Best Friends & Other Liars

by Heather Balog

  “He says…” the girl on the other end of the phone sucks in her breath, like she needs all the air she can get. “He says he had to leave work today to deal with...shit that you should be home dealing with. He said that he had to race home and he got a ticket for speeding and he may just lose his license. He’s shipping the kids off to stay with your mother for the remainder of your strike against motherhood. He said that he hopes you’re enjoying yourself though. He said that was sarcastic.” The girl on the other end of the phone breathes out a sigh of relief at getting this message off her chest.

  I, however, feel like someone has sucker punched me in the gut and I can’t breathe at all. “Um, thanks,” I manage to mumble, dropping the pen on the nightstand and placing the phone in the cradle. I slowly lower my head back down on the pillow, notepad still in hand. For a full five minutes I am frozen, staring at the ceiling, my temples pulsing.

  What an idiot I am! What’s wrong with me? Thinking I can go away on a trip? I should have stayed home with the kids. I can only imagine what they’re saying about me down at the reception desk right now. What kind of mother goes on a cruise and leaves her kids home alone...with a man who talks to her that way?

  Then I remind myself that this is a divorce cruise—the reception desk probably expects an exchange between an ex-husband and wife to go something along those lines, wouldn’t they?

  And then…an epiphany! I realize that I am wrong.

  I should not be home with the kids. Richard had no right to leave that message. I should be pissed! I am pissed! I’m pissed at Richard! And he got my mother involved? Ugh, I can only imagine how much I’m going to owe her for this—she’ll hold this over my head forever. I’m mad and I’m...well, I’m furious.

  I sit up and fling the pad of paper across the room, hitting the side of the door, just as it opens and Leah steps into the room.

  She ducks and screams, covering her head.

  “Oh gosh! I’m so sorry!” I throw back the covers and leap to my feet.

  “Jesus, Vi! If you’re mad just say so! No need to blind me in the process,” she tells me in an agitated voice. She steps into the bathroom and starts running the water in the sink.

  “I seriously didn’t mean to throw that at you.” I tell her.

  “Who did you think you were throwing it at then?”

  “I was just throwing it in anger. I got a horrible message from Richard.”

  “Let me see,” she says, stepping out of the bathroom, hand held out in front of her. “Where’s your phone?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a text. He left a message at the front desk. He basically called to tell me what a terrible mother I am. You know, in case I missed that point when I deserted my family the other day and he threw a fit.” I flop down on the bed, like some dramatic heroine in Samantha’s books.

  “That’s despicable. Even for him,” Leah says, opening the mini fridge next to the bathroom door. “Do we have any ibuprofen?”

  “Yeah, in my travel bag—bring me some, too. Ugh, the poor girl at the desk relayed the message verbatim. She sounded like she wanted to crawl into a hole and die while she did, too. I can’t imagine what she thinks of me.” I cover my face with my hands.

  “Oh God, who the hell cares what the front desk people think? Don’t worry about that. You’re never going to see those people again,” Leah reminds me. “Here.” She shoves two pills at me.

  I take my hands off my face and swallow the pills without water. They’re dry and they stick in the back of my throat. I should sit up, but I don’t. Instead, I stare at the ceiling—there’s a crack I hadn’t noticed before.

  Great. Now I can lie awake at night and worry about the ceiling caving in, in addition to all my other worries.

  “Don’t think about Richard and his assholery. You’re on vacation. You should be relaxing and thinking about vacation.” Leah sits down next to me and pats my head like I’m a dog. She knows I hate that. In order to get her to stop, I sit up. That’s when I get a good look at Leah. She is holding a washcloth to the right side of her face. The wash cloth is wrapped around a can of soda.

  “What are you doing with that washcloth?”

  Leah lowers her hand and I gasp. The patch of skin from her forehead to her cheek is scraped up—red and irritated.

  “Oh my word! What happened to you?” I don’t know how I didn’t notice it when she walked into the room.

  “I met a guy,” Leah says triumphantly.

  “Where? Jerks Not-So-Anonymous? Point him out. I’ll kill him.”

  Leah starts to laugh and I scowl darkly at her. “This isn’t funny Leah.” I squint at her face. “Your eye is all bloodshot and your face looks...well, like a squirrel gnawed on it.”

  “I have a date with him tonight,” Leah says, ignoring my concerns.

  “What? How could you even entertain the notion of going out with this creep?”

  “He didn’t do this to me,” Leah tells me.

  “Denial isn’t healthy, Leah. Did he threaten to hurt you if you told?”

  I purse my lips at my friend. I am very concerned about her blasé attitude about this guy. This is very unlike her. She doesn’t take any nonsense from guys. Usually. And I’m even more concerned about what he could have possibly done to her to screw her face up this badly. Take a tire iron to it? Oh my gosh! What if he hit her so hard she has brain damage? I grab her arm. “Do you have brain damage?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Vi. I met him at the gym. I was on the treadmill, and I was going too fast. I slipped, and my face grazed the belt of the treadmill. He saved me from getting even more injured than I already am.”

  I gawk at her for a moment, getting a mental image of her showing off on the treadmill and getting a little too full of herself—her tripping, and her face bouncing off the belt. I smirk—that is a much more believable story than her allowing some guy she just met to beat the crap out of her. This “video” of Leah falling starts to repeat in my head, playing on a loop. The smirk on my face turns into a full-fledged smile, and before I know what’s happening, I am laughing my head off. It hurts, but I don’t care.

  “Shut up,” she says, whacking me with the back of her hand. “It’s not that funny.”

  “Oh, yes it is,” I retort, holding my side, tears streaming down my face now.

  “I could have been killed,” Leah says, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling at me. “People die from hitting their heads on the treadmill. I just read a story about a guy—”

  “You didn’t die,” I say, studying her face. “You’re just a little…maimed.”

  “How bad is it?” She stands up and re-enters the bathroom, flicking on the light this time. “I avoided all the mirrors on the way back to the—holy shit! Oh my God! I thought it was bad at the gym, but it’s even worse in this light.”

  “Everything’s worse in that light. It’s not that bad,” I say unconvincingly.

  “Not that bad?” She whirls around and stands in the bathroom doorway. “It looks like I got run over by a Mack truck.” She leans back in toward the mirror. “I think I have track marks on my forehead.” Upon further examination, she gasps and then pulls away from the mirror. “I do have track marks on my forehead!”

  “I don’t think they’re called track marks. And I wouldn’t say that too loudly either. People will think you’re doing heroin or something.”

  She stares at me, her jaw dropping a little lower. “Why the hell would they think I’m doing heroin? Do I look like I’m doing drugs?”

  I bite my lip to avoid blurting out the obvious response to that question.

  “When you say track marks, people automatically think drugs.”

  “Oh.” Leah looks away from me and back at the mirror. “What would you call it then?”

  “Um, rug burn?”

  “It wasn’t a rug. It was a treadmill.”

  “Road rash?” I throw out another suggestion. I have no idea why we’re even debating this ridiculous subject. Leah loo
ks bad no matter what we call it.

  “I guess,” Leah says sullenly.

  “Everything looks worse in here,” I say, joining her in the bathroom. “The lighting is awful. I mean, look at me—I look terrible, too.”

  I glance at myself in the mirror and am disturbed to discover that this statement isn’t even slightly false. My skin is sallow looking and there are bags under my eyes that have their own luggage. My lips are cracked and dry, and there is a fuzzy white film around the outer edges. Next to me, Leah doesn’t even look that bad anymore.

  I reach for her face and tilt her chin, examining what will most likely be bruises later on in the day. “A little dab of concealer should work. And some blush.”

  “More like a shitload of concealer and blush,” Leah huffs. “I might have to actually shellac my face to cover this up.”

  She reaches across the counter to retrieve her make-up bags. Yes. Multiple bags. I could fit all the make-up I own in a snack-sized baggie, and my best friend has four different glittery make-up bags. One is full of lotions and primers and a bunch of other stuff she rubs on her face before even applying the make-up. Then she has foundations and concealers and powders and blushes in another bag. Then there’s a bag for all her eye makeup. And the final bag houses all the brushes that she dutifully cleans on a regular basis.

  Meanwhile, the lone purple eyeshadow that I own is actually from my college years. I think I was with Leah when I bought it—it was ninety-nine cents and in the bargain bin.

  “What kind of date are you going on?” I ask, leaving the bathroom and plopping down on the bed.

  Leah pauses with one of her many brushes mid-air. “What do you mean, what kind? How many kinds of dates are there?”

  I wrinkle up my brow. I honestly have no idea what kinds of dates there are. I haven’t been on a date in twenty years.

  “I mean, what are you planning to do on this date?”

  “Oh.” Leah turns back to the mirror. “We’re going to dinner.”

  I cock my head to the side. I must have heard her wrong. “Going to dinner? What do you mean by going to dinner?”

  Leah sighs with exasperation. “Christ Vi, why are you being so dense today? If I didn’t know better, I would think that you were the one who hit your head, not me.” She pokes her head out the bathroom and widens her eyes at me. “We are going to eat dinner. It’s the meal after lunch. The one you eat before going to sleep for the night.” She speaks slowly and deliberately, rolling her eyes.

  I scowl at her—I hope she gets a migraine from rolling her eyes. “I know what dinner is, Leah. I mean, if you’re going to dinner with this guy, what am I supposed to do for dinner?”

  “You can’t eat dinner by yourself?” Leah dips the brush into more powder and sweeps it over her face.

  “Well, that’s hardly fair.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You dragged me on this cruise against my will and now you’re dumping me for a guy?”

  “I didn’t drag you—”

  “Leah, you neglected to tell me that it was a divorce cruise. You got me on this ship under false pretenses. The least you could do is have dinner with me and not leave me to fend for myself.”

  Leah sighs and stares at herself in the mirror.

  “You could have dinner with Kendall and Francine,” Leah suggests. “That’s what I did the first night when you didn’t want to come out with me.”

  I frown and ignore her dig. That was a totally different situation. “I don’t want to have dinner with Kendall and Francine. I want to have dinner with you.” Yes, I’m aware that I sound like a petulant child, but I’m annoyed at her.

  “It wouldn’t kill you to go out of your comfort zone, Vi. Besides, I don’t even know if this date with Nick will be anything more than an hour for dinner. I might hate his guts,” she says. “You and I can go grab a drink after the date.”

  “Don’t do me any favors...wait, did you say his name was Nick?”

  Leah, obviously realizing where I’m going with this, suddenly becomes fascinated with plucking her eyebrows. She hates plucking her own eyebrows. She gets them threaded every Thursday just so she doesn’t have to pluck them. “Um, huh.”

  “Nick, as in the guy who left you when you found him—”

  “Don’t say it, Vi,” Leah warns.

  “Okay. Nick, as in the guy that you almost married?”

  “It’s not the same Nick, Vi,” she says with exasperation.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. But after you broke up with Nick, do you remember what you said?”

  “Uh, huh.” Pluck, pluck, cringe, cringe.

  “You said that you would never date an Italian guy named Nick again,” I remind her. “You said he ruined you for life.”

  “I know what I said,” Leah mutters.

  “No, you didn’t just say it. You told anyone who would listen. You wrote it on your Facebook wall. You actually had one of those personalized signs made up for your apartment, No Nicks Allowed. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” Leah hisses. “I don’t see how this is even relevant to this conversation.”

  “It’s relevant because you just said this guy’s name is Nick. You’re breaking your own rule by dating him.”

  “First of all, I’m going on a date. I’m not dating him,” Leah tries to reason. My mouth falls open. She can’t be that dumb, can she?

  “The very definition of dating is going on dates.”

  Leah ignores me and continues to justify. “I don’t even know if he’s Italian. We didn’t get that deep into each other’s history. He could be Polish for all I know.”

  “Leah, how many men do you know named Nick who aren’t Italian?”

  “You never know. Besides, I was immature to make such a broad statement like I’d never date a guy named Nick again. Who knows what I could be missing?”

  I stare at her. It’s quite unlike my best friend to ever admit she’s wrong, let alone, immature. This guy must be something else.

  I shrug. “Just reminding you of your own rule, that’s all. I don’t need you getting all annoyed with me later on when this doesn’t work out—blaming me for letting you go out with this guy.”

  “I won’t blame you. I promise.”

  “A likely story,” I scoff. “There have been many times in the past when it doesn’t work out with a guy and then you end up being mad at me when you sleep with him and he doesn’t call you and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Leah says, swiveling away from the mirror. “Are you calling me a slut?”

  I know I should think carefully about what I say, but my brain still hurts, so instead I blurt out, “If the shoe fits.”

  Leah’s already blotchy face becomes redder and I can practically see steam coming out of her ears. Her “slutty-like” behavior is a sore spot with her. As well it should be. She should stop being slutty and sleeping with men on the first date.

  “You’re just jealous,” Leah retorts.

  “Of slutty behavior? Um, no.”

  What is she, insane? I sleep with the same guy every night. It’s safe, it’s comfortable. I have no desire to be slutty. Even if Richard and I get a divorce—

  “You’re jealous because you sleep with the same guy every night. It’s safe, it’s comfortable. You like that. But you don’t get to have fun, and you secretly wish that you were able to have fun like I do instead of spending every night with your boring Dick.”

  I glance sideways at her, alarmed.

  Can she read my mind or something? Not that I think Dick, er, I mean Richard is boring. But didn’t she say she was jealous of me having a relationship yesterday?

  “You’re the one jealous of me,” I remind her.

  “I most certainly am not,” Leah replies indignantly as she haughtily brushes her cheeks with a giant fluffy pink brush.

  “Yes, you are. You told me yesterday. Right in this very room. You said you wish you had a man like Richard.”

  Okay, maybe not those exact words…
/>   “Ha!” Leah laughs. “That’s rich. Your husband is a complete asshole. He treats you like garbage and you continue to take it. You’re like this parasite that’s attached to an unhealthy host just because she doesn’t think she can find another one and feels like she needs it to stay alive. Why in God’s name would I ever be jealous of that?”

  My mouth drops open. She might as well have slapped me. Does she hear how crazy she sounds? I mean, Richard isn’t the best husband—he doesn’t treat me as well as he should, and I let him get away with it. That’s upsetting. But for her to bring it up and make it sound like I’m at fault for the whole thing—like I like it or something—well that just...hurts. And plus, I could have sworn she said she was jealous of me yesterday. Did I imagine that?

  “That’s a horrible thing to say, Leah,” I reply steadily, trying to prevent my lip from quivering.

  Leah shrugs. “I’m not trying to be horrible. I’m just telling you the truth as I see it.”

  “I don’t recall asking you for the truth.”

  “No, but you implied that I was jealous of you for being married to Richard, which is a ridiculous insinuation.”

  Leah finally looks up from the mirror and realizes that I am about to cry. She rushes out of the bathroom and grabs my elbows. “Oh geez, Vi. Don’t get upset. You’re taking this the wrong way.”

  I wrest from her grasp and back up. “And what way am I supposed to take it, huh?”

  “I just meant that you’re too good for Di—Richard. You can do better than him. You deserve better than him. If you think your relationship is great, I’m afraid you’re never going to see how much you’re selling yourself short.”

  She offers me a sad smile—one that I can only imagine is bursting with pity. “I only want what’s best for you, and that definitely isn’t Richard.” She reaches toward me again, probably to hug me. I back up and shake her off. Now it’s her turn to look like I’ve slapped her.

  Good. I don’t care. I would actually like to slap her. I imagine it’d be a satisfying sort of feeling to have her flesh underneath my burning palm. But I wouldn’t dare try it.

  “I’m leaving,” I say instead, grabbing my ID badge hanging on its lanyard. I shove my feet into the flip-flops near the door.