The Beauty of Lies

by Brinda Berry

  “Pretend I’m not here. Would you still be stopping your work?”

  “But you are here.” He sits beside me on the sofa and takes my hand, kissing each knuckle with his soft lips and a smile.

  Using my free hand, I reach across and move the piece of hair that’s fallen over his eyes. He catches my wrist and smells it. Literally puts his nose to the skin and inhales. “I have no clue what you are made of, but whatever it is, the smell makes me ravenous.”

  “Scented lotion,” I mutter, hypnotized. Sitting this close, I can’t do more than concentrate on the perfect parts of his face and the imperfect parts I love even more. His crooked smile, something I thought he affected, but is all charming him. The wide mouth with lips that draw the eye.

  His beautiful blue eyes. Some girls would call them ocean-colored or sapphire. To me, they’re heaven-blue.

  “Nah. It’s pure you. I’m positive,” he says.

  “What is?” I’ve lost the thread of our conversation. Concentrate.

  My stomach makes a low rumbling protest. Getting home at the end of the day after working with dogs, I needed an immediate shower and then headed straight to Leo’s. I’d forgotten about dinner.

  He chuckles and releases my wrist. “I’m hungry, too. I think I’ll run to the corner and get something for us. What do you want?”

  “Lasagna.” I look down at my tank and sleep shorts. “Want me to change and come with?”

  He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “Nah. You should stay. You’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Our building lies in the middle of every ethnic eatery a person can imagine—Thai, Mexican, Chinese—all served till late in the night. I know he’ll only be a half-hour if he orders ahead. Still, I’ll miss the separation of that short time. I reconsider running across and changing clothes.

  I grab his free hand, the one not already dialing some number on his cell. “Hey.”

  “What babe?” He holds the phone to his ear and waits for me to tell him.

  “I want you to know that I’ve had the…” I search for a way to finish without sounding like I’m ready to throw on a wedding dress.

  “Yes,” he releases my hand and holds up a finger to indicate I should wait. “Two orders of lasagna and a large salad. No. Does that come with garlic bread? Ok. Yeah. Thanks.”

  I’d been close to saying it was the best three days of my life. “Nothing.”

  He arches one eyebrow. “Methinks the lady tells an untruth.”

  I lift one shoulder. “I’ve had a craving for lasagna for days.”

  He smirks. “We’ll take care of this craving. I’ve had a certain craving all day.”

  I feel pleasurable warmth creep into my face. “Is everything a sexual innuendo now? Go.”

  Leo laughs. “I won’t be long.”

  After he leaves, I stretch out on the sofa as if I’ve belonged in his apartment forever. The television is still on, the tiny fan on his desk still whirs, his laptop monitor still glows.

  He’s left his life running and waiting with me in it. I’m not an outsider to him, but a part of his day. I hop up, walk to his desk, and let my fingers run along the worn wood. The things that he keeps nearby while he works fascinate me. There’s a shiny, very expensive pen on a pad where he’s jotted down words that mean nothing to me in their randomness.

  And it’s not like he’s writing my name on the page, but I want to connect the words to me—beauty, lust, love, ache. A random phrase floating above a sun and stars and galaxy drawn at the top of his page. ‘One world struck by an asteroid and now its path has been rewritten.’

  He must be brainstorming for his novel and those words help him. I feel guilty looking at the pad now in my accidental snooping, but it’s also intriguing to see the way he thinks. Across the desk, there’s a couple of envelopes he hasn’t opened.

  At the edge, there’s a funny looking box. It’s fabricated to look like a thick hardback book, dark burgundy cover with gold embossed lettering. I reach and pull it to me. It looks like the type of storage box where you’d keep photos.

  I can’t help myself. The lure of seeing pictures of Leo has me giddy. I lift the lid and it’s packed, but not with photos.

  Postcards. Every shape and size. The top one has a colorful photo of the Brooklyn Bridge. I turn it over and read, despite the warning screams in my head telling me I should stop.

  The next postcard has a mustache on it. And the next is a photo of a diner. There’s at least a couple of hundred in the box. My hands shake as I lift the stack up. I feel the weight of all the people who have written Mr. Expose—Leo. Their pain and fear and fury. Their pleas for help.

  My plea and then my request to rescind. And the way he so coldly addressed my emails.

  No wonder I didn’t find these the time I broke into his apartment. The box camouflages them so well. Leo’s written a range of dates on the paper stuck to the inside lid. Each white square has three lines for noting something about the contents. Although this one doesn’t list the time period of my postcard, I realize he could’ve found my postcard. Easily. If he’d wanted to.

  I set the cards inside and turn slowly, as if I have a Tyrannosaurus rex breathing at my ear. Because that’s what it feels like—a realization so big, it fills the room and I can’t do anything but cut my eyes to the thing that’s been in front of me the entire time. This is where he hides the Mr. Expose postcards.

  My pulse booms in my ears, sounding like the gong of a hammer hitting the inside of an empty barrel.

  At the top of Leo’s bookshelf that spans one wall, there’s a row of book spines identical to the faux one on the box. Anyone looking would assume it’s a row of classics—books that he considers precious. They are on a shelf too high for me to reach without using the stepladder.

  I’ve never bothered. All the books I’ve wanted to read are within my reach.

  A knock at the door causes me to jump. I hastily make sure the box is back in place, that I haven’t screwed up his organized desk.

  I walk to the door with my entire body shaking so badly that I might as well have ‘guilty’ stamped on my forehead. The right thing to do would be to stay silent and not attempt to answer the door. It’s late and I doubt if it’s Josie.

  My instincts scream a bad feeling as I squint into the peephole. Tori. I should’ve known better. There’s too much between them that I don’t know about. Besides, she’s everything I’m not—confident, beautiful, and sexy. With my heart in my throat, I examine her. She’s wearing a tight, white, silky tank and an extremely short mini-skirt. A sit-the-wrong-way-and-flash-your-panties skirt.

  My hand is on the knob. Why is she here? I heard him tell her that she’s not to come back. My fingers curl into my palms. Open it or ignore her?

  I open the door because I want her to see me and to understand once and for all that she needs to back off. Leo wants me in his life.

  She eyes me and looks over my shoulder. When her gaze returns to mine, it’s dismissive, as though I don’t matter. “I’m here to see Leo.”

  “He’s not home.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “Oh.” She cocks her head to one side and her judgmental gaze travels from my face down the length of my body. My pajamas aren’t meant to be sexy. It’s a comfortable, cotton set that I’ve worn for a while.

  I hope my clothing says I don’t have to try hard to have Leo. That he likes me just the way I am. “Do you want to leave a message?”

  Her mouth forms a straight line in a half-smile, half-grimace. “I don’t think I do. I’m sure I’ll see him later.”

  “OK, then. Bye.” I move to close the door and she puts a hand out to stop it from shutting.

  “Listen. I’m not your enemy. I’m sure you are very nice. And that we could be friends under different circumstances. But Leo is not over me. I hurt him really badly and I’ll never forgive myself for it. I don’t want you to fool yourself. You’re only a rebound for him.”
>
  I’m shocked at her gall. “I heard him tell you to stay away.”

  She studies her shoes that make her legs look incredible. I imagine one well-placed kick to her shins making her topple. Hopefully, I’d leave a nasty bruise.

  Tori looks up at me. “He’s afraid I’ll hurt him again. And I can’t blame him for being scared. But Leo and I are getting back together. I plan to leave my husband so I can be with him. Leo begged me to get a divorce.”

  I suck in air. Tori is married? She and Leo were having an affair?

  My head feels light and my body numb. This can’t be true. She’s a liar. Josie would’ve told me something like this. Then I remember that Josie didn’t really tell me anything.

  “Sorry,” Tori says from somewhere miles outside my head. “I can tell you really like Leo. But he’s not over me and I’m not over him. Take my advice. Step back before you get your heart broken.”

  Without responding to her—because my response still might be to kick her in the shins—I back away and quietly close the door.

  Tori’s statement about being married has to be true. I could ask Leo and easily confirm what she’s said. He would date a married woman?

  Can a man not be faithful to one woman? Are all men liars and cheats?

  A fissure cracks open the wounds in my barely healed heart.

  Why am I so afraid to know the truth from Leo and to tell him the truth?

  I feel my doubt hacking away at my heart—a wooden moll splitting my very core—tearing me in two.

  I glance at the wall clock and then at the box of postcards and back to the clock. Leo will be back soon.

  I should get the card now, in case Tori is right. In case I’ve been a fool, a rebound, a temporary replacement. I was wrong about Wesley and I could be wrong about Leo.

  He cannot post my card in Mr. Expose.

  He’s not told me everything and I can’t trust him.

  I scoot a wood ladder over from one end of the bookcases. The books with the faux spines matching the box are at the top and I pull the one on the end out and balance it. Lifting the lid, I examine the dates inscribed on the inside label.

  Not the right one.

  Matching Leo’s meticulous personality, the boxes are in chronological order on the shelf and it takes only minutes to locate the one that should have my card. My heart slams against my ribs.

  I finger through the cards. Several slip out of my grasp and litter the floor.

  With one foot in the bookshelf and the other on the ladder, I lean on the books and try to breathe. All I have to do is stay calm and get my postcard. I’ll hear him walking up. I can always hear him.

  As I use my thumb to fan the cards, the pink postcard suddenly appears. Score! I exhale and move down the ladder so I can pick up the mess I’ve made.

  Click. My skin tingles in alarm.

  “Hey babe.” Leo stands in the doorway with two takeout bags and a look of utter confusion.

  13

  One Fell Swoop

  Leo

  Harper’s foot slips from the ladder rung, and she reaches out to grab something to hold. It’s no use. She tumbles to the side away from the bookshelf and hits the floor with a sickening pop. The floor is painted concrete with no rugs in front of the bookshelf. The sound of her body crashing against the surface causes me to flinch. It’s like watching one of those car crash commercials on television in slow motion.

  My muscles have trouble taking directions from my brain. I drop the bags of takeout and run to her. “God, Harper. Don’t move.”

  She’s flat on her back but sits up, obviously determined not to do as I say. “I’m OK.”

  Postcards are strewn for at least ten feet surrounding us. I kneel into the space beside her. “Careful. Is anything bruised? Broken?”

  Her eyes water and she looks away, sucking in air.

  “I knew you were hurt. I’m going to take you to the emergency room.”

  “No! I’m fine.” She begins picking up postcards in her immediate reach.

  “Leave them.” I put my arms around her body. “You scared the fuck out of me.”

  “I’m sorry.” She begins picking up cards again.

  I run my fingers along the back of her head to feel for any bumps. Nothing. No blood. I allow myself to calm down. “I didn’t mean to startle you when I came in.”

  She must’ve been looking for a book and grabbed one of my storage boxes by mistake. “Baby, you’re shaking. Are you positive you’re OK?” I draw back.

  “Yes, yes.” Her voice has a strained edge. “I shouldn’t have been in your things.”

  I frown at her expression. Something is off and I can’t put for my finger on her mood. Maybe the fall frightened her as much as it did me. “Come on.” I hold out a hand to help her up.

  “Aren’t you mad?”

  “No. I mean, I’m just glad you didn’t kill yourself when you hit this floor.”

  Harper continues picking up the postcards. She wasn’t looking for a book; does she know what the cards are? I still her hands and take the cards from her. “I’ve got this,” I say. “Let’s get you to the sofa.”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice is now soft and regretful. She has to be embarrassed, being caught snooping.

  Why do I feel bad for her? Normally, I’d be pissed. Only Josie and Dane know I’m Mr. Expose. And now Harper has glimpsed a part of my life that I’ve vowed to keep a secret.

  I put my arm around Harper and kiss her head. “Come on. Let’s see if the lasagna survived. I dropped our dinner when you did the sky dive from my ladder.”

  Harper shrugs me off and goes to the bag. “I’m OK. I’ll get the food out.”

  I can’t figure out what’s wrong with her. “OK. I’ll pick up this.”

  All my storage boxes contain three months of postcards. I carefully log all the cards by scanning them as an image into the computer, but I can’t let myself throw the physical ones away. I save them like some nostalgic hoarder.

  It takes me a few minutes to pick up the cards. Although I tag them and put them in a special order when I store the cards, I don’t have time for that now. I have a moody woman on my hands and I’m confused. Harper is not that type.

  She stares at me, her body as tense as I’ve never seen it.

  “What’s wrong, babe?”

  “Can we talk about the postcards? About Mr. Expose?”

  My eyes widen. She’s called out the name of my blog and had time to read one of the cards. How long had she been on the ladder, reading?

  “It’s for a website I run.”

  “Is everything you do a big secret?”

  I’m taken off-guard by her tone. Why do I suddenly need to defend myself? It reminds me of the way Tori always quizzed me about how I paid my bills and how much I made. “That’s all you need to know. I’d appreciate not talking about it anymore,” I say coolly. “And you should forget you saw the postcards.”

  “It’s not like you’re running a porn site.” She’s breathing hard. “I want to talk about it.”

  Why the hell is she so angry? “But it is confidential and my business. People trust me. If I were a psychiatrist, you wouldn’t expect me to divulge client records.”

  She squeezes her eyes closed. “I knew you were Mr. Expose before today.”

  Her sudden admission feels all wrong, twisting in my gut like a soured meal. I search my brain for some time I’ve slipped and said something. “Why haven’t you said anything? I need to know what’s going on.”

  “I sent you a card. I asked that you return it and you wouldn’t. I knew who you were when I moved into my apartment.” She opens her eyes. “I’ve lied to you. I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “Fuck, Harper. I don’t get it.” But I do get it. I thought she’d been following me and that things were too convenient. Why would a postcard spur all that? And how can I look at her without wondering what else is a lie?

  She’s pale and I have to stop myself from g
oing to her. I want to comfort her. Comfort myself. But I’ve been with a woman who lied to me too many times and this shift in my world with Harper cuts me.

  She is a liar.

  I inhale slowly and make my way to the sofa. “I don’t know you at all, do I? You sent me emails. You were the one who kept writing me, over and over. Right?”

  She nods and twists her hands. “I should’ve told you in the beginning. But this thing with us isn’t a lie. I…um… I didn’t know I was going to feel like I do about you.”

  I rub my hands over my face. I feel hot, and cold. “I’ve been honest with you. I have this thing about people lying to me.”

  “Honest? You aren’t honest about what you do with that blog. I’ve hinted around, tried to bring it up and you won’t talk about it. Is that honest?”

  My temper paws at the gate of my self-control. “Don’t try to turn this on me. That’s work. It’s confidential. My pen name’s a secret because I don’t tell people about it. It’s not a personal thing between you and me.”

  “What about Tori?”

  “What about her?”

  “Were you with her while she was married?”

  It’s a simple question. Yet the answer is very complicated. I pause and attempt to give her an answer, but I’m angry now. How has this conversation turned to my ex? How did she know this about Tori?

  Harper raises an eyebrow. “No answer? I only need a yes or no. I don’t want any explanation.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “Yes or no.” She stands with her arms folded over her chest.

  She doesn’t want an explanation. My pulse thrums in my ears. Tori was a liar. Harper is a liar. I want to reverse the past hour and go back to before. I don’t want to know she’s exactly like Tori. “Yes.”

  Harper doesn’t meet my gaze. Her eyes are filled with tears and I’m pissed that I want to stop her pain. At the same time, I want her to hurt like she’s hurting me.

  She walks out my door and quietly closes it.

  * * *

  I don’t leave my apartment for two days. Josie drops in and attempts to quiz me about what happened between Harper and me, but I won’t engage. I guess that Josie is the one who told Harper the details of my relationship with Tori.