The Absolutely True Story of Us

by Melanie Marchande

  Based on a True Story

  Six Months Ago

  It all starts with five little words.

  Based on a true story.

  I'm at the dollar theater with my friend Jack, splitting the bag of popcorn I smuggled in, thanks to my cavernous oversized purse. I feel kind of bad. I know these places barely make any money as it is, and I'm only making things worse by refusing to buy their shrink-wrapped cookies with the pink frosting. But I haven't sold an article in ages, and Jack is just as broke as I am. He's been job-hunting for three years now. At this point, filling out applications pretty much is his full-time job.

  Me, I'm still holding onto the great American dream: self-employment. Owning a business. Being an entrepreneur. Working from home. Bathrobes. Fuzzy slippers. Mail order groceries. Tequila at nine A.M. I won so many writing awards in college I could wallpaper my living room with them, so why the hell can't I make my living as a writer?

  That question stopped being rhetorical some time ago.

  "Hey, stop being greedy." Jack tries to swat my hand out of the way, nearly overturning the bag in the process.

  I squeal at him, saving it just in time. "For God's sake. You're like the dog in that fable who drops the bone in the water when he sees his reflection. You stop being greedy, or neither one of us gets any popcorn." He's rolling his eyes, but I decide to ignore that. "Besides, I brought it."

  "Besides, I brought it," Jack echoes, in an obnoxious falsetto. "That's you. That's what you sound like right now."

  By all rights, I should hate Jack. I met him in a dive bar shortly after Dean left, during one of my brave attempts to "put myself out there." The sexual chemistry was nil, but we fell hard for each other as friends and have been completely inseparable since. He's a gorgeous player with a killer smile, but my libido remains stubbornly disinterested. Thankfully, the feeling's mutual - which is slightly less surprising on his side.

  Well, he might be a player, but he's no Dean. He doesn't get involved with women who have romantic commitments, and he never breaks hearts on purpose. So he's got that going for him. I wouldn't be able to stand his company if he was that kind of scumbag.

  "Look. Based on a true story." Jack points at the screen. "I can't wait until this comes out on Redbox and we can do a drinking game."

  "We could've done one now," I observe. "Want me to go hit the liquor store across the street? It's not like they're searching bags here."

  "It's eleven-thirty in the morning," he observes, raising his eyebrow at me. "Have some morals, Warden."

  "Neither of us have jobs, Harrison." I laugh at him. Thankfully, we're the only ones in the theater, so we get to enjoy ourselves. "There's nothing immoral about day-drinking when you have no responsibilities."

  "Yeah, but there is something immoral about me carting your drunk ass home. Never again, I swear. Didn't even get a blowjob out of it." He winks at me.

  "You want one?" I flick a piece of popcorn at his lap.

  "Ask me again in ten years, if we're both still single." Suddenly, he sits up straighter. "Shit, I just thought of the best plot for a romantic-comedy-porno ever."

  "Oh, great, I hear that's a super lucrative genre right now." I roll my eyes at him. "Okay, so...which part of this is based on a true story?"

  "That part," he says, pointing at the lead actor taking a drink. "One of the family members probably drank soda at some point, right?"

  Snickering, I lean back in my seat. "Okay, but seriously. It has to be something more than that."

  "No, it doesn't." He turns to look at me. "Wait, are you serious? You actually think they have to back up their claims when they say that? Nobody asks."

  I guess I've never thought about it before. "So, you can just make up any bullshit you want and claim it's true? And nobody can sue you?"

  "I mean, as long as it's not about anyone in particular, sure." Jack shrugs. "Who cares? Who's gonna find out?"

  The seed of an idea is germinating in my mind. I can't even focus on the movie when shit starts to go crazy, because I'm still thinking about what Jack said.

  Last year, I did try my hand at writing a romance novel. It's the most lucrative genre in fiction, and I guess I wanted to prove a point to myself. I managed to get some good reviews and make enough to cover the editing costs, but it became very clear that it wasn't going to be my new career. I just didn't get it. Clearly, I didn't understand what the market wanted. I swore I'd never do it again, but now I'm starting to reconsider.

  Rom-com porno sounds ridiculous, but in this post Fifty Shades world, I know steamy romance is hugely popular. And "based on a true story" as a hook? I could do a lot worse.

  It's been a while since I tried to write fiction. Before the last novel, it had been even longer. My parents always gently discouraged me from it, saying it was impossible to make a career out of it. Unless I was lucky enough to become the next Stephen King or James Patterson, there were a lot more practical ways to spend my time.

  A plot is starting to unwind itself in my mind, and not even the jump scares can shake me out of it. I can already see the movie trailer set to Carolina Liar's "Show Me What I'm Looking For." It's beautiful, sexy, inspiring. I'll hit every bestseller list, win every award.

  "Psst." Jack snaps his fingers in my face. "Where'd you wander off to?"

  "I got an idea," I tell him, slowly, still staring at the screen but not really seeing it. "An idea for a book."

  ***

  Back at home, I nibble on the edge of my fingernail. Am I really going to do this? It's so easy: just five little words. A lie, but a harmless one. I'm not even pretending to be an addict or a trauma survivor or anything like that, and besides, people lie like this all the time. Like the people who made that movie. They don't expect me to believe some family was really terrorized by a demon that was attached to a haunted doll, do they? It's artistic license. It's an acceptable falsehood.

  Nobody will ever know.

  I've already got a perfectly serviceable pen name, with one sad, languishing book I never bothered to un-publish. So why not? What's stopping me?

  I crack my knuckles, and then I start to type.

  The book begins to form before my eyes. I call it Mergers & Acquisitions, because I'm being terribly clever. Boy meets girl, boy and girl are competing for the same job, claws out, sex - and eventually love - ensues. It's pretty standard stuff, but the hook gives it more depth. More character.

  Fake character. But character all the same.

  As I write, I let pieces of my personality seep into the main character-slash-author. I am Lana DeVane, and Lana is me. The hero, Damien, is everything I know the reading public wants. Dominant, demanding, arrogant. Sexy and loyal as hell. Smart and sarcastic and successful. By the end, I'm practically in love with him. Too bad guys like that don't seem to exist. Particularly the "loyal" part.

  Anyway, readers love it. Just as I thought, they love him even more than I do. Sometimes my predictions actually come true.

  Of course, I didn't predict that within two months of publishing the book, I'd have the opportunity to be interviewed for an online news segment about successful romance author-entrepreneurs. One I couldn't pass up. I don't use my real name, but I have no choice but to use my real face.

  And they want to meet the guy.

  Well, it's only natural.

  Jack is the first person I ask, of course. He laughs in my face and tells me he's not getting mixed up in my drama. Sometimes that guy is just too damn smart.

  That only leaves one option, really.

  Dean.

  Ugh.

  We're still on civil terms, more or less, in spite of everything. And he'll probably feel obligated enough to say yes. We've got a history. We can fake the chemistry easily enough.

  Harmless, right?

  Of course, I also don't predict that one of my sisters will stumble across the video and discover my secret identity. And that my whole family is going to read the damn book and completely lose their minds, want
ing to get to know this amazing, romantic specimen of a man.

  They've met Dean at a few holiday get-togethers, but they always seemed to have trouble remembering his name. As a middle child among six siblings, it's easy to overlook me. And I've never really minded it - at least, that's what I tell myself.

  The interview was a cakewalk. I booked us a few author appearances and book signings for next year, making sure he could get the time off work. Pfft. No big deal. We'll just keep playing this game until people forget about my book, or I publish a new one, whichever comes sooner. Putting on a show for the reading public is easy.

  Putting on a show for my family? Well. That's a horse of a different color.

  ***

  Six months after that fateful day in the theater, I'm suppressing the urge to kick myself. Hard.

  Under the table, because otherwise my parents might notice.

  My dad is one of those guys who always looks like a doctor. It doesn't matter what he's wearing, you can't help but picture him in a white coat and a stethoscope. My mom slightly less so, but that's mostly because of the celebratory nose stud she got after my baby sister was born. They're actually both doctors; my dad specializes in internal medicine, and my mom specializes in podiatry. They both specialize in a total inability to seem interested in my life.

  "It's so nice to see you again," my mom says to Dean for the third time. "Now, I'm sorry, you'll have to remind me - what line of work did you say you're in?"

  "Murders and executions, mostly," I mutter under my breath. But apparently my mother hasn't started losing her hearing yet.

  "What's that, honey?" she asks mildly, poking at her plain steamed fillet of fish.

  I shake my head, immediately regretting it. "Nothing, Mom. Just a joke."

  "I want to know the joke!" She takes a sip of her wine.

  "It's from a movie," says Dean helpfully. "American Psycho."

  "Oh," my mom intones. "What's that about?"

  "A successful businessman who's also a serial killer," I tell her.

  "Oh no! That's terrible." She tsks, taking another suspicious look at her fish. "Why would anyone make a movie about that?"

  My dad sighs. "It's not a true story, Bea. Just a horror movie. You don't have to act so shocked."

  "It's a comedy, actually," Dean puts in.

  I kick his shin under the table. Not hard, but enough to make a point.

  "What's so funny about killing people?" My mom knits her eyebrows, shaking her head at me. "I swear, I never understood your sense of humor."

  "Anyway, the joke is that Felicity has no idea what I do," Dean says, patting my hand. "Just that I'm in 'business.' And really, that's good enough. The details are boring. I don't even like talking about it."

  "Oh, busy businessman!" My mom's already gone through most of the bottle of wine, and she hasn't even started on her entrée yet. Probably because it's slightly more exotic than unflavored oatmeal, and she hasn't quite decided what to make of it. "Good for you. Felicity was always so artsy, I figured she'd end up with somebody like her."

  Artsy. It's her nice way of saying scatterbrained. Which is true, fair enough - I spent about twenty minutes looking for a matching pair of earrings this morning before I gave up and went without. But that doesn't make me any less of a functional human being, most of the time. I'm not sure why my mother thinks it would be more virtuous to fight my space-cadet nature and go into some field with lots of math, where I'd probably end up accidentally killing people - but it was a major point of contention in my childhood. She wasn't too happy about my brothers going into mechanical trades, but at least it was something practical.

  Thankfully, my oldest sister took the pressure off all of us by showing the proper amount of interest in medicine from a young age. While I drew epic cartoon stories and my brothers tried to take apart the lawn mower, my sister played "hospital" with all her dolls lined up in makeshift toilet paper bandages. Predictably, she loved biology in high school, and before long she was accepted into a prestigious medical school and well on her way to the only career path my parents truly understand.

  For me, "become a doctor" was only a slightly less realistic goal than "build a homestead on Mars." I was simply missing whatever gene Tabby has, the one that's gratified by studying diseases and muscle groups and the names of all the tiny bones in your ear.

  I love my family. I do. But after a lifetime of being the inexplicable middle child, the one my parents always mentioned last when they caught up with friends and extended family - "oh, Felicity, she's just...she's still showing a lot of interest in telling stories, so we're hoping she'll take up journalism or technical writing, you know? But the most important thing is that she's happy..."

  I'm just over it.

  They're proud of me, of course. But I still always feel like I'm on the other side of the glass at the zoo, and while they gawk and appreciate, they'll never understand.

  "It's so romantic, the story of how you two got together," my mother says, a little dreamily. When my father gives her a sharp look, she rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't bring up anything embarrassing. I skimmed over those parts anyway."

  "It's not all based on fact," I point out, suddenly feeling a hot blush creeping up the back of my neck. I've managed to avoid thinking about my mother reading sex scenes I wrote, but the look on her face tells me that she might not be completely truthful about the "skimming" thing.

  "Stop it," my dad mutters. "You're embarrassing her."

  It's tempting to face-plant into my lasagna, but somehow, I resist the urge.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Master

  We're finally home, after the longest two hours of my life.

  By which I mean, of course, that I'm home. I didn't even live here when I was with Dean, but it's all too easy to fall into old mindsets all the same.

  "I don't think I can handle another dinner with your mom wondering if my penis is shaped like the guy in the book," he mutters, raking his hands through his hair.

  "I'm sure she was not doing that," I insist. "Probably."

  Dean groans, flopping back on the sofa. "I'm really starting to regret saying I would do this. Can't we invent some kind of emergency that sends me out of town?"

  Glaring at him, I sprawl on the lounge chair across the room. "Are you really giving me a hard time? This is the least you can do."

  "Fuck's sake, Lissy." He scrubs his hands across his face. "Don't start this again. I'm happy to be here. Really. I'm happy to help you out. I know what you think about me these days, but..."

  He drifts off, gazing at the floor, seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say.

  "But?" I prompt him, tone softening slightly.

  "But I still care about you," he says, glancing at me. "You were the most important person in my life for five years, I can't just throw that away."

  And now I'm not the most important person in anybody's life.

  The thought comes, unwelcome, and I can't seem to push it aside.

  Sighing, I curl up, drawing my knees into my chest. "Well, that's nice." I'm honestly not quite sure if I'm being sarcastic.

  "And I know you care about me, too," he prompts. "Because otherwise you would've just hired a gigolo."

  A burst of laughter escapes before I can stop it. "Shit. I could've written that off as research, probably."

  "Sure. Tell the IRS you're hiring hookers. What could go wrong?" Dean shrugs, and it all comes back in a rush. The sadness, the regret. I remember now why I loved him so much. We had that rapport. We just got along so well - like two people who were meant to be together.

  Too bad he turned out to be a liar and a cheater and a general, all-purpose scumbag.

  I still can't reconcile what I know about Dean with the man sitting in front of me. It's never made sense to me. I've never quite accepted it, never been able to wrap my head all the way around his betrayal.

  It's not like him.

  I'm letting his unasked question - do I sti
ll care about him? - linger in the air. I don't know the answer, and I don't want to. Of course I still care about him as a human being, more or less. I'd drag him out of a burning building just as readily as I'd drag anyone else. Maybe because I'm too compassionate, or maybe, just maybe...

  No. I can't let myself have doubts. Not now. The past is the past, and if he was innocent, then why did he leave? Innocent people don't walk away from relationships like that. He had "guilty conscience" written all over him.

  Goddamn it. I want to forget. After all this time, there's still a part of me that wants to just crawl over to the sofa and curl up in his arms. Pretend that I've forgotten everything that's come between us. I just want to feel him breathing, hear his heartbeat.

  I want to make love. Maybe it wasn't always the best sex in the world, but at least it felt like it meant something. Even if that was a lie, I didn't know back then. It seemed real. It seemed right.

  Warden, don't do this now.

  Get yourself together.

  Any day now.

  ***

  After Dean goes to bed, I finally feel brave enough to check my phone again. I know M's going to be mad, that's a given. The only question is why I care so much.

  It's just a silly game. That's all. It's fun, it's an escape, and it's completely harmless. I can stop anytime I want to.

  Right.

  He only sent me two messages after I started ignoring him earlier.

  M: Lana?

  And then:

  M: ?

  Two messages in four hours, that means he's pissed for sure. I should just ignore it. I should delete this damn anonymous messaging app, block him on every social media profile I have, and move on with my life. Instead, I text him back.

  I had to go to dinner.

  It takes me a few tries to delete the "sorry" from the beginning of the message. He doesn't need an apology. I haven't done anything wrong. But I still feel like I ought to apologize, and I don't know why.