Lavish Lies

by Charlotte Byrd

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve wanted to get to know you ever since I first saw you,” he says.

  He’s leaning in toward me now.

  The restrained expression on his face is all but gone.

  It is not lost on me that he doesn’t mention the Oakmont. I know now that what happened there was not a sanctioned event.

  He went out on a limb to help me, to warn me about Jamie, but it wasn’t enough.

  Oh, how I wish I had run away from there the second he talked to me.

  Maybe then I stood a chance of getting away.

  “Is that why you helped me?” I ask.

  His jaw tightens.

  His irises dilate and he gives me a little shake of the head.

  His eyes plead for me to stay quiet.

  So, I clarify.

  “Is that why you helped me when Abbott attacked me?”

  He exhales deeply - a sigh of relief.

  “No,” he says.

  “Really?” I don’t believe him.

  “I didn’t know it was you. But he shouldn’t have attacked anyone like that. I would’ve helped any woman in that situation.”

  “Well, in any case, thank you for helping me,” I say. “Thank you for…everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The subtext of what’s going on in our conversation and in all the pauses of what is left unsaid could fill an ocean.

  We don’t know each other well, but I can feel it somewhere deep within me that I get him. And he gets me.

  We talk long into the night about anything and everything.

  We avoid the topic of York because the truth can’t really be told and sometimes it’s too hard to talk in spaces and ellipses.

  He asks me about my life in Philly and I tell him about college and work. More about what I really enjoyed (college) and less about what I didn’t (work).

  The hours seem to float away as we talk and I try to remember the last time I talked like this with anyone before.

  “You must be exhausted,” Easton says after I yawn.

  “No, I’m fine,” I start to say, but then another yawn comes out of nowhere.

  “Why don’t we go to sleep?”

  Before I get the chance to respond, Easton says he’ll take the couch and leads me to his bedroom.

  “I can’t take your bed,” I say. “I can just sleep out there.”

  “No, you’re my guest,” he insists. He goes to his closet and retrieves a pillow and a blanket. “I’ll be fine. You get some rest.”

  I’m about to protest, but he insists.

  Too tired to argue, I climb into his large bed, which is big enough for both of us.

  I know that I should insist on him coming back here, but my eyelids get heavy and suddenly I don’t have the energy to lift them.

  Everly

  When I take a dip…

  The following morning, Easton says he will be back in a few hours and leaves me alone. I glance out of the window at the sparkling pool.

  It’s calling my name.

  I don’t have a swimsuit, but it doesn’t matter. I grab a towel and go outside. I don’t remember the last time I have been in a pool.

  When I was a kid, we used to go on a weeklong vacation to a two-bedroom rental near Sarasota, Florida. My parents would save up money and I would look forward to that one week all year long.

  It was walking distance to the beach, but not too close, so dragging our stuff there every morning was a bit of a chore. Summer is low-season, and it rains a lot. It doesn’t fall all day long, but you just never know when you’re going to get rained out.

  After a morning at the beach, floating around in the bathwater of the Gulf and playing in the sand, we would retire to the condo for the afternoon to have lunch and wait out the rain.

  If the rain stopped quickly, I’d beg my parents to go back. But they’d often resist, preferring instead to lay on the couch and watch TV. I couldn’t go the beach by myself, so I’d have to satisfy myself with the community pool.

  I’d peel on my wet bathing suit, grab my damp towel, and jump into the pool. Hardly anyone was ever there in the afternoons, right after the rain, and I would pretend that it was all mine.

  When I grow up, I’m going to get a house with my own private pool and never miss a day of swimming, I remember promising myself.

  As I dip my toes in the blue water, all of these memories flood back.

  The smell of chlorine.

  Eating watermelon with wet hair in front of the television.

  The cool of the air conditioning after a hot day outside. It felt so cold against my skin that I’d wrap myself up in an old sweatshirt just to stay warm.

  I descend into the water.

  My long hair takes on a life of its own as it surrounds me.

  I let out the gulp of air, watching the bubbles slowly rise to the surface.

  The water is warm and comforting.

  When I finally come up to the surface, I realize that I’m crying.

  What started out as just a little tension in the back of my throat is full out sobs by the time I come up for air.

  I fall back under and open my mouth.

  Water rushes in and I push it out with the force of my scream.

  I scream at the top of my lungs, but I barely make a sound.

  I don’t know exactly why I’m crying.

  I’m not scared or sad. It’s something more than that.

  The last time I cried like this, I was in college and it was in the middle of finals week. I’d taken three finals that week and I had two more to go.

  It felt like the week would never come to an end. Like I would never have my life back. All of the stress, the angst, and the uncertainty finally came to a climax and pushed me over the edge.

  And now?

  It’s kind of like that.

  Being here in Easton’s house puts me at ease and gives me space to breathe.

  But for how long?

  The truth is that I have no idea what’s going to happen to me later.

  All I know is that this feeling of peace can’t last.

  I push off the wall and launch myself through the pool.

  I move my body like a fish and when I reach the other side, I do a flip turn, take a breath at the surface, and head back in.

  In middle school and high school, I swam on a swim team and was quite good. Breast stroke was my favorite, but there’s nothing like a butterfly kick to really make you feel like a fish moving through the water.

  I don’t bother with my arms.

  I’m not trying to go fast.

  I just want to glide and stay below the surface for as long as possible. Maybe I won’t have to go back up, ever again.

  In the water, I lose track of time. It seems to not so much stand still as move in concentric circles.

  It’s as if time ceases to be linear.

  Direct.

  Going from one event to another.

  My thoughts hop from one memory to another.

  One moment, I am floating on my back at twelve years old.

  Then, suddenly, I’m in college sitting alone in the library on Friday night. It was on those Friday nights that I thought I was preparing myself for something.

  I put so much pressure on myself.

  I was so worried that if I didn’t study hard and ace every test, every class, and every semester that my life wouldn’t turn out right.

  Well, that’s the thing about life, isn’t it?

  You never know where it’s going to take you.

  All that studying and preparation gave me a life that I had no interest in living.

  And then suddenly, in one moment, it was gone.

  You would think that this experience in York would make me pine for my old life. But in reality, it made me realize how much of a fool I have been.

  Instead of going out there and living - making mistakes and putting myself out there - I spent a lot of time being afra
id.

  I realized a long time ago that I had no interest in that job. Yet, I continued to settle for it.

  I settled for a lot of things, including men.

  And now, I’m stuck in a place with few options and few choices.

  Except I do still have the ability to feel.

  So, what do I feel now?

  And do I dare explore that further?

  I lift my head out of the water and look around.

  Outside dining room set.

  Poolside lounge chairs.

  Palm trees swaying in the wind.

  My thoughts drift back to Easton.

  The man I never expected to meet.

  The man I should not have feelings for.

  I don’t know much about him yet, but I find myself drawn to him, and not just to his dark thick hair and emerald eyes.

  It also has nothing to do with his strong, chiseled body which glistens in the water. Although those things do not hurt.

  But my attraction to him goes beyond that.

  He’s got this gravitational pull on me and the closer we are to each other, the closer I want to be still.

  But these are dangerous thoughts to have.

  This is York, after all.

  I am in a competition for the heart of a man I am yet to meet.

  One thing I do know is that it’s not Easton.

  Or…wait? What if…it is?

  I climb out of the pool and dry myself off.

  Is this part of the game?

  Is this our opportunity to see if we can make a connection?

  I take a deep breath and wrap the towel tightly around my naked body. Then I go inside and put on some dry clothes.

  The air conditioning feels cold against my skin, so I slip Easton’s sweatshirt over the t-shirt and the pajama pants that I find in his closet.

  We haven’t even known each other for that long and I’m already parading around in his clothes. This isn’t good, I think to myself with a smile.

  Being in Easton’s home, wearing Easton’s clothes, puts me at an ease that I haven’t experienced in a long time. Not since I’ve been here.

  Perhaps I should not trust it, because it is wise not to trust anything that happens to you in York.

  But I cannot help but relax and unwind.

  Even if it is a mistake, at least, I have some peace right now.

  Lying down on the couch and propping my feet up, I am reminded of the old saying about how there is no other moment, but right now.

  The past is gone and the future is not here.

  Yesterday has expired and tomorrow has not come yet.

  The only time is now.

  The only real moment is the one that exists, this one.

  My eyes fall to the pad of paper sitting on the end table next to the couch.

  It’s blank. Eager to be filled up with words.

  I grab the pen next to it and start to write.

  I haven’t written anything in a long time and the words just pour out of me.

  They are not really a story.

  Not yet.

  Just thoughts and emotions and a collection of truths that I’ve experienced since I’ve been here.

  I do not write about the details of what happened to me.

  Just what I’ve felt.

  I do not write for anyone in particular.

  I write to record my experience.

  Perhaps, that’s the reason why anyone writes and why anyone reads. We all want to know other people’s truths. We all want to learn about other people’s lives. And it is through stories that we get what we are seeking. It is through stories that we become human beings.

  The words flow out of me like a raging river.

  One page turns into two and then into five.

  I write until my hand cramps up.

  I write until the words become illegible.

  I used to think that I needed someone’s approval to tell a story. Not long ago, I remember sharing my desire with Jamie and being overjoyed by his support.

  But now, I know that I do not need anyone to tell my truth.

  Other people do not matter.

  What matters is my ability to tell it.

  Easton

  When I give her space…

  I did not leave the house for any other reason than to give her space. She has not had space to herself since she has been here and I know she needs it.

  And not just any space. She needs a space where she feels safe.

  A place where she knows that nothing bad will ever happen to her.

  My home will be that place.

  When I come back, I look through the window near the front door and see her sitting on the couch.

  Hunched over with her legs in a lotus position, she is frantically jotting down her thoughts. I watch as she finishes one page and then turns to the back.

  When she’s finished with that one, she turns to the next. Her hand cramps up and she shakes it out and then continues.

  What is she writing? I wonder. And why is she so feverishly trying to get it all out?

  I stand on the doorstep and wait. I do not dare to interrupt her.

  A long time ago, my mother told me that creativity requires momentum. Once you get started, you just have to keep going until you are done or you run out of it.

  If you are interrupted or if you lose your place, it is very difficult to get it back.

  My mother is dead now, but she loved to write. She never published anything, but she wrote a lot.

  I have notebooks and notebooks of her stories and novels.

  I don’t know if she had ever tried to get them published, but I know that my father did not approve.

  “In all fiction, there’s an inkling of truth.” He likes to say. “Authors try to hide this by pretending that they are just pretending, but the people around them know that some of it is true. We do not need people coming around and reading things into your novels.”

  And so her work went unpublished, but not unwritten.

  A real writer must always write, she told me. If she were to stop writing, she would stop breathing.

  When I was little, I spent a lot of time with my mother and she used to tell me these elaborate stories about ordinary boys who fought off dragons and other villains because it was the right thing to do.

  I used to go to bed imagining myself fighting those battles. My mother was always someone who had a strong moral compass and it always pointed north.

  I don’t know what she was doing with my father. Even when I was young, he generally resembled the villain in the story a lot more than the hero.

  My mother died when I was only eight.

  Back then, my father worked long hours and my brothers and I saw him only one weekend a month. He traveled a lot for work, growing his empire. But her sudden sickness and death made him get more involved in family life.

  Unfortunately, for all of us.

  Suddenly, it was he who was imparting wisdom to me at nights. And his stories were very different from hers.

  His stories were ones about men who fought against all obstacles to take over the world, just for the sake of it.

  His stories were ones about men who sought revenge against those who had wronged them, no matter how insignificant those wrongs were.

  That’s when I started to fear him.

  He was not a man who fought for what’s right in the world.

  He did not fight to make the world a better place.

  He only cared about himself and he would do anything to make himself richer and more powerful.

  For many years, I was angry with my mother.

  I was angry at her for marrying him.

  I was angry at her for making him my father.

  But I was most angry with her at leaving me with him.

  How could she do that?

  Didn’t she realize how awful he was?

  Why did she stay?

  Why didn’t she leave him and take me with her?

  I spent m
y life trying to find answers to these questions, but I never got any. I doubt that I ever will.

  My only consolation was that maybe my father was not the man he once was.

  Perhaps, there was a time when he was kind and compassionate and that’s when she fell in love with him.

  But I sort of doubt it.

  In one of her journals, I read a story about a woman from a poor family who had to marry a wealthy duke whom she hated. She hated him at first, but then she broke through his hard shell and realized that he was actually a kind and wonderful man who she fell in love with.

  Right? Wrong.

  In my mother’s story, the woman hated this duke when she married him.

  She hated him when he raped her.

  She hated him when she bore his children.

  She tried to teach her children how to not be like him, and with the youngest one she succeeded.

  He was a kind boy who had the ability to love despite his father or his brothers.

  But her other children were like her husband - cruel and unforgiving.

  And then one day, she got sick and died of a broken heart, leaving her youngest at the mercy of his family.

  I found the journal with this story hidden in the false bottom of her trunk.

  It wasn’t anywhere near any of her other writing.

  Hidden and stowed away, it was never meant to see the light of day.

  No one was ever supposed to find it.

  It was her secret because it was the truth.

  It was the truth about the family she’d created and raised.

  It was the truth about York.

  * * *

  I knock loudly on the front door when Everly stops writing and puts the pen down.

  I wait until she scrambles to hide her paper and pretend that she was watching TV this whole time.

  I know that she’s not afraid of me for the same reasons that my mother was afraid of my father, but I hate that she is afraid of me at all.

  Easton

  When I tell her a secret….

  I can smell the chlorine as soon as I get into the house and I ask her how she enjoyed the pool. She seems a little embarrassed by the fact that she went swimming, but she shouldn’t be. Not at all.

  “Please, do as you like. I hardly use that thing at all.”