The Absolutely True Story of Us

by Melanie Marchande

  Her head pops up. "Trust me," she says. "Laces. Otherwise you might as well be wearing jeans."

  "Yes ma'am." I grin, getting up from the sofa. "How was the meeting?"

  "Just a lot of contract stuff." She straightens, holding two beers. "These are both for me, by the way."

  "Thanks," I tell her, reaching past her for another one. "Any other fetish ball tips? Is it a faux pas to wear underwear?"

  "You'll probably regret it if you don't," she smirks. "But you won't be able to stuff a pair of boxers under leather pants - not if they fit right. Get some decent briefs."

  "Define decent."

  "Not in a three-pack from a big box store," she says, going to the cupboard.

  "I'm kind of offended that you feel the need to say that," I inform her. "I'm a boss now. I dress for success."

  "Yeah, well your employees aren't seeing your underwear, I hope." She examines a can of soup. "Although, of course someone else might..."

  She's referring to Jessica, of course.

  I'm not dignifying that with a response. She can think whatever she wants to think, it doesn't make a difference to me. We're done. I gave her five years of my life, and she couldn't learn to trust me.

  Never again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Gang's All Here

  Lissy

  "Hey, hey, the gang's all here!" my mom cries out, and she runs to my older sister Tabby for a hug. We're all crowded around baggage claim at LaGuardia, wishing for the floor to open up and swallow us whole. Or maybe that's just me.

  Tabby comes to me next, squeezing me tight before she pulls back to look me up and down. "I'm so happy for you," she enthuses. "Finally found the one!"

  "Guess there's hope for all of us," says little sister Stephanie, continuing the grand family tradition of the back-handed compliment.

  My brothers all hug me, then slap Dean on the back in quick succession. He looks slightly off-balance by the end of it, which affords me a little private smile.

  Dean's an only child, and over the years he and his parents have grown distant. He never seemed to adjust to the dynamics of a big, loud family when he spent holidays with us, and I can't believe he took the news of their visit so well. It almost seemed like he was prepared for it, which doesn't make any sense. Why would my parents have told him about it before me?

  "I heard there's this amazing undiscovered seafood place uptown," my middle brother Scott says. "Hey Dean, do you think you can leverage some of those business connections to get us in?"

  "I promise you, Scott, if you've heard of it, it's not undiscovered." I smile at him. "Also, don't you think it's a little too early to be asking for favors?"

  "Hey, he's part of the family now!" Big brother Nick slaps Dean on the back. "Seriously though, don't listen to anything Scott says."

  "Boys," my dad says, sounding bored. "Please."

  "I can get you into any restaurant you like," says Dean with a dazzling smile.

  Right. I forgot he could charm people. Even my sister Tabby, who is several magnitudes more gorgeous than I am and is married to a pilot with steel-blue eyes, can't stop staring at him.

  Not that I can really blame her. When he first walked up to me in that park, I thought it was some kind of prank. He looks like he should be on the cover of GQ, or at the very least, a Lexus ad. His deep brown hair is close-cropped and well-styled; he obviously goes to a more expensive barber now that he's managing a whole team at the ad agency. He's only mentioned that fact about ten times since he moved in.

  His eyes are this sort of inexplicable silver-gray, which I suppose I didn't fully appreciate after years of being with him. They really are pretty striking.

  Well, nobody's questioning how handsome he is. Doesn't change what he did. But I have to pretend like we're in love, so I focus on his eyes.

  Uh oh. This could get dangerous.

  Damn it. Jack was right. I've moved on, I'm over it. I want nothing more to do with Dean romantically. He's helping me out as a friend - admittedly a friend I don't trust as far as I can throw - but I can't stop staring at those eyes.

  "So, Dean." Stephanie has managed to worm her way between us. "You're like Don Draper, huh?"

  He laughs, way too cheerfully for the situation. "Sadly, no. I deserve neither such praise, nor such censure."

  "Oh my God." Tabby elbows her way in. "Did you just quote Jane Austen? Felicity, I can't believe you kept him quiet for so long."

  "Well, I did bring him to three Christmases," I point out. "But, you know..."

  "...I've been busy the last few years," Dean cuts in. "So I've had to miss almost everything, unfortunately. But things should change, now that I'm..."

  "The head of your own team!" my mom interrupts him. "Felicity mentioned it the other day. Congratulations! You must be so excited."

  "Well, it's a lot of responsibility," he says. "But it is pretty exciting. I've got twenty accounts now, but that's all boring work stuff." He waves his hand dismissively. "What about you, Tabby - Lissy said you just went to Syria for Doctors Without Borders?"

  Damn it, how did he get so good at talking to people? Was he born like that, or did he somehow teach himself to be so engaging and captivating? It seems simple, the way things always do when you watch an expert do them. But when I'm in the middle of a conversation, especially with one of my family members, it's like the part of my brain in charge of reacting to things just shuts down. And I know you're supposed to ask questions to demonstrate your interest in somebody's life, but it always feels so awkward. Like I'm quizzing them.

  For Dean, it's just easy. Effortless. He has no anxiety about it, because he never thinks anything's going to go wrong.

  And why would he? Nothing ever does, for him. I'm pretty sure I'm the only bad thing that's ever happened to him, and that was certainly only a hiccup.

  ***

  Lunch is...loud. I somehow manage to actually sit next to my supposed boyfriend, and while Tabby sits on his left, she soon gets pulled into an argument involving Nick, Arthur, and something about cavemen and astronauts.

  "Man, are you serious with that Pride and Prejudice shit?" I mutter, staring at my salad. "You know my sister has a thing for Mr. Darcy."

  "All bookish women do," says Dean, glancing at me. "Are you trying to claim you don't?"

  "Yeah, well, I'm immune to you now. How on earth does it still work on everyone else, though?"

  "Second rule of marketing," he says, gesturing to the server. "Play to your market."

  "What's the first rule?" I have a feeling I'm going to regret asking.

  He grins. "Don't make them think."

  "Of course." I roll my eyes.

  "Hey, I'm not saying people are stupid." Dean shrugs. "I'm just saying, there's a million things vying for their time and attention. We've all been conditioned to respond to certain triggers, certain signals, and that's the most important thing to keep in mind when you're trying to reach people. Anything they have to analyze for too long, you risk your message getting lost in translation." He picks up his drink. "Also, a lot of people are stupid."

  "There it is. That's the man I fell in love with." I pick up my fork and examine a slice of radish. I'm pretty sure I specifically asked for no radishes, but if I bring it up, Nick's going to make a big deal out of it, and we'll probably all get free meals. Free desserts, at least. I can't handle sitting through another meal where I know the entire restaurant management hates us.

  "You hate salad," Dean observes. "I remember that about you."

  "I don't...hate it," I insist. "It's just that a lot of the common salad ingredients are not exactly my favorite."

  "You know you have to eat like that more than once a month for it to make an actual difference," he says. "And I'm only bringing this up because I know you're torturing yourself for appearance's sake. Trust me. Nobody here would judge you if you ordered the steak that you really wanted."

  I give him an irritated look. "Was it that obvious?"

  "You kep
t flipping back to it," he says. "And then you went for the Greek salad after all. It was quite the emotional roller coaster."

  Really, there's nothing left to do but laugh. "Not much gets past you, does it?"

  "Absolutely not," he says. "For instance, what's the deal with Arthur?"

  Eyes widening, I glance around the table, but everyone is so absorbed in their conversations that I'm pretty sure they've forgotten I'm here.

  "What do you mean?" I ask, a little too quickly.

  "I mean, he hardly talks," says Dean. "I understand why you're the way you are. Middle children always have trouble finding their place."

  "Thanks a lot."

  "But the youngest kids..." he goes on, ignoring me. "Usually they're good at getting attention. Stephanie's got it. Arthur doesn't. So what is it about him that's different?"

  I fold my arms across my chest, giving up on the salad. "You know he's right over there. He'll hear you."

  "I can barely hear me," Dean points out. "Sorry, I figured the two misfit kids would've bonded at some point."

  The truth is, I don't know what the deal is with Arthur. I've never known, and neither does anybody else. Maybe I should've made more of an effort. But these days, everyone is so scattered, and our get-togethers are, well...loud. The dominant personalities in this group, of which there is a majority, always steer the conversation and the activities.

  "Try talking to him sometime," says Dean. "I know it's not your forte, but you're a successful author now. You should be able to talk to people. If you ever start to feel nervous, just remind yourself of your own superiority."

  "That actually does not make me feel any better," I inform him. "But you're actually kind of right about Arthur, probably. And for the record, being successful hasn't helped all that much. I'm still inept at social interactions, although I have found that throwing money at people works pretty well as a social lubricant. Just not as applicable to family. Not mine, at least."

  "Or cops," says Dean. "In this country. Most of the time."

  ***

  Dean

  I'm going for a run.

  These days, I run alone. It's actually better this way. The noise of the city fades away as I do it, and I forget everything.

  Usually.

  But today, I can't stop thinking about Lissy. I'd almost forgotten what her family was like, how much their behavior explains almost everything about her.

  Everything, that is, except her lack of trust.

  That was what killed us. Not that I was perfect. I started getting lost in my work, something I never imagined I'd do - not when we were first together, and all I wanted was to see her smile.

  But things started to change. Years passed, and we got comfortable with each other. Maybe too comfortable. She'd never say it out loud - she was too grateful for my paycheck - but I could tell it was starting to eat at her. I was never home. And yes, most of the time I actually was working. The rest of the time I was blowing off steam, meditating, the only way I know how. Pounding pavement. I know it's not good for my feet, my knees, and I know the carbon monoxide I'm inhaling is probably eating holes into my brain. Whatever. I need this. I need something, and this does it.

  Lissy's family likes me, and respects me. It's not difficult for me to cultivate that. That's one of life's dirty secrets: your character doesn't matter, so long as you can fake it. Look at how many people still voluntarily give Jordan Belfort their money.

  I'm not a scumbag, but I'm not above using their tactics. Actually proving that I'm a good person would take way too much time and effort. It's easier to smile easily, ask a lot of light questions, and laugh along with bad jokes.

  Why am I doing this?

  I couldn't say no to Lissy when she called. It was on the tip of my tongue, and then yes just popped out of my mouth.

  So maybe I'm still hung up on her. Just a little bit. There was never any closure there, not that there usually is. But the way she turned on me - it never sat right.

  Everything else that doesn't work out, I can just walk away from. And to my credit, I did try. But now, suddenly, here I am.

  Running back to her.

  ***

  Lissy

  I'm sitting in a post-coital glow, staring at the screen of my phone. I wish I didn't find myself in this situation so often.

  M: New rule. When we're finished, tell me "thank you, Sir."

  Thank you, Sir.

  That's easy enough. This isn't the first time I've found myself wondering if he actually gets off on this, like, for real - or if it's just a power trip. I don't know how he can type so quickly and so coherently if he's jerking off at the same time.

  M: Good girl.

  I wish that didn't give me such a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Leather and Laces

  Dean

  It's the night of the fetish ball, and Lissy managed to shake off her family for a few hours by convincing them she had a "boring literary thing." I actually did manage to find leather pants. They look...pretty good, I think. A little ridiculous, but I think the good-ridiculous line is one I'm cursed to walk when it comes to fetish wear.

  I haven't seen Lissy's outfit yet. I have to admit I'm desperately curious. Back when we met, and she was still at the temp agency, she always looked pretty cute in her business casual clothes. After she got laid off, it was mostly jeans and sweatpants, which didn't make her any less cute. But they didn't exactly do much for her curves. She's always had this fantastic hourglass figure, which of course she thinks is "too fat" because she's not airbrushed in the mirror. My few suggestions at outfits were always shot down, and after the first time I tried to give her a sweater that hugged her chest but apparently made her stomach look "huge," I gave up.

  I've managed to get myself pulled together into the pants and a nice shirt when I hear her voice coming out of the bedroom.

  "Dean?"

  The door's closed, but she obviously wants me to come in. Shrugging, I push it open.

  Well, fuck me.

  She's mostly dressed. Her leather skirt comes down mid-thigh, enough to suggest but not openly confirm that she's wearing stockings with garters. And yes, that's definitely a corset. Not some zip-up stretchy corset top, either. The real deal.

  Which is, I realize, the reason why I'm here.

  "Lace me up," she says calmly, gesturing to the loose ribbons hanging at her back. Well, God damn. She looks like a wet dream already, and it's not even properly cinched yet.

  "I..." The ribbons sit there innocuously, mocking me. I'm pretty sure my laces just got a little tighter. "I've never done this before."

  "It's just like tying shoes," she says, impatiently.

  "It's really not," I inform her. "If I tie my shoes wrong I don't risk smothering someone to death."

  "If I can't breathe, I'll tell you." She rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. "Come on. You just tighten the two loops on the back and do the bunny ears. I promise I won't let you bruise my ribs."

  What would a Dom do? Well, he certainly wouldn't chicken out on this. With a confidence I don't feel, I grab one of the sets of loops and start pulling it tight. Tighter. She's right, it is a little bit like tying shoes, except tying shoes doesn't give me a hard-on. The more I think about how much I really don't want an erection right now, the more determined it becomes.

  She takes in a sharp breath. "Okay. That's it. Tie it there."

  I do.

  The next one is easier, and I'm harder. Thank God she's standing in front of me in the mirror. Her tiny gasp as I cinch the corset tighter sends an almost painful throb to my groin.

  "That's a little too much," she tells me, her voice a little breathless. "Let it out."

  I stand there, still holding the ribbons, wondering how she'd react if I threw her down on the bed right now.

  "Let it out!" she insists, glaring at me. "Dean?"

  I grin at her reflection. "What's the magic word?"

  "Go fuck yourself." She tries to
twist around, but I let the ribbons slack a little and tie them off.

  "Asshole," she snaps when I finally let her go. She turns around to face me. "I swear I'm -"

  That's when she notices it. She stops mid-sentence, stares, tries to look like she's not staring, deflates slightly, and blushes a deep red.

  "Um," she says, sidestepping around me to the doorway. "We're going to be late. I'll meet you in the car."

  If she imagines she's doing me a favor by giving me a chance to jerk off in the bathroom, she's absolutely right.

  ***

  The car ride is silent and awkward. She's slipped out of her coat and shawl since it's toasty-warm in the car, a bit too toasty-warm to be strictly comfortable in leather pants. And it's even less comfortable with her tits calling to me like a homing beacon from the other side of the backseat.

  How can I not look? They're pushed up high and proud, the corset doing its job like a goddamn professional. I could get lost in that cleavage.

  You used to have those in your bed every day, asshole. Didn't appreciate them then, did you?

  Fine. Maybe I took her for granted a little bit. Maybe more than a little. But I never saw her like this before. It's not just her clothes, it's the way she holds herself. She looks a little bit regal and a little bit sly, and I realize that my inconvenient arousal might've actually tickled her more than she let on.

  "You look nice," I tell her, finally.

  Great job. Awesome line. Now she'll melt for sure.

  "I know." She glances at me sidelong and smiles. Okay, so now we're joking about my boner. At least that's a step away from the awkward silence.

  "You know it's not always a compliment," I point out. "Sometimes it's involuntary."

  "Right," she says, shifting in her seat a little. "Sometimes it is."