The (Half) Truth

by Harper, Leddy

  “Have you talked to him since the breakup?”

  Well, giving him that easy out had certainly backfired.

  “Sort of—he finally pulled his head out of his ass and apologized, or as close as he’ll get to one. Only took six months.”

  “I hope you told him to shove it.”

  I stared blankly at him for a moment, noticing the way his jaw clenched. I refused to believe he felt any emotion at all over whether I’d take Michael back, which pretty much meant he must’ve developed lockjaw. “You’re telling me if your ex moved here right now, you wouldn’t take her back? If she begged and pleaded and told you she messed up?”

  “Nope. Not for a second.” His tone alone told me he meant exactly what he said. “I don’t give second chances.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s the point? If it failed the first time, why offer someone the opportunity to ruin it again? It shouldn’t take someone very long to realize they made a mistake and try to fix it. If I fuck something up, I know immediately. It doesn’t take weeks or months to see that what I did was wrong.”

  “Why didn’t she move with you? What was her reason?” Thank God we were back to talking about him instead of me. I’d learned my lesson, and from now on, I planned to just keep asking questions until he stopped answering them.

  “She’s a Vegas showgirl. Kind of hard to get a job doing that here.”

  I crossed my arms over my stomach and bent forward, unable to control the hilarity that kept me from taking a breath. “Back up a minute.” I fought to calm down long enough to get out a full sentence. “Your one and only long-term relationship was with a stripper? And you can’t fathom why your cousin thinks you haven’t changed?”

  He blinked for a moment, as if he’d never thought of that before. “That would be a valid argument, except she wasn’t a stripper. She danced in shows, not on a pole. Two completely different things. But don’t change the subject. Would you take your ex back?”

  Guess my time was up. The spotlight was back on me.

  “I don’t know. As long as he’s not single, I refuse to waste my time contemplating what I would do if and when they ever broke up.”

  “You shouldn’t waste your time at all,” he mumbled, practically to himself. “He’s playing you, and you’re allowing it.”

  That comment was a surefire way to put me on defense. “How am I allowing anything?”

  “It’s obvious he’s keeping you on a string. The fact that you don’t know if you’d take him back is proof of that. It’s been over six months—he’s moved on, yet here you are, refusing to close the door. If you think he doesn’t realize all this, you have a lot to learn.”

  “People make mistakes, Jay. And sometimes, it takes them a little longer to realize it.”

  “In my opinion, second chances are worthless. They get passed around like condoms in a high school health class, except they never protect anyone against getting hurt by the same person again.”

  “He’s the only guy I’ve ever been with.” I swallowed hard, unsure if I should’ve admitted that or not. “I don’t know anything but him.”

  “Wait.” He moved closer, caging me between his arms as he searched my eyes. “What do you mean he’s the only guy you’ve been with?”

  “I guess that’s technically not true anymore. But aside from you, he’s the only one. Maybe you don’t offer second chances or waste your time with the same person because you’ve been with so many. But I haven’t. It’s hard to turn off that switch when I don’t have the same kind of experience as you.”

  Understanding lit his gaze, and regret flowed past his lips with a sigh. “I’m so sorry, Tate. I had no idea.” He brought his hand to my face and stroked my cheek with his thumb. The faintest smile played on his lips, though it shone brightly in his eyes. “Although, that doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about second chances. I still don’t think you should give him one . . . he doesn’t deserve you.”

  Leave it to Kelsey to interrupt our moment with a text.

  “Shit. She’s asking what time my plane lands. What should I tell her?”

  “You haven’t looked up what flights are coming in from where?”

  “No . . . why would I do that?”

  “Umm . . . I don’t know, Tatum, maybe so your lie might be a little more believable?”

  Crap. I couldn’t even lie the right way. All the fibs I’d told over the last week would catch up with me if I didn’t start thinking like a con man.

  I’d been stuck in the bathroom for almost an hour, waiting for Marlena to leave. As it turned out, even after reading her texts this morning, he’d never replied to let her know he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. So, she’d stopped by to check on him.

  It was a sweet gesture and all, though I might’ve appreciated it more had she called first. Instead, she just showed up. I was about to step into the shower when the doorbell had rung, and being the paranoid person that I was, I’d waited for him to answer it before turning on the water. In the unlikely chance it was Kelsey, I hadn’t wanted her questioning why his shower was running without him in it. And thank God I had, because it turned out to be his other cousin.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t just walk into his room and put my clothes back on or wait on his bed for her to leave, because he’d left his bedroom door wide open. Which meant I was stuck in the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around my body and a cabinet full of various hair and skin products without labels to occupy me.

  Aside from painting my toenails with an odd shade of brown, I also shaved my legs with one of Jason’s razors that I’d found in a drawer—an old razor with dull blades that ended up taking off a few layers of skin. Lotion was a necessity at this point, and even though I hadn’t expected to find any in a man’s bathroom, I searched anyway. As luck would have it, I discovered a small jar beneath the sink.

  It was not lotion.

  I had no idea what it was, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was creamy battery acid.

  It burned, and I couldn’t even turn on the water beyond a slow trickle to remove it. Instead, I used part of my towel to scrub it off. If that hadn’t helped calm the pain, there was a very high chance I might’ve resorted to bathing in the toilet.

  With more time to kill—and desperately needing to take my focus off my legs—I decided to test out some of his hair products. A small voice in the back of my mind had questioned why a guy with relatively short hair would have all this, but I ignored it. It could’ve very well belonged to his ex, and he’d accidentally packed it when he left . . . and then stored it in case she ever asked for it back. That theory had sounded far better in my head during a very desperate moment of boredom. To anyone with the ability to think clearly . . . not so much.

  I was seconds away from using a bar of soap to write the song lyrics for Alanis Morissette’s “Ironic” on the mirror when the bathroom door opened. Thank God, because aside from the chorus, I didn’t know the words. Talk about ironic. That could’ve been embarrassing.

  “Did you do that on purpose?” I held the towel close to my chest and pulled myself to my feet.

  Jason squinted and pursed his lips. “Do what on purpose?”

  “Not warn me when your cousin showed up?”

  He shrugged, and I imagined seventy-two different ways to dismember him.

  “What would’ve happened if I’d been in the shower?”

  “I don’t know, Tatum . . . I’m too tired to think of these things. Can’t we just be happy that you weren’t and she didn’t catch you?” His eyes pleaded with me to take it easy on him. And with a face like his, it was hard to be mad.

  “Fine. But now I have even less time to get ready to leave for the airport. I’d tell Kelsey my flight was delayed, but then I’d have to look up information for that lie, too. And I think we’ve already established that I suck at falsifying alibis.”

  He took a moment to appraise me and then pulled his fist to his mouth, clamping a knuckle between
his teeth. “I’d ask what you did to entertain yourself this whole time . . . but I don’t need to. What did you put in your hair?”

  I glanced to the basket on the counter and took note of all the products. “Dry shampoo, leave-in conditioner, some kind of oil . . .” I moved a few things around to see if I had missed anything. “And a small amount of gel—because, you know, I didn’t want my hair to be gross if I used too much.”

  He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. “Well, for starters, I think about the only thing you used that’s made for hair was the gel. The bad news is, I’m not entirely sure what the other stuff is.”

  “I’m sorry, do what?”

  “Let’s start over. Which one did you say was the dry shampoo?” He took the aerosol can with the torn label from my hand and set it on the vanity. “Yeah, that’s starch. What about the leave-in conditioner?” Again, he studied the small tube I handed him and then set it down. “That would be the acne wash I used in middle school—don’t judge, it still works to dry up the occasional zit. I take it this is the oil?” By the time he picked up the small glass bottle with the dropper inside, I was scared to hear what that was.

  “If it’ll make me bald, just lie to me and tell me it’s vitamin E.”

  His grin stretched wider as he shook his head. “Nope. But don’t worry; it won’t do anything bad to your hair. I use it on my skin when I have an allergic reaction. It was something my mom got me years ago from a woman she worked with, and so far, it’s the only thing aside from a prescription that works.”

  I chose to take that as a good sign and ignore the fact that I had sprayed my roots with starch and combed face wash through the strands. Although, we still hadn’t addressed whatever chemical it was that I’d slathered my legs with. “There’s a small black jar under the sink that at one time contained lotion . . . any idea what’s in it now? Because it’s most certainly not what the label claims to be.”

  He squatted down and peered into the cabinet. When his eyes met mine again, they were filled with confusion. “Why? What’d you use it for?”

  “Well, I shaved my legs with one of your razors, and when I finished ridding myself of about nine layers of skin, I thought it’d be best if I moisturized them.”

  He winced, which wasn’t normally a good sign. “At least you used that one correctly. But I can’t imagine that felt great. It’s aftershave balm. That shit burns.”

  “I don’t think the word burn accurately describes the pain. I’d compare it more to death—of the slow, torturous variety.”

  Jason closed the cabinet door, but before he stood, he noticed my toes. “Where’d you get nail polish from?”

  “In one of the baskets in there. I assume it was Jen’s that somehow ended up in your stuff.”

  “Do you read the directions before you use anything?” He laughed and pulled himself off the floor. “I knew I recognized that color. It’s the same as my old kitchen cabinets, which means you more than likely painted your nails with wood corrector. It’s meant to cover scratches without using filler.”

  At least one of us found the humor in this.

  By the way . . . it was not me.

  “In my defense, you keep things for decades and the labels are either ripped, faded, or don’t exist. Kind of difficult to read directions that aren’t there.”

  “Come on, babe.” He took my hand and led me to the shower. “Let’s get you cleaned off.”

  “I think I’ll need more than soap and water to fix all this.”

  He tugged his shirt over his head and winked. “I just might have something that’ll help.”

  In Jason’s world, helping me didn’t equate to removing the wood stain from my toes or properly washing my hair. I had to give the man credit, though . . . by the time I stepped out of the shower, I felt so good I no longer thought about my burning legs or cared that my roots were still stiff as a board.

  15

  Jason

  “You’re wearing half your burrito on your face.” Laughter shook my shoulders as I watched Tatum wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. “Maybe if you worried more about where you were aiming that thing and less about who might see you with me, you might not have that problem.”

  She curled her top lip, silently telling me to shut up.

  Between starting my job and Tatum going back to hers, we hadn’t had a chance to get together. I’d figured this art festival would be the perfect way to hang out before she started her Saturday dinner shift. Plus, I’d specifically chosen to meet up here knowing Kelsey was busy with work, which meant Tatum wouldn’t have to worry about getting caught.

  Unfortunately, that hadn’t stopped her from scanning the crowd every two seconds.

  “Are you seriously that worried about someone seeing us together? You’re starting to give me a complex. First it was the club last weekend when you decided to stay home. Now it’s—”

  “You can’t throw that in my face. It was a darn good thing I didn’t go, considering Kelsey did show up—as well as Marlena—despite your constant reassurances that I wouldn’t know anyone.”

  “I still don’t believe they were there.”

  “Jay . . .” She cocked her head to the side. “You had a full-blown conversation with Marlena.”

  “I don’t remember it, so it didn’t happen.”

  “Well, Kelsey certainly remembers it, as well as the girl you left with.” The flash of mirth in her eyes told me she was only teasing, though that didn’t stop the foreign feeling of regret from washing over me.

  I rolled my eyes and ate the last bite of my burrito—the one she had pretty much forced me to get because all the other food here didn’t appeal to her. Somehow, I wasn’t sure how a ball of grease contained in a flour shell and decorated with limp lettuce seemed appetizing, but who was I to argue with the food snob?

  “We have about”—I checked my watch, noticing the time and doing mental math—“twenty more minutes before you have to leave for work. I don’t know about you, but I need to walk this meal off.”

  Tatum leaned back in her chair and rubbed circles over her stomach. “I think I’m too full to walk. I feel bloated.”

  Ignoring the fact that it looked like she lovingly caressed a baby bump rather than a full belly, I added, “I’m not entirely sure how you could be stuffed. You spent most of the time on the lookout instead of eating—not to mention, I’m fairly certain you got more on your face than in your mouth.”

  One brow arched perfectly while she quirked her mouth to the side. As much as I loved her initial awkwardness, seeing the sass she offered once she became comfortable had to be my favorite. Even after last weekend, it took her a bit to shed the uneasiness around me, though I kind of liked it that way. It proved I still affected her.

  “Keep that up, Sherlock, and I just might sleep in my own bed tonight.” She might’ve sounded convincing, yet the sparkle in her raven eyes paired with the slight upturn at the corners of her glistening lips told a very different story. There was no way she was sleeping alone tonight.

  “Sherlock?” I asked, ignoring the rest of her idle threat. “Where’d that come from?”

  “Watson.” The lilt added to the end of my last name echoed the nonverbal duh.

  I shrugged, giving her credit for the creative twist. “Touché.”

  We rose and meandered toward a booth with silk scarves hanging from posts on either side.

  It contained nothing interesting, so rather than browse the items sprawled across the top, I stood back and watched Tatum. She intently studied a necklace made from twisted wire that created a tree with small colored stones meant to resemble leaves. She picked up a blue one, held it close to her face, and then set it down in exchange for a pink one. The soft grin lining her lips as she examined each piece captivated me; I could’ve stayed right here all day just to see her expression change with each item she picked up.

  Yet it didn’t last long—much like most moments that involved Tatum. When she set down the
pink necklace, she happened to glance up, becoming alarmed at the sight of something on the aisle across from us. A gasp hitched in her throat seconds before she twisted herself in the dangling scarves, leaving her body visible only from the waist down.

  It was a rather comedic sight, especially once I realized what—or who—had sent her into hiding. I didn’t have to look farther than a young redhead, probably in her mid- to late twenties, who grazed the booth behind the one we were at. She seemed to be eying whatever was on display at the stand, so she had her attention down, shielding most of her face from our view, though I could say without question that it was not Kelsey.

  “You’re going to get us kicked out if you keep doing this,” I leaned closer to the silk cocoon that protected Tatum. “Stop freaking out. She’s not here; I promise.”

  Slowly, she uncurled herself from the fabric and peeked over the table. When she realized I was right, her shoulders dropped, relief swarming her like a warm blanket on a cold night. Still, I knew she wouldn’t fully relax until we left, until she could be certain that Kelsey wouldn’t catch her out in public with me.

  Dismissing the ridiculously large pendants as if she hadn’t spent the last few minutes ogling them, she moved along, stopping at another stand to admire something else. I followed, biting my tongue since she didn’t seem eager to discuss her completely unwarranted paranoia, and found something worth taking a look at.

  My mom had collected ornaments of angels for as long as I could remember, so when I spotted one dangling from a red ribbon, I picked it up to check the price on the yellow sticker. I was the world’s worst gift giver. Regardless of how cheap something was, I had a hard time purchasing it without someone else’s opinion—that way, if it sucked, I could blame it on their bad advice rather than my bad taste. I turned toward Tatum with the ornament in my open palm, but before I could ask what she thought of it, I swallowed my question in favor of asking a different one.