Tell Me Lies

by Carola Lovering

  “Where the hell did you guys go?” Pippa appears behind us, and I’m suddenly conscious of the rest of the guests beginning to fill the tent. “The bridesmaids were supposed to ride back together. You left me alone with Bree’s Ohio people who think I’m a professional prostitute.”

  “I’m sorry. There was an emergency,” Jackie says. “Three vodka sodas with limes, please,” she tells the barback.

  “Stephen’s here, and he’s engaged.” I feel surprisingly neutral saying the words out loud.

  “He’s engaged? To who? To that girl he’s with? That’s his girlfriend?”

  “Yes. Well, fiancée. Jillian.”

  “Oh fuck. You saw the ring and everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck. And you didn’t know? Bree didn’t know?”

  “Bree couldn’t have known,” Jackie says. “She would’ve told us.”

  “But wouldn’t Evan have told her?”

  “Maybe he just forgot.” I sigh. “They’ve had a lot going on.”

  “Fuck,” Pippa repeats. “I can’t believe Stephen fucking DeMarco is engaged.”

  “That poor, poor girl,” Jackie says.

  “You guys, it’s fine.” I take another sip of my drink, my nerves jangled at the sight of Stephen and his fiancée near the entrance of the tent. Her dress is marigold and boxy and what CJ would call “a disaster.” I watch him study the ice sculpture while he clutches his drink in one hand. He holds the tumbler firmly with the same fingers he’d used to hold the back of my neck when he kissed me.

  “I can’t really see her,” Pippa says, glancing over. “Bue that dress is nightmarish.”

  “Pippa.” I sigh.

  “Luce . . .” Jackie links her elbow in mine.

  “I’m fine. Really. Let’s go get some appetizers. I need to eat something.”

  I keep my eyes peeled for Stephen and Jillian, but it becomes harder to spot them as the tent fills with guests.

  Back at the bar, a tall guy with a blond buzz cut taps my shoulder, and I smile when I look up to see Mike Wrigley’s face.

  “Lucy Albright,” he says. “You look great.”

  “You look great, Wrigley.” We hug.

  “Cranberry juice,” he says to the bartender, pointing to his empty glass. “Eighteen months sober,” he says to me.

  “I think I heard that somewhere. Good for you.”

  Wrigley and I catch up for a bit before he says he’s going to say hi to Pippa.

  “So good to see you,” I say honestly. I’d always liked Wrigley. He and Pippa hadn’t had the best relationship, but I’d learned not to cast people into designated boxes. As it turns out, the world is not black-and-white. There’s a whole lot of gray.

  “You, too, Luce. DeMarco’s around here somewhere. Just a heads-up.”

  “I saw him from afar,” I said, nodding. “Is he really engaged?”

  “Yeah. Pretty recently.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Good for him.”

  “For what it’s worth, Luce, he never deserved you.”

  “Thanks, Wrig. I wasn’t being spiteful, though. It’s been awhile now. I’m over it.”

  “I know you are. I just wanted to tell you that. DeMarco’s a good friend of mine, sure, but he’s a dick. You’re a unicorn.” Wrigley touches the tip of my nose.

  “Thank you, Wrig. You’re a good man.” I clink my glass against his before he turns to find Pippa.

  Evan and Bree’s first dance is to “Loving You Easy” by Zac Brown Band. I’ve never heard Bree listen to Zac Brown Band, but the song is somehow perfect, because easy is just the word I would use to describe Evan and Bree’s relationship. It was easy from the start—from that very first night he kissed her on the street outside Schiller’s after Stephen and I had gone home. And that easy love had carried them through to this moment, here and now, dancing their first dance at their beautiful wedding, to their perfect song.

  Bree looks more stunning than I ever could have imagined, and it isn’t just her dress and makeup and Grecian-goddess hairstyle. I can see in her face just how much she loves Evan, in the way her smile is bursting from every part of her. And Evan, too, handsome in his tux—God, the way he’s looking at her as he spins her around and around in his arms, mouthing the words to the song.

  Every morning when you come downstairs

  Hair’s a mess but I don’t care

  And whatever it is that I’m seeing in front of me—the thing I made a point of not looking at too closely as it unfolded over the past three years—is again bringing tears to my eyes. So I’m caught off guard when, as the song ends and people are clapping and wiping their faces, I hear the voice behind me.

  “It’s funny, I never cry at weddings.”

  I know who it is before I turn around—that voice could probably wake me from the dead—and a jolt of electricity runs up my spine. But I’m shocked at how calm I am by the time I complete the turn and clip my gaze into his—that impossible green.

  “Apparently I do,” I say.

  “Leave it to Lucy Albright to look hotter than the bride.” He raises his eyebrows. The comment, which would have, not a couple years earlier, drenched everything inside me with crack-like lust, now seems typical in a way that makes me sad.

  “Hey, Stephen.”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  I study him. He looks mostly the same, except older, maybe. Tired in his face. Maybe five or six more pounds packed around his middle.

  “It’s been awhile, huh?”

  “It has.”

  “A couple of years, I think.”

  I nod. At the Christmas party, he’d wedged away from Jillian long enough to say hi to me, and I’d felt so sick I’d nearly dropped my drink. There were too many things I’d wanted to say but of course he’d done the talking, touching on law school and his overwhelming workload, a two-minute surface-level conversation that demolished me with its lack of intimacy.

  Now, I realize, I have nothing to say to him.

  “Have you been here all weekend, Luce?”

  “I got here yesterday morning. I had the bridal lunch and the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Ah. How was the rehearsal dinner? I heard Evan’s speech was very touching.”

  Even though the sarcasm isn’t obvious in his tone, I know it’s there. Stephen has always scoffed at Evan’s earnestness.

  “It was really nice.”

  “So, Luce. You gonna make me jealous, strutting around with your date in that dress all night.” He looks me up and down, not inadvertently. He sounds a little drunk.

  “Stephen.”

  “Sorry. Old habits, ya know?” He sips his Scotch and soda and gives me a coquettish grin.

  “Well, don’t worry. No dates even for bridesmaids unless we have something here.” I clutch my left ring finger. “But I see you dodged that problem.”

  “But if that wasn’t the rule you’d no doubt have some stud on your arm,” he says, avoiding my insinuation of his fiancée. “And he’d be glaring at me for having this conversation with you.”

  I shrug, imagining Dane and how absurd it would be if he were here. I sip my drink. I can see in Stephen’s face that he’s working to conjure his next comment, his next move, because that’s what life is to him—one big chessboard. It’s suddenly so uninteresting to me—our “conversation”—which isn’t a real conversation at all, and I’m racking my brain for an excuse to leave it and find my friends. And it isn’t because I’m nostalgic or upset or even uncomfortable; the shock I felt in the church has lifted, and what’s left isn’t pain, but apathy. Stephen is just another guy who needs to shave and lose the beer belly, another corporate lawyer who gets his kicks on payday. Maybe he was magic to me once, but he isn’t anymore. The pedestal has finally vanished, yet somehow, the relief in knowing I’m over him doesn’t make me want to sing from the hilltops. It just makes me want to go and do something else.

  “Congratulations,” I say. “I’m happy for you.” I’m not actually happy for hi
m, but maybe I will be, one day.

  “So that’s it?” He cocks his head, and the old girlfriend part of me wants to smack him in the face, not for myself but for her. Acknowledge your engagement! Acknowledge your fucking engagement!

  “That’s it.”

  “You don’t want to catch up more? Take a walk or something?”

  I look into his narrow green eyes, his gaze as steady and uncompromising as ever, and instead of an internal collapse something quiet but true clicks within, and there is my answer. I can see now what I am to him, what I’ve always been to him, and the part of me that would be desperately thrilled to take a walk with Stephen and find out what would happen is no longer even subliminal—it’s just gone. In his amused, absorbed expression I can see the risk and the rush that talking to me provides him. It’s something that is not remotely about me.

  And then there’s a familiar voice echoing in my head. A teenage girl’s voice.

  He’s no one you know. He’s this older guy, from Bayville.

  And all of a sudden I know, because when you figure out the truth you can feel it, hot and deep in your bones, and it feels different and familiar at once, like déjà vu, like opening your suitcase in a foreign place and smelling home.

  “Can’t take a walk,” I say. “I have to tend to the bride.” I give him a small smile and turn on one heel. But then I twist the heel further and complete the circle. I can’t not say it.

  “I always meant to ask you . . .” I lock his gaze. “Did you know a girl named Macy Petersen in high school?”

  “Macy Petersen.” He says her name slowly, lingering on each syllable. He puts a finger to his chin and scorches me with his eyes, which are smiling. “Hmm. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  I know he’s lying the way you know it’s going to storm, the electrical charge in the air that precedes lightning. I know what he did to Macy—it’s an instinct in my gut so overpowering that it has to be Macy knowing, too; silently passing this knowledge to me from her side. There are no specific details I can grasp in my mind; there is no proof or evidence, only inexplicable yet incontestable certainty.

  “Why do you ask, Luce?” He doesn’t blink.

  I shrug, and that’s it. I feel him staring at me as I turn and walk away for good this time. Knowing he’s watching me doesn’t do anything for me anymore.

  Maybe it’s seeing Bree and Evan in love the way I always imagined was possible for myself, or maybe it’s seeing Stephen so blatantly unchanged and capable of worse than I ever imagined, or maybe it’s just a part of growing up and realizing things when you’re ready to realize them, but I feel flooded with profound conviction as I grab my clutch from Table 8 and exit the tent.

  The late-summer light is fading but the air is still warm, and I take out my cell phone and wander out past the swimming pool onto the Donovans’ luscious acreage.

  CJ picks up on the first ring. “I’ve been waiting for your call! Tell me everything.”

  I do tell her everything, not skipping a detail, because by this point, CJ and I both know that skipping the details is too risky. I tell her all about the bridal luncheon and the rehearsal dinner and the ceremony and seeing Stephen and Stephen’s fiancée and his fiancée’s tacky dress and Bree and Evan’s first dance and how spectacular the wedding has been—and sharing it all with my mother is everything. Part of me wants to tell her what I know about Macy’s death—about Stephen being there that night—but it’s the one thing I leave out. Somehow, it felt like a message that was only meant for me.

  “His fiancée would be tacky,” CJ says.

  “I said her dress was tacky.”

  “Which means she’s tacky because she chose it!”

  “This isn’t about insulting his fiancée, Seej.”

  “Well, you’re being very mature. I would’ve thrown a drink in his face.”

  “If I did that I’d look like a psychopath. Besides, I don’t care enough. I thought I’d care—I was practically sick leading up to this weekend, and when I saw the ring, I thought I’d be sick right on the altar. But then it all just went away. I was watching Bree and Evan dance their first dance, and all the Stephen stuff just stopped mattering. I don’t know, it was like, nothing changed except that suddenly I was seeing things differently, and then I just felt stronger and better.”

  “Well, time and space give you clarity, and sometimes you don’t realize things until . . . you do.”

  “Yeah. I just don’t know what I was thinking, all those years. I do and I don’t, I guess.”

  “Everyone has that guy, Luce. That one guy you think you’ll never be able to shake—the one who gets under your skin and epically fucks you up for a little while. I know I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Oh yeah. Cole Hammond. I’ve told you about him, haven’t I? I barely think about it now, but when it was happening, it was big-time. But guys like that, in the end, when all the smoke has cleared, just make you realize what you don’t want.”

  “Yeah,” I say, leaning against the trunk of thick maple, its leaves casting early moonlit shadows at my feet. “I get that now. Talking to Stephen tonight, I understood that, to him, I was always just this source of entertainment—this thing—and that he sees relationships as just these useful things, and I would never want to be that to anybody, not in a million years. I don’t even hate him, not anymore. It was just sad or something.”

  “Well, it is sad.” CJ sighed through the phone. “I’m proud of you, Luce. You sound very Buddhist.”

  “I dunno, Seej. It’s been really good to be here—seeing Jackie and Pip is amazing, I miss them—but I’m just exhausted. I don’t want to go back to the city tomorrow.”

  “So don’t. Take the train out here. I’ll pick you up. We can do yoga or nails or something.”

  “I don’t really want to go back to the city on Monday, either.”

  “So take the day off. Can you?”

  “No way. There’s this big pitch.”

  “Hmm.”

  “The thing is, Seej . . .”

  “Spit it out, Sass.”

  “I think I want to leave New York.” Saying it out loud, I know it’s true. “And it’s not because any one thing is going particularly wrong. I mean I don’t like my job, so that’s part of it. But I used to have all these dreams about traveling and writing and journalism school and I feel like at some point I just abandoned all of that, and I can’t exactly pinpoint when or why. I know I’m freelance writing a little bit, but I can’t pursue it seriously while I’m working in sales, and let’s face it—I’m not getting anywhere with editorial at The Suitest. I don’t know, CJ. I think I need to go and be somewhere else for a while. Figure out what I want.”

  “Well, I think you have to listen to those feelings. I always thought you’d make a fantastic writer, and I know you can do it, if that’s what you want. The last thing you should feel is stuck. It’s never too late to make a change.”

  “So you don’t think it’s a bad idea? Leaving New York?”

  “I think the opposite. I love having you close, but, Luce, this is your life. It’s a giant world out there. You gotta dream really, really big.”

  “You’re right. I just . . . I don’t even know where to start anymore.”

  “We can brainstorm when you’re home tomorrow. Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

  “Okay.” I smile into the phone. “I should probably go, CJ. I can’t miss the toasts. I’ll call you from the train tomorrow. I love you.”

  “I love you more.”

  I hang up and gaze back toward the reception, the pearl-colored tent glowing in the dusk, alive with dancing and the twelve-piece band. I smooth the front of my dress and walk back toward the music.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sarah Cantin and Allison Hunter, interchangeably, I will never be able to thank you enough. The two of you have made this book so much better than I ever dreamed it could be. Sarah, thank you for being my brilliant editor, sharing my vision, and se
eing what was special about this book from an early stage—and bringing that to the forefront. Allison, you are fearless and savvy and extraordinary, and I am beyond lucky to have you as my agent; I couldn’t have done any of this without your solid advice, constant enthusiasm, and unwavering support.

  Amelia Russo, thank you for reading more early drafts of this novel that anyone should’ve had to, and for our insightful conversation on top of Aspen Mountain that prompted me to write the first pages of Tell Me Lies five years ago—I’ll never forget that moment. Enormous thanks to Joycie Hunter, Ryan Payne, Hannah Thompson, Ginger Nelson, Sangeeta Mehta, Stefanie Lieberman, Emily Finnegan, Elsie Swank, Claire Abbadi, and my parents and siblings for reading various drafts of the manuscript along the way, and providing invaluable feedback and enthusiasm that kept me coming back to my laptop. Joycie, thank you for believing in this book during times when I couldn’t. Ryan, thank you for believing in me when I couldn’t believe in myself—it will always mean everything.

  To my friends—you know who you are—thank you for being just that. I am eternally grateful for the many long and immensely helpful conversations I’ve had with you about this book. Joanie Choremi, Dru Davis, Maggie Seay, Julia Livick, and Charlotte Hardie—you are my sisters, and you helped bring the characters of Pippa, Bree, and Jackie to life. Kacey Klonsky, thank you for our photography sessions and for being such a solid source of support and friendship in my life. Thank you to Eliza Carter. Thank you to Chloe LaBranche for your willingness to help. Thank you to Laura Van Ingen, and Lily Haydock for your knowledge and input on all things Long Island.

  Thank you to Danielle Lanzet, Rachel Crawford, and Duvall Osteen—your early advice and agent wisdom was more helpful than you know. Thank you to Susan Breen and my unforgettable group at the New York Pitch Conference for your early support. Thank you to Eric Rayman, Haley Weaver, Clare Mao, Sherry Wasserman, Felice Javit, Judith Curr, Albert Tang, Bianca Salvant, and everyone else at Simon & Schuster, Atria, and Janklow & Nesbit who contributed to this project—I am grateful, including Stephanie Mendoza and Ann Pryor.