All the Pretty Lies

by Marin Montgomery

  “Thanks.” I give him a tight smile. He settles across from me, his tea in hand, the cup looking miniature in his large palms.

  “When did this start?” He takes a sip.

  “I don’t know.” I look out the window. “He’s been distant for a couple months. If I’m honest, it’s probably been going on for a long time. I’ve just ignored the signs. Until they were thrust into my face in the form of a package and a love letter.”

  “What happens next?” His intense stare holds me. “Or what do you want to happen?”

  I shrug. “Another good question I can’t answer. I wish I could throw a plate at his head, kick him out, burn his clothes on the lawn, and tell him he can have her.”

  “But…” Jarrett says.

  “But life’s never that simple. We have small children. A mortgage.” I bite my lip. “Worse yet, my family has a business that he helps run. A package deal when he married me. That he would work for my father.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Oil,” I say.

  “Wait, your last name is…”

  “Bishop.” I finish his thought. He recognizes the name, his face confirming his awe. He tries to recover, changing the subject.

  “That couldn’t have been easy,” he muses.

  “What?”

  “Having to live up to your family’s expectations.” He finishes off his tea in one long swallow. “Is he close to them?”

  “God, no.” I shudder, considering the death stares my father has been known to give Reed.

  “My parents think I married down. He’s spent twenty years trying to prove otherwise.”

  “Have you ever tried therapy or mentioned a trial separation?”

  “We did pre-marital counseling before we got married.” I sigh. “I know what I’m up against. We’ve been together so long, our life is monotonous, he’s bored. We as a couple are grasping at straws. Maybe this is for the best. He can get what he wants elsewhere.”

  “Are you still attracted to him?”

  “No.” I exhale. “Wow, that’s a relief.”

  “What is?”

  “To finally say it out loud. Make it real. I’ve never been able to say it, just think it.”

  ‘Sounds like you need a friend,” he muses.

  “Desperately. I realize as of late how much of my life I’ve put on the back burner so he can run around ‘conducting business,’” I say in air quotes. “I’ve been his doormat, trying to be the perfect housewife, help run the family business, raise our boys.”

  “Sounds like you need a break from reality.”

  “I just got a wake-up call.” I look down at my fingers, the empty spot on my ring finger. “I don’t want to be married to him anymore…”

  Jarrett’s blue eyes drill into mine.

  “And that frankly scares the bejeezus out of me. He’s all I know.”

  “You don’t have to make any snap decisions, Meg.” He sets his cup on the tray. “But you have people that care about you.” He winks. “I won’t say names.”

  I crack a small grin.

  He looks at his watch. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got a contractor coming.”

  My face drops. I try to hide my disappointment, but he misses nothing. “Would you like to come?” I hesitate, wanting nothing more than to be in his presence. “You could probably use some fresh air.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “I need to get out of the house.”

  Standing, he glances around the room. “You have a beautiful house, by the way. Mind if I check out the spread? From what I’ve seen, you’ve really got an eye for detail.”

  “Feel free to walk around.” I wave in the direction of the staircase. “I’m going to clean up, and then I’ll be ready. Can we spare five minutes?”

  “Definitely.” He touches my arm for a brief second. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I take a peek around?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ll stay out of your bedroom, or at least your bed.” He cracks a smile, making me laugh.

  We start to head in opposite directions when I hear my name.

  I turn.

  “Meg?” he says again.

  “Yeah?”

  “You did marry down.” His smile is gentle, but it’s tinged with regret. I want to run into his arms, but instead I’m frozen in place. I’m relieved when he turns on his heel before I can respond. My heart thumps in my chest, a feeling of desire building in my chest.

  Walking into the laundry room, I pocket the letter and throw his shirt in our dry-clean pile. I decide not to mention it to him.

  When Jarrett doesn’t come down after a few minutes, I walk into the living room. The staircase is open, the hallway wrapping around and acting as a balcony for the entire living and dining areas.

  “Jarrett?” I holler.

  No answer.

  Climbing the stairs, I glance around.

  Most of the bedroom doors are closed. I check the twins’ bedroom, the guest room, my office, and then head down the hall to the master. He wouldn’t have gone in there, would he?

  Pulling the handle, as if I’m intruding in my own bedroom, I hold my breath as the door swings open. “Jarrett?” I whisper.

  Nothing. I check the closet, then turn to silently close the door behind me, it as if I’m trapping the ghosts of our marriage inside.

  When I come out of the master, I can see Jarrett’s head downstairs, peering at the two-sided fireplace between the dining and living room, staring at family photos.

  “Oh, there you are,” I yell over the banister.

  “Yeah, I gave myself the grand tour.” He tilts his head at the office. “What’s in there? Secret red room?

  I laugh. “No, that’s Reed’s office.”

  “That’s the first time you’ve said his name.”

  “Really?” I’m floored.

  “Yeah, you always just say ‘him.’” Luckily I know who you’re talking about.”

  I consider his point. He’s right. My husband is nameless to me.

  “Let’s go.” I shudder. “I’m ready to get some air.”

  Chapter Nine

  Meghan

  I’m anxious after Reed leaves the museum, his confident stature replaced by a slouched posture and slow steps.

  It’s compounded by the fact that he locks me out of his office to make a phone call.

  Does he already suspect what I did? I chew on one of my nails, fidgeting with the lock.

  He flings the door open after a couple minutes, coming around the desk, brushing past me as if we’re strangers.

  We might as well be.

  Something’s not right. He’s hiding behind a façade. His face was ashen earlier at the exhibit, and now it’s a ruddy shade, too flushed for normal circumstances.

  Henry and Rolly are arguing over who gets to jump off the couch first. I rush over to them.

  “No, boys, no jumping off the furniture.” Now or ever, I mutter under my breath. They can have those bunk beds when they’re teenagers.

  Frasier’s yapping, his ball the likely culprit. He nudges it down in the couch pillows and then it gets stuck. I’m scouting for it when both boys start yelling at the television screen.

  “She looks like other mommy,” they both exclaim.

  A shiver tingles down my spine. I stop rummaging for the lost dog toy and freeze as Rolly points and stares at her. “Mommy two.” ‘Mommy two’ is an attractive young blonde, a reporter from a local news channel, Laura Lancaster. I don’t hear what she’s saying. It’s irrelevant. I can only stare as my jaw hits the floor. After the cameras pan back to her co-anchor, I turn to the boys. “What did you mean about the blonde lady?”

  “We saw her before.” Roland shrieks.

  “When?” I’m confused.

  “She was at the house,” Henry adds. He’s on to his train set, ramming the caboose into the wainscoting.

  “Who was at the house?” I murmur.

  “Blonde lady with Daddy.”

 
“The reporter?” I’m uncertain. “When?”

  Roland shrugs. It’s pointless to ask kids a timeline.

  “Where was I?”

  “At Auntie V’s.” Auntie V is my best friend Veronica. We’ve known each other since we were in grade school, our friendship solid since we carved our names in the backyard oak tree after Sam Rogers broke up with me in front of the jungle gym and Veronica spit on the toe of his high-tops in protest. Our decades-long alliance was cemented long before she moved to California for college and never came back to Texas.

  “Why did you call her Mommy Two?”

  “Because Daddy and her talked about her being a mommy.” Absorbing what they said, my mouth tastes metallic. The earring…the ‘babysitter’s’ misplaced stud.

  Reed brought a woman to our house?

  Impossible. I shake my head. Too risky.

  “What were you boys doing?” I question, Frasier’s misplaced toy squeaking underneath me.

  “Playing.” Rolly gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re pretty too, Mommy.”

  ‘Ah…thank you baby. I love you.” I give him a big smacker on his cheek.

  “Riley came.”

  “Riley came to baby-sit?”

  “Uh-huh. She let us stay up late.” Henry covers his eyes with his hands and peers out, expecting me to be mad. Riley’s a high school senior that baby-sits the boys on occasion.

  All I can muster is, “Must’ve been a special occasion.” I don’t want the twins to see my agitation, and I need a moment to process what I’ve just heard. Thinking back to a couple nights over the last six months I didn’t stay home, I do remember Reed was away on a business trip.

  Or so he said.

  The boys were with me. He came home and we fought. It was the usual argument - he’s never home, never present, always on his phone or locked in his office.

  Work, he claimed. Always work.

  Veronica told me to bring the boys and come visit.

  This wasn’t that long ago, sometime in the last two months.

  At the last minute, he changed his mind. Told me to go alone. Said he would watch the boys. He never offered to spend time with his kids unless it was something simple - a movie, the park, dinner. And only for a few hours.

  Was he testing out the waters with his girlfriend? Introducing him to our kids to get a feel for how she would be with them?

  “Okay boys, it’s time for a movie.” I peruse the free children’s movies on our cable channels. “Which one do you want?” They both argue over who should hold the remote and after a splitting headache and three final options, I make the decision on what to watch.

  “Mommy’s going upstairs.” They aren’t paying attention, one’s laid out on a bean bag chair and one’s sitting next to Frasier, his head buried in his paws, the idea of a repeat of the movie abhorred even by the dog. The squeaky bone goes untouched as he ignores it now that it’s no longer lost.

  Both sets of eyes are focused on the television and trains, their latest obsession.

  Last month it was aliens. Before that, Paw Patrol.

  Making my way up our staircase, I take one step at a time, mulling over Reed’s latest trip. He’d only brought home his laptop bag.

  That was it.

  His Tumi luggage stayed in the closet.

  A toiletry kit’s on his sink, separated by our massive jet tub. I rifle through it. Just the usual contents - toothpaste, toothbrush, cologne, razor. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  The computer bag, a leather one, made to look worn but fashionable, is lying on its side behind his closet door.

  My eyes focus on the door, as if he’ll walk in and berate me for going through his stuff.

  I unzip the bag. His Mac Air is inside, a power cord, headphones, and a notebook.

  Powering it on, I consider his password.

  I try the boys’ birthday, mine. His brother’s. No luck.

  Sighing, I turn it off.

  Closing the satchel, I scan the closet for any discrepancies. I check the pockets of the pants and jeans in the hamper, both I’m sure he took with him on his trip. I examine the contents of his closet, eyeballing his shoes, his garment bag, the dry cleaning that’s ready to be picked up.

  Nothing looks out of the ordinary.

  His bedside table is littered with a couple books - one is a business how-to book, and the other is a self-help guide on ‘being your best self.’

  I laugh out loud. Does it give advice on being the best cheater?

  Getting on my hands and knees, I check underneath the bed. A pair of flip-flops are hiding, but I don’t find the match to the earring.

  The phone shrills on the bedside table, snapping me out of my thoughts. It rings twice and then stops. This is Jarrett and mine’s cue that he needs to talk.

  He only does this if he can’t get ahold of me on my cell.

  I dial him back.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  “What did he say?” He’s hopeful.

  I’m glum. “I didn’t get to give him the papers.”

  “What?” He’s trying to control his tone. “I thought that was the first thing when he got back.”

  “Something came up.”

  “It always does.” He sighs. “If you’re not serious about leaving…” his voice trails off.

  “That’s not it.” I say. “He had to go to the station.”

  “What station?”

  “Police.” I mumble. “A hit and run accident.”

  “Hit and run?” He’s bewildered. “When? Here?”

  “No.” I hear a beep, signaling another call’s coming in. “I gotta call you back. Another call’s coming in.”

  I switch over, and a voice echoes through the line. “Is this Meghan Bishop?”

  I sink into the mattress, my hands trembling as I wrap my hand around the extension. “Yes, it is,” I whisper.

  “Hi Meghan, this is Detective Greg Walsh with the Houston PD. Would you mind coming down to the station?”

  “Um…what’s this regarding?

  “Look Meghan, I’d prefer to discuss this with you in person.”

  “Is someone hurt?” I’m frantic.

  “No, no one is hurt.” He adds. “We feel, I feel, the precautions we take now can ensure a better outcome for your family.”

  What the hell does that mean? I think to myself.

  “I’m home with two children.” I look at the family photo on the side table, our faces betraying how we really feel, all the lies.

  “I’d like to speak to you alone. If you want, tell your neighbor you have to grocery shop or run an errand. This won’t take long.”

  “Where should I meet you?”

  “The Houston PD.” He gives me directions. I hang up.

  I sit on the bedspread, picking at the stitching, the cream-colored duvet cover that contrasts with the gray walls and the flowered chaise lounge in the corner.

  Why would the police need me to come to give a statement when I wasn’t there in Dallas?

  I call Jarrett. He doesn’t answer.

  The phone rings right away. It’s him.

  “I’ve gotta go down to the police station.”

  “Is everything okay?” he asks. “Can I do anything?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be in touch.”

  I punch in Lisa’s number, our neighbor next door. Her kids are teenagers and she loves watching the twins. It’s a Saturday, so they might be gone. One kid’s in cheerleading and the other has basketball. A recording comes on their answering machine after four rings. I don’t leave a message.

  Next I try Leona. She’s older, a grandma type. She’s down the street on the corner. Her and her boyfriend Melvin have been together thirty years and when they aren’t exploring the country in their RV, she loves chasing after her grandkids. And my kids.

  “This is Leona.” A harried voice comes on the line.

  “Hi Leona, it’s Meg.”

  “Oh Meg, hey! How’r
e you doing, sweetie?”

  “I’m good, pretty good. Are you busy?”

  “Just threw a pie in the oven. Cherry. Stop by for some.”

  “Sounds delicious.” I pause. “Actually, I have an errand to run. Mind if the boys hang out for a bit?”

  “Of course, sweetie.” Water’s running in the background. “Bring em’ on by.”

  I start to leave the room but stop, my fingers grasping the doorknob. Walking back over to the side table, I open the drawer to reveal my engagement and wedding ring.

  Sliding them both on my left hand, I stare at them like they’re a long-lost friend that’s become an enemy.

  The boys are excited about our ‘adventure’ drive, as we call it, whenever Reed or I drive them somewhere and pose it as a surprise. They don’t have long to throw out guesses since it’s a short jaunt. They’re confused, we usually walk Frasier down the street to Leona and Mel’s house or take their battery-operated Power Wheels. They bounce up and down in their booster seats when we turn in the drive, parking behind Leona’s silver Toyota. The twins shoot like a rocket out of my car to hug Leona at her front door. Numbly I follow behind them, my steps uneven. Taking a deep breath, she gives me a tight hug as I try not to lose my composure. She has a motherly instinct and can sense the tension in my body by the way she holds me against her in an embrace. She gives me a final pat on my head, her hand smoothing my hair down in a familiar gesture, the same way I rub my children’s, protective and loving.

  Before I drive off, I take a moment to gather my thoughts, sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead at the yellow front door, the boys and Leona inside, my life’s purpose that I will do anything to preserve.

  My nerves are shot as I drive to the station. I run a red light and hear the horn honk as I almost T-bone a Jeep.

  When I pull into the lot of the police department, it’s official. A brick building with the American and Texas flags waving in the breeze. I grab some gum, checking myself in the mirror. My face is piqued, my hazel eyes look tired, circles forming underneath them. I’m starting to look forty, unable to run from gravity and life circumstances. Smoothing my blouse down, I apply some lip balm and step out of the car.

  Everyone used to tell me how lucky I am to have natural beauty. Reed always said ‘radiant.’ My ivory skin has barely seen a blemish, I have full lips that woman pay money to get injections for, and my hazel eyes are fringed with dark lashes. My 5’9 stature walks to the station in flats, and I straighten my shoulders to give the illusion of confidence.