, bro.” What kind of Asian says, “bro”?

  “Thanks. Can I get that Scotch and soda, please?”

  “Sorry I’m late!” Diana’s face was sun-kissed from her summer on Lake Winnebago, where she’d taught canoeing. Pieces of her caramel hair had lightened from the sun, and her tanned skin made her brown eyes pop.

  “I’ll have a glass of merlot. And he’ll have a Scotch and soda on the rocks.” Diana smiled, the whites of her eyes shining.

  “Already ordered one, baby.” I reached for her hand. I loved this—Diana and me back together at Baird, having a little date night in town, hearing her recite my drink order like old times.

  “I love that you picked Giuliana’s, Stephen. You remember we came here on one of our first dates.” She tilted her pretty head.

  “Of course I remember. I think about that night all the time.”

  “Close that book. You’ve been studying too much.” She circled my palm with her thumb.

  “I know, but the test is soon, Di. It’s an overwhelming amount of information.”

  “You’re gonna be so good.” She shimmied out of her cardigan. It was a steamy September night and I would’ve much preferred the air-conditioned comfort of indoor seating, but Diana loves the damn patio at Giuliana’s.

  “I’m just glad I’ll have you by my side.” I studied the smooth, bare skin above her tank top line. “I think this is gonna be a good year for us, Di.”

  “Let’s hope it’s nothing like last year.” She retrieved her hand and looked at me sharply. I felt a fight brewing if I wasn’t careful. With Diana, it was always something.

  “Princess Diana.” I met her gaze. “Stop. Let’s not dwell on the past. I love you.”

  “I know.”

  “Say you love me, too.”

  “You know I do.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I reached across the table for her hand again as the waiter set our drinks down.

  “Let’s try not to fight, okay? Let’s just try to just appreciate each other.”

  “Okay. You’re right.”

  “To the first Saturday night of senior year.” I raised my glass, desperately in need of a sip. “And to new beginnings.” I placed a small white box on the table in front of her.

  Diana tried hard not to smile as she opened the box. She examined the necklace, silver with a small turquoise stone. It was a regift, an old birthday present someone must’ve given my mother years ago. I found it in the basement, tags on and still in its box, in a large bin of stuff my mom left behind when she moved out. Diana loves turquoise jewelry, so I snagged it.

  “Stephen! It’s beautiful.” She fingered the silver-set stone. “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion. Just wanted to do something nice for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, glowing. “This looks like real turquoise. It looks expensive. Where’d you find it?”

  “At a boutique in DC,” I lied.

  “I just love it. Did Vivian help you?”

  “No way. I know your taste. Here. Try it on.” I shifted my chair closer to Diana’s and fastened the necklace, watching the pale hairs rise along the back of her neck.

  “It’s perfect,” I said, centering the turquoise stone on her collarbone.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I don’t like it. I love it.”

  “Well, I don’t like you. I love you.” It was an in-joke between Diana and me that originated freshman year, the first time I told her I loved her, one January morning before class.

  We’d woken up angry at each other after some stupid fight about my having flirted with another girl at a party, a ridiculous accusation on Diana’s part.

  “Sometimes I feel like you don’t even like me,” she’d huffed, stealing the covers, which isn’t easy on a twin bed.

  “I don’t like you!” I’d yelled. I was annoyed and hungover and tired and I half meant what I said but added, “I love you,” anyway.

  “What?” Diana propped up on one elbow.

  “I don’t like you. I love you, Princess Diana.”

  And she’d loved me, too, of course. And she still did. Her reference to our ancient inside joke, that early intimate moment, assured me that she loved me more than ever.

  After dinner, as we walked north through the
town of Claremont, toward campus, I felt the promise of the new school year in the still-summer air—the capacity of what it would hold.

  “I think I should go home,” Diana said, gesturing toward her new house on the corner of Cutler and Hutchins.

  “Home? It’s Saturday night. The first Saturday night back. You know we’re having a party at Slug.”

  “I know I’m being lame, but I’m honestly so exhausted, Stephen. Red wine was a bad idea in this heat. And I really have to be productive tomorrow and get a jump start on my thesis outline. Besides, Keaton and most of the girls won’t be back for a couple more days. Just go have fun with your friends. I’ll be boring and tired the whole time.”

  “Aw, Di.” I circled her waist with my arms. “You sure?”

  She nodded, midyawn. “Have a beer for me?”

  “Sure thing.” A beer? I’d have four shots, two lines, and a good portion of the keg for her. I was suddenly glad that Diana was staying in for the night. This was our first rager of the year, and Diana didn’t like it when I did drugs and got too wasted.

  “Come get in bed with me later?” She touched the turquoise stone on her necklace.

  “Duh.”

  “Not too late. Promise?”

  “Promise. That necklace looks mighty pretty on you.”

  “I’ll see you later.” She wrapped her arms around my neck. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

  “Never do.” I lightly smacked her ass as she skipped away, and she turned around and blew me a kiss. Diana and I were golden.

  Back at Slug, our first party was going strong. The window AC unit was on full blast, and the downstairs was packed to the brim with faces, old and new. It was too crowded, actually, because by the time you reach senior year, you realize parties where you are unable to move are not actually fun. Still, the fact that so many people were stoked on the return of Slug—my house—had my blood flowing.

  I looked for her instantly. Since the moment I’d left Diana at her house, since before that even—since I got back to Baird—Lucy was all I could think about, really. She was back on campus—I’d seen some Facebook photo of Lucy and Pippa and their posse at some dinner, with the caption “We’re so #sophomoric.”

  It was too packed and dark to see well, so I ran upstairs and found Wrigley and Charlie in the shelter of Wrigley’s bedroom, in front of a coffee table piled with blow.

  “This is kind of absurd.” I locked the door. “You can’t move down there.”

  “Isn’t it awesome? Like the good old Slug days. We’re back, bitches.” Wrigley howled with intoxicated, coked-out laughter.

  “Where’ve you been, dude?” Charlie asked.

  “Dinner with Diana.”

  “Dinner with Diana,” Wrigley repeated. “How’d that go?”

  “It was good, actually. We’re in a good place.”

  “Well, that’s great, Stephen.” Wrigley scooted over and handed me the rolled-up twenty. “Diana is a good girl.”

  “She is,” I nodded, snorting my line.

  “She here?”

  “She’s tired. Staying in.”

  “Ah.”

  I sank back into the pillows, my coke buzz settling in blissfully. It was going to be a great fucking year.

  An hour later I was fucked up on Scotch but clearheaded from the coke when I ventured back downstairs. It was still crowded, and Nicole Hart sort of cornered me and started telling me about her summer, and I was very glad that Diana hadn’t come.

  And then I saw her, a glimpse of the side of her face past Nicole’s shoulder as Nicole blabbered on about Nantucket or Sun Valley or God knows where. I excused myself from the conversation and tried to push through the crowd, but it was too jam-packed and Drake was blasting and suddenly people were pushing, and getting across to where Lucy stood was hopeless. I went into the kitchen and found Charlie making nachos.

  I was feeling fucked up as shit but poured just two more fingers of Scotch into an empty glass. The back door was open, and people were finally starting to stumble out, thank God. It was three in the morning. I watched a group of girls stagger across the porch. Lucy was among them. My Lucy, because I’d know those twiggy legs from a mile away. Long and bare and golden brown. I walked toward the door, my eyes working their way up to the top of her. She was tan and wore a fitted white dress and colorful bracelets on her stick-thin arms. God she looked good. Too skinny, maybe. I staggered out onto the porch just as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Her arms were crossed. She appeared to be waiting for her friend, the equally thin, blond one, who was talking to Evan.

  “Lucy.” I held up my hand, an easy wave.

  Her eyes met mine, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t glare, either. She looked good enough to devour, and in the span of ten seconds I thought of the sex in all its glorious formations—Lucy on her back, Lucy on her hands and knees, my fingers as far inside Lucy as they ever could be while her ocean eyes locked mine, short of breath, same as now. There was that stir between my legs. I wanted to touch her.

  Lucy held my gaze long enough for me to know that if I wanted to cheat on Diana, I probably could. She finally looked away. I watched her pull her friend from Evan and I watched them cross the street, probably heading to Adler, the main sophomore dorm. #Sophomoric.

  I inhaled Charlie’s nachos before dragging myself upstairs, an inebriated zombie. I forgot that I was supposed to get in bed with Diana after the party and I was too zonked to hear my phone ring. I almost had a heart attack when Diana stormed in at seven the next morning, her eyes searching the room for signs of betrayal.

  There was no one else, clearly there was no one else, I told her, half asleep and still drunk and so incredibly relieved that I hadn’t done anything stupid. But I hadn’t gone over to Diana’s like I’d promised and I hadn’t answered my phone and there were still “trust issues,” and the slam of my bedroom door told me this was going to be another fight.

  21

  LUCY

  OCTOBER 2011

  “Lay-gup! Lay-gup! Lay-gup!” My YogaLab instructor’s Latin twang echoed through the studio. Leg up, leg up, leg up!

  I lifted my leg up. My glutes burned with pain, but YogaLab’s yoga tone class was more of a workout than hot vinyasa, so I’d started going every day, sometimes with Jackie or Pippa, but usually alone. Bree never exercised—her metabolism continued to mystify me. The instructor switched us to lunges with weights, and I braced myself for the discomfort. My biceps were already trembling.

  After class finished, I showered and weighed myself in the locker room. I’d been eating less than seven hundred calories a day to lose the weight CJ made me gain over the summer, but I was still at 116. How was it possible?

  I walked back toward campus to Adler Quad, where my friends were sprawled out on a blanket next to a palm tree, sharing a joint. The whole image was so characteristically Baird—I had to smile.

  “How was your workout?” Jackie asked, munching on a bag of Doritos.

  “It felt good.”

  I knew what she was thinking. Why do you work out so much? Why do you eat salad every single meal? Who are you trying to impress? But Jackie had already made those kinds of comments enough, and I had learned to ignore them. She offered me a Dorito and I took two, out of pride, crunching the salty, empty calories in my mouth. They tasted delicious, of course, but the thought of the harm they could impose on my yoga-toned, broccoli-fueled body made them, as always, not worth it.

  I plopped down onto the blanket and tilted my face out of the shade of the leafy palm, toward the sun. Proximity to Adler Quad was probably the best perk to living in Adler, the sophomore dorm where the four of us shared one of the coveted suites—an apartment-style setup with our own hallway, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small living area.

  As usual Adler Quad was bright green and buzzing with Baird’s diverse student body—the intellectuals smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, the Delta Gamma girls sunbathing, the bros playing F
risbee golf, the hippies slacklining between palm trees, the art majors painting, the music junkies in guitar circles, and the others, like us, who fit somewhere in between two or three of the defined social circles. This was the scene at Baird most weekdays after class for those who didn’t rush straight to the library. The sunshine often felt endless in California, eighty-degree weather always beckoning us outdoors. I gazed toward the opposite side of the quad, where Slug guys were playing badminton, like they did most afternoons.

  Jackie passed me the joint and I inhaled, careful not to overdo it. Too much weed made me anxious and immobile. And hungry.

  “Evan Donovan is so attractive,” Bree was saying, stretched out on her stomach in the waning sunlight, her hands propping her chin. “Don’t you guys think?”

  “Meh.” Pippa sucked the joint. “Not my type.”

  “He’s too scrawny,” I said.

  “That’s because you like Stephen and Stephen is fat,” Pippa said.

  “I don’t like Stephen, and he’s not fat.”

  “He’s large,” Jackie said.

  “Actually, I see what you mean about Evan, Bree,” Pippa said, glancing in the direction of the badminton game. “He’s definitely your type.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It just means that you two would be cute together!”

  “Well, he has a girlfriend, so it’s hopeless.” Bree took the joint from Jackie.

  “Maybe they’ll break up.”

  “Meh. Doubt it.”

  “What about Walter?” Pippa nudged Bree’s bony ribs. “The infamous v-card stealer.”

  “Never again,” Bree said, and we all laughed. After a month of hooking up, Walter had written Bree an incredibly cheesy sonnet declaring his love for her, and she’d run for the hills.

  The sun sank lower in the sky, and the Slug guys finished their badminton game. I watched them grab their backpacks and walk across the quad, back toward their house. Wrigley saw us and waved, but Stephen didn’t look over. Maybe he hadn’t seen us. I watched him cross Carroll Street, his white T-shirt stretching the span of his back. The dip at the base of his neck glistened in the melting sunlight.