“What are you talking about?”
Caleb’s eyes park on my face. I squirm. “Why did you do those things? Blackmailing Olivia … trashing her apartment? ”
I don’t hesitate. “Because I love you.”
He nods, seeming to accept it. I feel hopeful. Maybe he will see what I did as a fight for love.
“You and I are not so different.” He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the tile and smiles like he’s just swallowed a mouthful of grapefruit. His eyes are clear and wide when he looks up at me: maple syrup without the sweetness.
“Leah…” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. I brace myself for what he’s about to say, but nothing can prepare me for what comes out of his mouth.
“That ring was hers, Leah.”
I feel the shock move through me, as if it is a physical thing like blood. It rushes and pulls and tears. Then, he says the words that change everything.
“I faked the amnesia.”
I hear each word separately. I have to mentally latch on to each one and put them back together so I can understand. But, I don’t understand. Why would he do that?
“Why? Your family … me … why would you do that to us?”
“Olivia,” is all he says.
It’s all he needs to say for me to put all of the pieces together. I decide that I hate the color of maple syrup. I’d rather choke and die on a mouthful of dry pancakes, than ever eat maple syrup again.
“Fuck you,” I say. Then, I say it again. And again. And again. I say it until I am in a fetal position on the ground, and all I can think about is throwing every bottle of fucking maple syrup out of my fridge and out of my life forever.
My head spins. I’ve never felt anything so painful. My heart heaves and contracts. It feels heavy and then it feels like it’s not there at all — like he stuck his hand through my ribcage and squeezed until it burst. It feels like I have a thousand ton elephant sitting on my chest. I weakly try to hold on to my reserve, but I feel it being torn away from me. Something inside of me uncoils. With an awkward jerk of my head, I glare up at him with all the hatred I am feeling.
He stands with his back to me until I am done crying, and when I stand up, he faces me.
“I know that to merely say sorry would be an insult. I am more than sorry for what I’ve done. I married you when all along I belonged to someone else. I have been lying to everyone. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”
I am emotionally inebriated. I don’t know whether to make him watch me slit my wrists or slit his and put an end to my misery. My face has become a swamp of tears and mascara and nose leakage. I want to hurt him.
“You think you can leave us and be happy? She’s gone, Caleb,” I sneer. “Wedded … bedded — “ I see him flinch, and my rage climbs higher.
I lick my lips and taste wine. I’ve had too much of it, and my tongue is ready to curl around every ugly secret I own and spit them at him, one by one, until he’s asphyxiated from the incredible weight of them. I want to take away his breath, crush his windpipe, and with what I know, I surely can.
Where to start? I contemplate telling him that I’ve met Noah and that he’s fucking sexy Ghandi — that I understand why Olivia was able to move on.
I shake my head, tears burn like lemon juice in my eyes. I need to know it all. What he did during those weeks that I thought she was taking advantage of him.
“Did you sleep with her — during your pretend fucking amnesia?”
There is an uncomfortably long pause, which I consider answer enough.
“Yes.” His voice is suddenly raspy.
“Have you ever been in love with me?”
He dips his head as he thinks.
“I love you,” he says, “but, not in the right way.”
My heart plummets as realization sets in. He loves me — he’s never been in-love with me.
“You don’t love me the same way you love Olivia.”
He flinches like I’ve hit him. For a moment, his guard is down, and I see so much hurt on his face that I am taken aback. He covers it quickly.
He looks sorry, he really does — or maybe it’s just my vision that is blurred because of my tears. I collapse in a heap again and pull my knees up to my chest.
I hear him slide down next to me. For a long time, neither of us says anything. I am mentally replaying the year he spent pretending to have amnesia, revisiting the conversations and doctor’s visits. I cannot find a single crack in his story. I fight through the memories, trying to find at least a moment in that year where I sensed he was being untruthful, but there is nothing. I feel like such a fool. So used. How could I be so in love with a man that was so willing to deceive me? I feel like a piece of trash, disposable and unwanted. I know that I am a mess; my tears have caught strands of my hair and plastered them to my face — a face that always gets blotchy and red when I cry. I have never let him see me like this, not even when my father died.
There are so many questions, so many things that I need to know, but my tongue stubbornly stays glued to the roof of my mouth. Caleb tried to get Olivia back. Not once, but twice — first when he faked the amnesia, and the second time when he hired her to be my attorney. If he wanted her so badly, why hadn’t he left me when he had the chance? It wasn’t in his nature to drag his feet.
I shake at his honesty. The stinging truth of how I had pressured him into proposing to me after I chased Olivia out of town echoes in my head. No. This is not my fault. He didn’t have to marry me. I may have played fiercely to keep him, but I thought that he loved me, that he wanted to spend his life with me. He never showed me otherwise. Then I realize something else: Caleb is not as good as I have always thought him to be. His integrity, his honesty, the pure and selfless way he takes care of the people he loves … it all evaporates in light of this new, deceitful Caleb. My God — he did everything in his power to get to her, and I did everything in my power to keep her away.
Have I always known in the back of my mind that I am second choice? Lots of people have first loves that they never really get over, but how could I have grasped the degree of his obsession with Olivia? What kind of woman am I if I knowingly married a man that didn’t love me? He is a thief. He stole my life; he stole hers. Goddamn, why am I even thinking about her life?
My first clear thought is that I want to make him pay. I flash to an irrational thought, where I picture myself hogtying Olivia and dumping her in the Everglades for the gators to deal with. Of course I would never do that — I would hire someone to do it for me. I file through all of the other emotional bombs I can drop on him. I have told so many lies that I have an entire buffet of shadiness to choose from. I pluck out the worst one and rub my chin on my shoulder. This one will hurt him, probably deeper than anything that I could do or say about Olivia. Ready … set …
“Estella isn’t yours.”
Epilogue
Hate is such a prodigious feeling. It’s hot and oppressive like fire. It starts by burning through your God-given reason until there is nothing left of it but a mound of ash. It moves on to your humanity next, hot tongues flicking across the few remaining threads of innocence until they melt into each other and morph into something ugly. Then, in the rubble of what you were, hate plants a seed of bitterness. The seed grows to a vine and the vine chokes what it touches. That’s where I am; the vine wrapped so tightly around my neck I can barely breathe. One hand is on that vine, the other is pressed against my chest to keep everything from falling out.
He told me he loved me. He was supposed to protect me from hurt, not inflict it in the cruelest of ways. He betrayed me. I’m dying. I’m dead. Why am I still breathing? God, I don’t know how to make the hurt stop.
I still have backbone. I’ve been crippled in other ways, but I still have a backbone. His arms were warm. Now, the only warmth I feel is from the blood still pounding through my veins. That’s how I know I’m alive. I’ve faked orgasms. I’ve faked smiles. I’ve faked happiness. Caleb faked amnesia
and then he faked an entire relationship. I took a hammer to his shins for it. He thought Olivia could hurt him, I’ll hurt him worse. I’ll keep hurting him. And if he goes after her again, I’ll rise up and do everything in my power to keep them apart. Some people never change. I guess I’m one of them.
Acknowledgements
I’m defiant by nature. My defiance evoked the Opportunist. My defiance pressed the self-publishing button on Amazon. But, no matter how spunky I think I am, it took a hell of a lot of people to push me through this process. I’d like to thank some of them.
Mom, for telling me beautiful lies and nurturing the writer in me. Your stories and ‘only child’ indulgences fueled what I am today.
Dad, for thinking I’m the greatest thing ever. It’s important for your dad to think you’re the greatest thing ever.
Rhonda and Mark Reynolds, for believing in me and sacrificing for my story.
Jeff Capshaw, for giving me that initial shove to publish, and for the constant stream of books and music suggestions that fuel my creativity. (Rainer Maria Rilke rocks!)
Tosha Khoury, for possibly being the biggest Opportunist fan and supporter. Thank you for loving me and for sharing Snow White.
Melissa Brown, Kerry Ann Ramey, Calia Read and Rebecca Espinoza for being the first eyes to see this book. Thank you for your thoughts and encouragement. Maria Gowin, for your sharp eyes and willingness to help clean up my text.
To all of the readers! Cheers to you! Your enthusiasm and red hot anger, kept me writing.
Luisa Hansen, one of the best moments of 2012 was when I found out someone created a fan site for me. A damn fan site! The Pressed Penny rocks! So do the Passionate Little Nutcase shirts.
Sarah Hansen (not related to Luisa), thank you for your beautiful cover. You are a giving and talented wench. I love your angry eyebrows.
Tricia Tulchin Boozer, so glad you are the face of my villain. You are beautiful and funny and honest.
My intense and hands on agent, Andrea Barzvi. Thank you for your expertise and your questions about the story, which made it better. I feel lucky to be in your capable hands. Most of all, I appreciate your willingness to love a villain.
James, not a day since I met you have you doubted that I would sell books. Thank you for pushing me out the door every night so I could go write. Thank you for believing I could do this, more than I believed it .
And finally, Lori Sabin and Jonathan Rodriguez, my two closest friends. You both allow me inside your respective brains, where I pillage and steal all of your good ideas. Your grey matter makes me a better writer and a better person. Thanks for saving my story and my sanity and everything else in between. I hate you for your sheer artistic brilliance. I love you for your kindness. I bow.
True Love Story
By
Willow Aster
Available Early 2013
1 Layover in hell
It has been a year, two months and seventeen days since I last saw him. Two years, ten months and five days since he broke my heart—well, since I knew that he had broken my heart. Technically, he began breaking my heart the moment I met him, five years, eleven months and one day ago. I’ve traveled across the country to get away from him, changed my phone number so neither of us will be tempted to call the other, had one botched relationship after another, all in an effort to forget.
And now I’m 1,600 miles from home, waiting on another flight to head 500 miles further south, and he’s walking toward me in DFW airport.
Ian Sterling is oblivious to the fact that our lives are going to crash in … five, four, three, two…
I can’t move as he walks up to my gate and begins talking to the agent. I’ve seen the puddle-jumper we’re about to get on together. There is no escaping him.
Caving to the inevitable, I take him in. He is perfection, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. The ticket agent looks all aflutter as she gazes up at him and stutters. His thick hair is sticking up in every direction, just the way I like it. He looks sleepy and obscene; I want to slap him and wrap my arms and legs around him and breathe his air—me and every other woman who lays eyes on him. The guitar by his feet is like another appendage; I’ve rarely seen him without it.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I am on my feet and sprinting through carry-on bags and travelers’ feet. I have to get out of here. If he sees me, I can’t guarantee what will happen. I just don’t think I can risk it. My heart can’t take any more.
I avoid his general direction and am making progress when I get snagged on a zebra print suitcase with purple trim. The hem of my mini catches on the handle of the bag and one yank doesn’t do the trick. My skirt will not budge. Panic begins to overtake me; my hands are a shaky mess. I am just about to rip a hole in the material so I can keep moving when I hear him.
His raspy voice cuts through the chatter around us. I’ve missed that voice. “Sparrow?”
My whole body goes still. Except for the tremors in my hands and knees and guts. I grab my skirt again, and this time it miraculously comes loose. Traitor!
Ian is clutching the counter in front of him and for a moment, I think he’s going down.
“Sparrow?” He says again and gives his hair a nervous tug. His eyes swallow me up and I know I have to sit before I’m the one that goes down.
I put on my calmest face and give a polite, but cold smile.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.
He nods and reaches out to touch my face.
I back up. If he touches me, it’s over. I pretend to not see the hurt in his eyes.
“Sit with me?” He asks.
I collapse in the first open seat. So much for getting away.
Ian sets his guitar in front of me and sits on the higher end: elbows on his knees, knees against mine, his eyes trying to read me. Those eyes have been the death of me many a time. I sink into them far too easily. He has the eyelashes that all women envy and I study them instead, remembering all the times I’ve teased him about being so pretty. He leans in even closer. I cannot bury any further into my seat than I already am.
All of a sudden, he backs up and looks around. “Is your mom with you? I knew I should have shaved,” he mutters.
A surprised laugh pops out. “No, Charlie isn’t here. Settle.”
“Whew.” He rubs the stubble along his jaw and grins. “I can’t believe you’re here in front of me. You look good, Sparrow. So beautiful.”
He reaches over and gently pulls one of my curls, watching it boing back into place. He places a hand on each cheek, his eyes studying me until they stop on my lips. He always had a thing for my mouth. And my hair. He used to list what he loved about each of my body parts, going into such detail that my neck would get splotchy. And then he’d tease me about all the splotches, while kissing each one.
I have to stop my brain.
“I see this face every night when I close my eyes. All day long, I think I see you, everywhere I go…” His eyes cloud and he drops his hands. “I’ve dreamed this so many times, I’m not even sure you’re real right now. Are you really here?”
A thick lump burns in my throat, making it harder and harder to swallow. I know all about seeing his face everywhere. And not sleeping. And how long it took me to even eat again after he tore my heart out and stomped on it with the black combat boots I bought him that hellish Christmas. Shoving the ache down, I take a deep breath and fix my face as a blank slate, void of all feeling. Except the hate I wish I could have for him.
In our stupor, I think we’ve missed a few of the boarding calls because the ticket agent looks pointedly in our direction as she loudly makes the FINAL CALL TO BOARD. All the other passengers are sitting and waiting on us when we get on the plane. I sense some hostility. I don’t want to make a Texan mad at me.
“Well, what do you know, our seats are next to each other,” he smirks.
“I’m sure it helps that we’re the last ones on,” I snap out of the side of my mouth. I sit down and yank the
neckline of my shirt up higher when I see his eyes wandering.
He sits down and laughs. “Come on, Baby, I have you for one hour. Let me look at you.” The way he says have you makes me feel feverish.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Let me see your ticket,” he grabs it before I can say no. “4B.” He holds his up so I can see 4A. “I couldn’t have planned this any better myself…”
I lean my head back on the seat and close my eyes. It’s not even two minutes before we’re rolling and taking off. Now I know why there is a general glare in our direction from the other passengers; we held up the flight.
The air is thick with sorrow and desire. I have always known the minute he is in a room. It didn’t matter if it was a room of a hundred people or across thousands, I could spot his inky black hair and swagger from a mile away. To be in such close proximity after so long apart is threatening to make me sick. Ian is watching me, his head leaning on the seat and his whole body shifted toward mine.
A flash of color catches my eye—no, surely those things aren’t still in circulation.
“Tell me you’re not still wearing the elephant socks.”
His grin takes over his entire face, stopping my heart in the process.
“They’re a little holey now.”
I snort. It’s a good thing my mom isn’t here, she’d be mortified. “Yeah, I bet.”
“I’ve never stopped loving you, Sparrow Fisher.”
I focus on breathing and not losing my coffee and muffin all over him. That would serve him right.
“I’ve never loved anyone but you.” He goes on, seemingly unfazed by my silence.
I turn my head and the look on my face seems to scare him. His eyes widen.
“It doesn’t matter, Ian. Love … it means nothing, at this point. And I’m the only one in this non-relationship who can truly say that I’ve never loved anyone but YOU. So don’t even give me that nonsense about only loving me. That’s a load of crack.” I huff and look out the tiny window, trying to forget he’s there.
Dirty Red (Love Me With Lies) Page 22
