Tell Me Lies

by Carola Lovering

  Out in the backyard the sun blazed down stronger than before. I leaned against the side of the garage under the partial shade of a palm tree, feeling tipsy.

  Someone’s arm brushed the side of mine, and I turned to see Billy next to me. I remembered the first time I’d laid eyes on Billy Boyd, freshman fall. He was in my orientation group the first week of school. I remember we were all sitting in a big circle and I kept staring at his particularly silky head of hair and wondering what type of shampoo he used. He had big hazel eyes and I remember thinking he was attractive but that there was also an edge to him that I liked—something in the mud caked around his ankles and his dented Nalgene covered in bumper stickers. When it was his turn to recite his earliest memory he smiled, and dimples appeared on both cheeks.

  I knew I should’ve gone for someone like Billy back then instead of whoring myself out to Stephen. I supposed now was my chance.

  “Hey, Lucy.” His voice was faintly raspy. I wondered if he was sick. A wave of light brown hair fell across his forehead, and he pushed it back with his whole hand. His coppery eyes matched his Carhartt shorts.

  I returned the smile and tried to appear more sober than I felt. “Long time no see, Billy Boyd.”

  “Seriously. Where have you been hiding?”

  I had been a drunk psycho the night I made out with Billy—definitely drunker than he’d been.

  I shrugged. “I haven’t gone out much this semester.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t drink the way I used to be able to. My hangovers have gone from zero to sixty.”

  “Ripping shots in the middle of the day?” Billy laughed. “Definitely seems like you can’t drink.”

  “So you were spying on me?”

  “I saw you in the kitchen,” he said. “You’re hard to miss, you know.”

  “Well, Ella offered us those shots. And she’s the host.” I hated the way I sounded trying to flirt.

  “Oh. Then you had to take them.” Billy pulled sunglasses down over his eyes. I watched his Adam’s apple slide back and forth as he took a long sip of beer. I couldn’t remember ever noticing Stephen’s Adam’s apple. I wondered if he had one. Did all men have them? I would look it up later.

  Billy drained his cup and drew his eyes back to mine. Billy was very good-looking, but he didn’t make me feel anything.

  “I didn’t know you were friends with Ella,” I said dumbly, not knowing what to contribute to the conversation.

  “Ella’s been on a few trips with us.”

  “With BORP, you mean?”

  “Yeah. You should come sometime. We’re going up to Death Valley in a couple of weeks. Have you been?”

  “No. I hear it’s beautiful.”

  “It’s incredible. I’ll send you the info, if you want. Bring your friends. Change it up.”

  “Maybe I will. I’ve been meaning to do more of that stuff.”

  “ ‘That stuff’ as in, camping and mountain biking?”

  “Right—have adventures, et cetera. Get off the beaten path. Actually taking advantage of living in California, instead of just ripping tequila shots.” I had a feeling I’d said the right thing, and my shoulders relaxed a little. Billy laughed.

  “I wasn’t making fun of you,” he said.

  “Remember when we made out?” I asked. The second shot of tequila was rushing to my head, and I felt a boost of confidence. I hadn’t flirted in ages, and Billy had a crush on me.

  “Duh. It was only the highlight of my life.” He smiled. Those dimples. Maybe I could feel something.

  “Ha-ha.”

  “But in all seriousness, yes, I do remember when we made out, Lucy.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You do? I had you pinned as blackout.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sober. But neither were you.”

  “I was more sober than you.”

  “I need a refill.” I shook my empty cup. I was sick of beer, but if I was going to keep drinking, I might as well get drunk.

  “The keg’s done,” Billy said. “But I’m about to head back to my place and my roommates just got some thirties. Do you and your friends wanna come over and play flip cup?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Sure. I’ll go find them.”

  “What’s your number?” Billy pulled his iPhone out of his pocket.

  “I’ll text you the address,” he said after I told him, grinning as he turned to leave.

  I wandered inside, where I was supposed to be looking for my friends and inviting them to Billy’s. A clock was ticking in the corner of whatever room I was in. Tick-tock, tick-tock; slow and very fast at once, something uncanny. My flirtatious mood flipped and there was that sudden disturbance in the air again; it was almost everywhere now, as unmistakable as the smell of smoke. I suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that something terrible was going to happen, or had already happened, or was in the process of happening. Heat was rising off my chest, and whatever attraction and hope I’d just seen in Billy had already evaporated, leaving me right where I’d been before, drowning in the center of my own misery. Why why why did this continue to happen to me? I felt so awful and afraid. I couldn’t stand to be at the party another second.

  I stumbled out the front door while no one was looking. When I got home my phone buzzed, a text from a random number that I took to be Billy’s.

  See you soon, address is 404 Hutchins.

  Wrigley’s old house. My insides lurched. I deleted Billy’s message. I knew I would never text him. I would never go on his camping trip to Death Valley or have the delirious desire to be close to him. Two shots of tequila and a beer on an empty stomach told me what I already knew: I just wanted Stephen. In every crevice of my head and heart I wanted Stephen. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t have him. There was still no room for anybody else.

  I found the rest of Jackie’s pizza in our fridge and ate every bit of it cold, right out of the box. I shoved two whole sleeves of Ritz crackers down my throat.

  Afterward there were crumbs all over me and I went into the bathroom to take a shower. I took off my clothes and inspected myself in the mirror. I felt so stuffed with food it repulsed me; my stomach protruded like a pregnant person’s, a hard ball of beer and carbs and cheese.

  I turned on the shower and waited for the sound of the rushing water to drain out all other noise, just in case Jackie came home. I locked the door and knelt in front of the toilet, bending my head over the bowl, tears spilling out of my eyes. I stuck my middle and index finger down my throat, scratching at the back until I felt the vomit rise up. I did it over and over again, until I was puking only liquid, sure all the food was out.

  In the shower I turned the water as hot as it would go and rubbed my skin with soap until it squeaked clean. I brushed my teeth and climbed underneath my sheets. It was only seven o’clock. I took my vibrator from the zippered pouch in my nightstand and placed it between my legs. I closed my eyes and turned up the speed. I thought of Stephen, imagined me fucking Stephen and how good it felt for him to fuck me, because that was the only way I could come. Coming was maybe the only escape from my contaminated mind, and I did it again and again and again, until I was raw and had exhausted everything.

  When I finally slept I slipped into a vivid dream. It was the middle of July and I was aboard the Kiss Me Kate with Stephen, the sun baking our skin, the salt water spraying us as the boat zipped around Long Island Sound. He wore a navy-blue captain’s hat like the one from Lake Mead, and he picked me up and I wrapped my legs around his waist, my fingers resting in the crook at the base of his neck. We kissed and kissed, sliding down onto the seat of the Kiss Me Kate. I felt his tongue inside my mouth; I tasted him, warm and real.

  I woke up in a cold sweat in the dark. The clock read midnight. When I remembered my pain I felt it all over again. I saw Stephen’s translucent green eyes and heard his voice on the boat the summer before: I want you because I want you. It’s a sep
arate thing. I think—I’ve always thought—that I could love you, Lucy . . . .

  But he didn’t love me. It hadn’t happened. Something wasn’t enough. I spiraled into myself, desperately racking my brain for what had gone wrong, for what I could’ve done to make things different.

  Jackie didn’t come home all night, and she wasn’t in the house the next morning when I left for calculus. She finally walked through the door midafternoon, long after classes had been dismissed for the day.

  “Where have you been? I called you.” I sat at the coffee table in front of my impossible calculus homework, still depleted and hungover from the day before.

  When she didn’t answer, I stood and walked into the kitchen where she was filling a glass with tap water.

  “Where did you sleep last night? Did you hook up with someone?”

  Jackie’s mouth formed a thin, tight line, and her eyes narrowed, settling starkly on my own.

  “Jackie, what’s going on?” I folded my arms, my stomach pooling with dread, because even though I didn’t have a clue why she was upset, I didn’t think I could deal with a conflict that turned Jackie’s eyes that angry. “Is this about yesterday? I’m sorry I left the party early, I’d just had too much to drink and I wasn’t feeling it with Bill—”

  “Intro to Shakespeare was interesting,” she interrupted, placing her glass down on the counter.

  “Huh?”

  “Mr. Levy is a nice man.”

  “Yeah. He is.”

  “Uh-huh. I happened to mention that my roommate Lucy Albright is one of his advisees, and guess what he told me?” she asked, but then I already knew.

  “Jackie—”

  “He speaks very highly of you,” she went on. “He told me you’re one of his smartest advisees. He also told me how disappointed he was that you decided not to go to France, given that you were one of the few students admitted into Writers on the Riviera.”

  “Jackie—” The tears caught in my throat; they stung my eyes as I fought them back.

  “You told me—you told everyone—that you didn’t get accepted and that you were devastated. You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  There were tears in Jackie’s eyes, too, and I loathed myself.

  “Jackie, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m really sorry. I just—” I searched my numb head for a defense or an explanation but my mind had gone static, and accessing a deeper well of myself was suddenly impossible. I could think of nothing but the fact that I didn’t regret giving up France for my summer with Stephen, not for a second, and even though I wished I could, and knew I’d be a better person if I did, I couldn’t help but feel an unshakable pride in the certainty of my decision, and there was a weak comfort in that.

  “It’s not just that you lied.” Jackie swiped a tear off her cheek. “You were dying to go on that trip. I don’t understand, Lucy. What’s happened to you? You’re like a shred of yourself. I don’t know who you are anymore. I really don’t.” The anger in her voice had softened into an unbearable sadness.

  Jackie was looking at me the same way Lydia had looked at me in my bedroom in Cold Spring Harbor over Christmas when she’d caught me googling the calories in creamed spinach. Tears had glazed Lydia’s soft brown eyes.

  “You’re just so thin.”

  “I haven’t lost any more weight,” I’d said, which was true.

  “I know, you’ve looked like this for a couple of years now,” Lydia said, her familiar face afraid. “But you’re so thin that it scares me sometimes. You don’t look okay.” I’d seen Lydia cry a million times, but somehow this was worse than any of them. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Lucy. You’re stunning. You’re the skinniest, prettiest person I know. But are you okay? I mean, really, are you okay?”

  I hadn’t known what to say to that and I hadn’t wanted to lie to Lydia, my oldest friend, my other sister, and I had been hungry for so long that I’d grown accustomed to the light-headed feeling that followed me around and seemed to stunt my thought processes.

  It was the same feeling I felt in front of Jackie now. Was that it? Was I simply so hungry that I’d stopped being able to think? I tried to speak, but an invisible weight crushed my sternum. I wanted desperately to explain, but there was no explanation. I was a tin can, hollow and empty of everything.

  32

  STEPHEN

  FEBRUARY 2013

  “Happy birthday, Stephen!” My father opened the front door and greeted me with a slow, strained hug.

  “This is Alice,” I said. “Alice, this is my father.”

  Alice beamed and they shook hands.

  The twenty-fourth of February, my twenty-third birthday, fell on a drab winter Sunday, and I decided it was the right time to bring Alice home to meet my family. Luke and Sadie would both be there, and of course Kathleen had to come along. Alice and I had been out the night before and had gotten a later train out of the city than planned. My head still throbbed from the hangover.

  Luke and Kath were already at the house; since they went to bed at ten o’clock on Saturday nights they’d gotten an earlier start. I glanced at myself in the hallway mirror and noticed how tired I looked. Tea-colored bags hung under my eyes and I hadn’t shaved since Wednesday.

  “Love your earrings, Alice,” Kathleen said, sucking up as usual. Kathleen looked sensational in a pair of fitted dark jeans and a silky orange top. Her legs were slim but strong, and I couldn’t help but discreetly check out her perfect ass. I couldn’t believe she was going to be my sister-in-law. Was it inappropriate to half detest/half want to fuck your sister-in-law?

  Luke stood there like a moronic yuppie in khakis and a belt with fucking whales on it. He never used to wear preppy shit like that, but now Kathleen dresses him up like her own little Ken doll. I’d become extremely tired of being around them and their increasingly obnoxious J.Crew-ness. I was very much looking forward to August, when our lease would be up and the lovebirds would finally get their own place.

  “Birthday boy!” Kathleen exclaimed, practically strangling me. “Congratulations! I heard about NYU.”

  I smiled, thanking her, gagging on her perfume. I’d been accepted to New York University’s School of Law the week before, which was a relief, though it wasn’t Harvard or Yale or Columbia. Officer Gonzalez and the DUI still had me fucked, because the Ivy Leagues had proven out of the question. But it wasn’t the worst way to get fucked, and I had to be grateful. I thought of the silken red hair, skin white as snow, the motionless eyes, too much blood, the sound of Zombie zombie zombie . . . and I was grateful. I was.

  “If you want my real opinion, I was actually surprised you decided to stick with the law school route,” Kathleen continued, even though no one had asked for her real opinion. “I figured once you started the finance job you’d just sort of stay on that track. Like Luke.”

  Ha. Because I’m exactly like your run-of-the-mill, risk-averse fiancé Luke.

  “Well, that was never my plan,” I tried to say as nicely as possible, because Luke was watching. “My plan was always to reapply to law schools. The only reason I took a year off to work was to make some extra money, pay off some of my loans.” And I wouldn’t stay in that fucking middlebrow financial research shit job for another month if it meant a lifetime of on-the-sly blow jobs from you, Kathleen.

  “That makes total sense, Stevie,” Kathleen beamed. “And it’s so cool to see you following your passion. We’re all so proud of you.”

  Luckily Luke changed the subject when he asked Alice how her job was going, and I escaped to the kitchen to help my father with the drinks.

  “Congratulations on NYU, Stephen. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Did Mom call you today?” He glanced at me, and I noticed the deep lines that ran across his forehead, and a sharper crinkling around his eyes. His hair was grayer and thinner than I remembered. He looked exhausted and old as fuck.

  “No,” I said, stirring a gin and tonic for
Alice while Skipper started to lick the backs of my legs. “Go on, Skip.”

  “Well, it’s not even six.” My dad sighed. “Maybe she’ll call tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Oh, Stephen.” His expression fell, even sadder. “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “About Mom.”

  “Dad, it’s fine. Honestly.” I wished he could understand that I didn’t give a flying fuck whether my nutcase mother called on my birthday.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk to someone? A therapist? You know Luke talked to somebody a couple years ago.”

  “No, Dad. Mom’s been forgetting my birthday for years. It’s old fucking news. It doesn’t upset me.”

  “All right.”

  “Honestly, I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Well, Alice seems like a nice girl.”

  “She’s really great.” I stirred my Scotch and soda, roused at the idea of a cold alcoholic beverage.

  “I’m glad you’re happy.” He pulled a rack of garlic bread in the oven, and the familiar buttery scent filled my nostrils.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “How’s Diana doing? Have you two kept in touch?”

  “Diana? I dunno. I haven’t talked to her in months.”

  “Oh.”

  “I should give her a call,” I added, because my father stood there expressionless.

  “And what about Lucy? The girl you were seeing last summer?”

  “What about her? It was casual.”

  “But you liked her, right?”

  “Dad,” I sighed. “Lucy is still at Baird. She’s only a junior. It was never that serious. Why don’t we go into the living room and you can get to know Alice? My girlfriend? That’s why I brought her here.”

  “Okay.” My dad licked a spray of lime juice off his thumb. “Help me carry these drinks.”

  We all sat around the living room. The last rays of sunlight spilled in through the bay windows and illuminated the stone-colored upholstery on the couch and chairs, the glass bowl full of fake apples, the intricate colored pattern of the Oriental rug.