Only the Pretty Lies

by Rebekah Crane

  Rayne examines me, gently caressing my long, curly blond hair, a trait I can thank Chris for. My brother, River, has Rayne’s straight hair. All he has to do is wash and go, whereas I have to use special products to give my hair the finished look I want. “Is that all? You know you can talk to me. This must have been a tough week.”

  For a moment, I have no idea what she’s referring to. And then it hits me. I just left the only boyfriend I’ve ever had on the other side of the country. I should be devastated. A pile of tears. Heartbroken, missing him already. But all I really want is my bed and my guitar and my records. I attempt to muster some sadness, but only find guilt. I’m happy to be home, not devastated. What does that say about me?

  “Yeah . . . goodbyes are hard,” I say. “But we have plans to FaceTime later. And I was already texting him when we landed so . . . it’s not too bad.”

  Rayne touches my cheek. “Thank goodness for modern technology.”

  The oven timer rings. Rayne pulls out the pie and sets it on the counter to cool.

  “You know, you didn’t have to do that,” I say, eyeing my favorite dessert and knowing that Rayne only bakes when pressured. “I’m fine, really. Zach and I will figure it out. It’s all good. Not that I’m complaining you made a pie for me.”

  Rayne pivots toward me, looking guilty.

  “Oh . . .” I say, feeling slightly stupid. “The pie’s not for me.”

  “You know the pie is always for you, sweetheart.”

  “But . . .”

  Rayne takes off her oven mitts and clasps her hands in front of her. “I have a surprise for you,” she says. “We have new tenants moving into the apartment next door, and I think you’re going to be happy about these ones.”

  “Let me guess. Deadheads? Crystal healers? Gypsies?”

  Rayne holds her finger up. “My favorite healing blogger just wrote an article about the word ‘gypsy.’ We shouldn’t use it. The correct term is ‘Roma people.’”

  “Stick to the topic, Mom,” I state. “Not Grandma and Grandpa Westmore.”

  “No. You know they don’t like coming this far west. But you’re getting closer.”

  My brain isn’t firing through the exhaustion. I have no idea who Rayne could be talking about. Who would be worthy of an afternoon of baking indoors when Rayne could be spending this sunny day in the garden, giving the flowers pep talks or coaching the growing vegetables?

  “I give up,” I say.

  Rayne examines me from across the room. “I can’t believe in a year from now, you’ll be graduated. Off to new adventures.”

  She’s delaying. Rayne knows damn well I’m bound for the local community college. I have no desire to leave Alder Creek.

  “Who is it?”

  Rayne crosses the kitchen and spins me around, her hands massaging my back, kneading into the knots that have formed. “You’re so tense, Amoris. Are you sure New York was OK?”

  Sometimes it’s a disadvantage to have a bodyworker for a mom. I swear she can read my emotions simply by touching me.

  “It was fine. Long flight. Dirty city.”

  Rayne continues kneading my back like it’s bread, pressing and rubbing until a bit of the tension is gone.

  “That’s better,” she says. “A bath with some Epsom salt and you’ll be all relaxed.”

  “A bath does sound kind of dreamy,” I say.

  “Put some rose oil in it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “And wash your hair.”

  I snap out of her magical massage trance. Rayne still hasn’t answered my question. “Mom, who is moving in next door?”

  She pulls plates from the cupboard, six in total. We’re a family of four.

  “Kaydene and Jamison should be here in about an hour,” she says.

  “Jamison.” That name hasn’t crossed my lips in years. Saying it now feels almost foreign. My back and shoulders tense up worse than before.

  “Don’t forget about Kaydene. She’ll be living there, too.”

  “In our rental apartment.”

  “That’s the one,” Rayne says with enthusiasm, buzzing around the kitchen now. I don’t move. My words are gone. “You used to beg to live next door to Jamison when you were little. You two were so cute.”

  The entire flight back from New York, I was looking forward to home. Going to work tomorrow at the café. Seeing my friends. Sleeping in my comfortable bed. Holding my guitar. Being back where I belong. In New York City, you can barely see the sky between all the buildings. Night and day mesh together in a blur of artificial light. In Alder Creek, we’re illuminated by a blanket of stars almost every night.

  But I haven’t come home to the same place.

  “How about that bath?” Rayne says, patting me on the butt.

  I drag myself to the bathroom. But as I sit on the edge of the tub, waiting for it to fill, adding Epsom salt and rose oil, my shoulders are tense again, and I know that the bath won’t help. I wish it was that easy.

  Last night as Zach and I sat in his dorm room, searching for the right words for whatever comes next between us, I didn’t think my life could get any more complicated. But all that mess was supposed to disappear when I got home. My life fits together when I’m in Alder Creek. Nothing feels irreparable. But I wasn’t expecting this. I wasn’t expecting . . . Jamison Rush.

  I submerge myself in the bath as a deluge of memories washes over me. But I better not linger.

  The Rushes will be here in an hour.

  2

  LET IT BE

  More than one hundred bottles line the walls of Rayne’s massage studio, which is at the back of our house and has a separate entrance for clients. Each is filled with a scent—wet leaves, tulips, Christmas cookies, thunderstorms, motor oil, report cards, spaghetti . . .

  Rayne has spent years developing the smells, mixing essential oils and other fragrances to re-create them perfectly. It’s a system she’s developed over time. When a client comes for a session, she has them pick a scent off the wall.

  “A memory in or a memory out,” she says. “Whatever they need.”

  To Rayne, humans are living scrapbooks. Memories are coded in our skin and fascia and muscles. Even memories we don’t remember. Ancient memories. And the best way to access and heal them is through the nose.

  I understand the theory. I can’t smell pencil shavings without thinking of my friend Sam, feverishly drawing, trying to catch a moment in his sketchbook before it’s gone. His boyfriend, Tucker, is Aspercreme. His muscles are always sore from playing sports, and he uses at least a tube a week. Sometimes I think Tucker just likes the tingling sensation.

  Zach is laundry detergent. I can’t walk past our mudroom and not remember our first kiss.

  My best friend, Ellis, is lavender.

  I can find all of these scents on Rayne’s wall, even the pencil shavings, though it took her awhile to get that one perfect. Some days, I’ll go into her studio and open specific bottles, just to live in my memories, because it feels good.

  Jamison Rush doesn’t have a smell. His scent would be impossible to capture. What he is to me isn’t easily replicated and bottled.

  After the bath, I still haven’t found my words. Even as Jamison sits before me at the dinner table, almost three years to the day since I last saw him.

  My brother, River, smells like a sweaty locker room. His football stench is all over the house. It’s completely unsavory. He is the reason my dinner sits practically untouched. Not because Jamison is sitting directly across from me.

  River eats and smacks his lips as he talks. He’s gotten more Neanderthal now that he’s the starting quarterback on the varsity football team. He’s the only sophomore on varsity, a fact he relishes like an Olympic gold medal.

  “What about football?” River says. “You play?”

  Jamison shakes his head. “Not really my thing.”

  I could have told River that.

  My brother sits back, shaking his unkempt brown hair from
his face. It’s unfair he got Rayne’s hair and I didn’t. Neither of us has her eyes, though. We are squarely Chris’s when it comes to our round faces and brown eyes.

  “Basketball?” River asks.

  “Nah.” Jamison’s attention is solely on his plate of food. He isn’t eating much either.

  “What sports do you play?” my brother asks. It’s like he doesn’t know Jamison at all. Like we didn’t spend thirteen summers at his house in Kansas City, running through sprinklers and chasing each other with water balloons.

  “I’m not here to play sports,” Jamison says.

  “But you’re huge.” River shovels in another mouthful of food. “You’d be a great running back.”

  “Is that defense or offense?” Jamison asks, goading River.

  “You’re fucking with me, right?”

  “River.” Rayne coughs his name. Rayne and Chris aren’t sticklers for language most of the time, believing that if you forbid something, it only makes kids want it more. But my brother has been taking advantage of that more and more lately.

  River asks, “Why are you here? We haven’t seen you in like . . . three years.”

  The room goes silent.

  “Just because we don’t see people in person doesn’t mean we’re not strongly connected,” Rayne says. I swear she glances at me for a microsecond.

  Jamison’s mom, Kaydene, offers a more concrete answer.

  “We’re here because of the creative writing program at Western University,” Kaydene says. She goes on to explain the difference between in-state and out-of-state tuition at Western. Missouri is squarely out of state.

  “So you’re playing the system,” River says.

  “I like to think we’re giving Jamison the best shot at acquiring his dream,” Kaydene says.

  “But why here?” River asks. “Alder Creek is so . . . boring. Why not move to a bigger city like Denver or Boulder?”

  “River, are you aware how much it costs to live in a city like that?” Rayne asks.

  “It’s true,” Kaydene says. “The rental price here was too good to turn down.” She smiles at Rayne. Based on their body language, I’m guessing the Rushes aren’t paying rent. Rayne wouldn’t do that to friends, especially ones saving for college. We don’t live on the income from the rental property. It’s just a nice bonus when Chris’s art isn’t selling well. “Your mom can be pretty convincing when she wants to be. I was also a little worried I’d drive Jamison crazy, the two of us shoved into a tiny rental in the city. Out here, there’s more space. And with you all next door, hopefully we won’t kill each other.”

  “So you’re staying the whole school year?” River asks.

  “That’s the plan,” Kaydene confirms.

  “Shit.” River turns to Jamison. “But it’s your senior year. That’s like . . . the best year. Why would you want to leave your school in Kansas City?”

  “There’s more to life than high school,” Jamison says.

  “It doesn’t feel that way. You must really want to go to that college.”

  “I do,” Jamison says.

  “Seriously, dude, you should try out for the football team. If you’re spending a year in this hellhole, you might as well hang out with the right people.”

  At that, I can’t help but laugh. Jamison and I look at each other quickly, but I immediately focus back on my plate. Not only is the idea of River knowing the “right people” outrageous, but Jamison would hate hanging around a bunch of jocks. He’s a book nerd. Always has been.

  But River is right about one thing. Jamison has gotten bigger. Not fat. Taller and broad. He has a similar build to River, a total gym rat who should spend more time showering and less time weightlifting. Unlike Chris, River is tall, well over six feet, a trait he got from Rayne’s side of the family. If I put them back to back, River and Jamison would almost be the same height. But that’s where the similarities end. River is pale white with brown hair. Jamison is dark brown, his near-black hair buzzed clean. Neat. His hair has always been that way. When we were younger, I used to run my hand over his head, feeling the tight curls, so different from my own long blond frizz. My hair drove me crazy, falling in my face all the time. One time when we were six, I told Jamison I wanted a hairstyle like his, short and buzzed. He offered to cut it for me.

  “Trust me. I’ve seen the barber do it a million times,” he said, scissors in hand. “We can be twins.”

  “Jay, I’m a girl.”

  “So? We were born on the same exact day at the same exact time. And boys and girls can be twins. It happens.”

  I loved the idea of being related to Jamison. It’s all I wanted—to live in the same house, share the same room, be together all the time. Twins sounded like a great idea. His home felt like my home after all.

  Rayne and Kaydene found us in the Rushes’ bathroom, my hair covering the floor, Jamison snipping his way around my head. Luckily, he hadn’t gotten to the clippers yet. I’ll never forget the horror on Kaydene’s face.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she screamed, surveying the blond tufts scattered all around us. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Jamison stepped in front of me, like a shield. “It was my idea.”

  “Leave each other’s hair alone,” Kaydene said. “Got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jamison said in a small voice. Kaydene made Jamison use the birthday money he’d saved for an entire year to pay for a proper haircut for me, but that night, when we were supposed to be sleeping, I heard Kaydene and Rayne howling with laughter over it.

  “Did you hear what they said?” Kaydene giggled. “They wanted to be twins. Twins! Those sweet babies . . .”

  “The beauty of being young,” Rayne said.

  “I fear the day they realize how different they really are,” Kaydene said.

  “Maybe it won’t happen, Kay. Maybe the world will change for them.”

  “Oh,” Kaydene said. “It’ll happen. It always happens.”

  Without realizing it, I’ve gotten lost in the past again, twisting a long strand of my hair around my finger. When Jamison catches me staring, he looks at my finger in my curls, and for just a second, I wonder if he’s thinking of the same memory I am. His brown eyes settle on mine, so familiar, before I tear my gaze away, drop my hair, and poke at the peas on my plate.

  The mind is the worst kind of a tease, playing with memories at will.

  “What I really need is an after-school job,” Jamison says.

  “Amoris works at my mom’s old café,” Rayne says. “I’m sure Marnie, the woman who owns it now, would be happy to give you a job. Amoris could introduce you to her. Couldn’t you, Amoris?”

  I don’t make eye contact again. “Sure.”

  “Great,” Kaydene says.

  “Amoris, why don’t you take Jamison with you tomorrow?” Rayne presses. “Aren’t you going shopping with your friends? I bet Ellis will be glad to see him.” Thanks, Mom. Like I need reminding. “You could introduce him around, so he knows some people on the first day. I bet he and Sam would get along great.”

  “I’m working tomorrow,” I say quickly.

  “That’s OK,” Jamison says at almost the exact same time. “Shopping’s not my thing.”

  Rayne and Kaydene exchange confused glances.

  “Who wants dessert? We have pecan pie!” Chris offers. Chris is rarely punctual, but when he is, it’s magic. “It’s a beautiful night to sit on the deck. The stars should be out in full effect.”

  “I’ll pass on dessert,” I say, standing from the table, plate in hand.

  “But it’s pecan pie,” Chris says. “It’s your favorite.” One moment my dad saves me, the next he tosses me back out to sea.

  “I’m on East Coast time. I’m tired.”

  “Before you race off to bed,” Rayne says, holding her plate out for me, “the dishes need to be cleared and loaded into the dishwasher.”

  “Jamison will help,” Kaydene says. “Don’t worry, Jay. I’ll save you some
pie.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jamison says, pushing back from the table.

  “I’m out,” River says, bounding out of his chair, phone already in hand. “Coach wants us watching our carb intake this close to the start of the season.”

  “Why doesn’t River have to do dishes?” I ask like a petulant child, my tone annoying even to me.

  “He did them while you were gone for a week,” Rayne says.

  And just like that, Jamison and I are alone in the kitchen. He clears the table, stacking plates before setting them down on the counter next to me.

  “You rinse. I’ll load,” he says. My measly five-foot-three frame feels small next to him.

  Kaydene was right. At some point, we realized we could never be twins.

  You rinse. I’ll load. His first words to me in three years, and it’s a command. I want to push back and say, No, I’ll load, and you rinse. But I don’t.

  “Sounds good,” I say.

  I scrub the first plate and set it down on the counter in front of him.

  “You were in New York,” Jamison says.

  I nod, not adding anything because it wasn’t a question.

  “You still dating Mack?”

  “Zach,” I say.

  “Right. Zach.” Jamison and I haven’t kept up, but Kaydene and Rayne have had a regular calling cadence for years. They sit on the phone for hours, talking about who knows what, but every time Rayne hangs up, it’s as if she’s lighter. I suspect it’s the same for Kaydene. That’s what good friendship is, I suppose—a place to unload the clutter of the mind.

  I stack another plate, and immediately Jamison loads it into the dishwasher.

  “So . . .” he says.

  “So . . .”

  “You’re into shopping now.”

  “I didn’t say I was into shopping.”

  “Rayne said you’re going shopping tomorrow.”

  “That doesn’t mean I like it,” I say. “It’s Ellis’s idea.”

  “Ellis . . .” His tone doesn’t give away any emotion, but I can fill in the blanks well enough. I shouldn’t have mentioned her name.

  “I’m sure you’re tired from the long drive,” I say. “Go unpack or whatever.”

  “It’s fine. I was given a job to do, and I’ll stay till it’s done.”