Beautiful Lies

by Heather Bentley

  I’m just going to call Alex and get this over with. I’m sure he’s got women lined up out his door, so no huge loss for either one of us. But as I scroll through to look up his number, my phone starts ringing in my hand. And you’ll never guess who it is. None other than the ridiculously hot factory worker.

  I panic as I stare at the vibrating phone, but swipe and bring it to my ear before fully thinking it through.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Courtney.”

  I clear my throat to cover the small giggle that escapes at my bar name.

  “So, not sure if you got my message, but I’m in town. I wanted to see if you’re free for dinner.”

  I hate this part, but it’s better to quickly rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with. My shoulders involuntarily hunch as I speak. “Listen, CJ … I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t get away. I’m at the hospital today and things have been really busy. I’ll actually be here late tonight, following up on calls and logging donations for our yearly pediatric cancer gala. I’ve been so busy getting to know some new kids and their families that I haven’t been able to get anything else done.”

  “What about tomorrow night?” My chest pinches at the hopefulness in his voice.

  “Ahh … tomorrow I work a double.” I scrunch my eyes, forcing the lie out.

  “Waitressing?”

  “Yeah, waitressing.” I shake my head and twist a strand of my hair. I can’t stand lying. One lie always leads to another, which always leads to getting caught. I should’ve been honest and said … what? We can’t see each other because my family would chew you up and spit you out, and for that reason alone I’ll never let them anywhere near you? Actually, maybe I should. That’s crazy enough to send any guy running.

  “I see. So it looks like I can’t take you out to dinner after all.” I don’t miss the disappointment in his voice.

  “No, it looks like you can’t take me out to dinner after all,” I parrot back, trying to hide my own disappointment. I don’t know what to say after that, the silence is making me nervous, and when I’m nervous, I start to babble. Like now. “Listen, CJ, thanks for the offer, but it’s just not going to work out. You’re a great guy. Hard working, a good friend, easy to talk to, gorgeous, not to mention a fabulous kisser. But I just don’t think I’m the girl for you.”

  He’s silent for a few beats.

  “You think I’m gorgeous.” Now he’s doing the parroting, but with a hint of humor coating every syllable. “Not to mention a fabulous kisser.” Shit, why did I have to say that one? “But you’re not the girl for me?” There’s yet another pause in the conversation as he mulls these words over, and I’m trying to think of something to fill the silence with when he beats me to it. With a smile to his voice, he says, “We’ll see about that Courtney. We’ll see.” And the line goes dead.

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. First Alex and now CJ. My life sucks.

  And one more shit. Because I still have to call Alex.

  Alex took my brush off as well as could be expected. I didn’t want to bruise his big, star-quarterback ego, or hurt my chances of any future visits, so I used my go-to excuse … accepting his offer would jeopardize my position here at the hospital. He bought it. I’ll definitely keep his number on file though, especially if, or rather when, Thomas is in need of another pick-me-up.

  And I wasn’t lying when I told CJ I had too much work to do. We had a “No More Chemo” party this week for a patient who finished up her last round of treatments, complete with a sundae bar, face painting, balloon animals and her favorite—puppies.

  Vivi, a petite eight-year-old who wants to someday be a veterinarian, loves to follow “cute baby animal” pages on Instagram and is always “liking” the ones with puppies. So, I made a few phone calls and was able to track down a breeder with not one, not two, but six, eight-week old golden retriever puppies. It was absolutely the cutest thing and brought both her mom and I to tears. Along with that, we’ve admitted three new patients and their families that will be with us for a while as they begin their cancer journey.

  I’m finishing up some notes on the third patient when I hear a knock at my door. It’s after six pm, and I’m generally gone by this time, so I’m not sure who could be looking for me. I shout from my seat at my desk for them to come in.

  Anna pops her head in my office, holding the knob in one hand and the doorframe with the other. I notice right away she’s fighting a smile.

  “Hey, Christina,” she whispers. “There’s a guy here. A good-looking guy. He says he’s looking for someone named Courtney, but we told him he’s got the wrong floor.”

  When she mentions my bar name, my back straightens and prickly heat takes over my neck and chest.

  CJ’s here? In this hospital? On this floor? Looking for me? My eyes widen as I wait for her next words.

  “He didn’t have a last name, so we asked him to describe her to see if maybe we could send him to the right floor. But he said he was sure she works with the pediatric cancer patients, and then, well, then he described someone who sounds a lot like you.”

  All I can think is, can I fit under my desk? Squeeze out a window? Pull a fire alarm? I’m looking around my office, hoping a secret panel is suddenly and miraculously going to appear, when I run out of time. A shadow fills the space behind Anna, as the door swings open.

  She scurries out of the way as CJ steps into my office and shuts the door behind him. I sit perfectly still, hands folded on my desk— a picture of calmness and poise, but inside my body is going haywire. My eyes bulge, my cheeks burn, my spine tingles, and my belly flip-flops. CJ casually approaches my desk, sets down a white bag, then crosses his arms over his chest and finally meets my eyes. With a smirk, he says, “Hey, Courtney. Thought I’d surprise you with dinner. Or, should I call you Christina?”

  I start to see white spots and release the breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding since the moment Anna whispered, “Courtney.” Forcing a slow, deep breath, I give myself a mental pep talk to steady my nerves and assess the situation. He’s yet to speak or take his eyes off me as he stands just feet away on the opposite side of my desk. The smirk I noticed a second ago is now gone, and I’m having trouble reading any emotion from him, whatsoever. I gently say his name, my way of both asking for understanding and feeling out where his head is.

  “CJ.”

  Calmly, he asks, “When were you going to tell me?”

  Uh, never. Seriously, doesn’t he know the rules of the bar name? But I don’t respond. I stare up at him, silently pleading for understanding.

  He takes his eyes off me and begins to survey my office, giving me no indication as to what he is thinking. When I notice his focus catch on my nameplate located front and center on my desk, I brace, waiting for him to make the connection.

  Three, two, one … and there it is. His eyes shoot from my desk straight to me. “You’re a Harcourt? Like The Harcourts?” My shoulders sag as my body deflates. This is where it always goes bad. This is where he sees dollar signs and opportunities.

  I simply nod in confirmation as he moves his hands to his hips, his brows raised in shock. He gives his head a slight shake in disbelief and turns away from me, taking slow stock of my office.

  He starts at the far wall, where I have a violet suede sofa flanked by two silver barrel style end tables. They’re not how I’d normally decorate, but they’re quirky and colorful and add a level of happiness that’s important on a floor like this. The tables are covered in brightly painted pottery created by past patients along with framed pictures of a few others from over the years.

  The white wall above the sofa is covered corner to corner, gallery style, in white framed art all made for me by the kids. It’s an explosion of color. The nurses call it “The Technicolor Dream Wall.” Along the connecting wall is an expansive window with a bookcase running the length of it below. The shelves are filled with binders and colorful storage baskets, but atop it sits a dozen or s
o more framed photos of patients with both the staff and myself that I keep angled toward my desk.

  CJ walks over and picks one up before putting it down to pick up another. Then another. And another. “You love what you do,” he simply states as he continues to study the photo in his hand.

  His calmness only serves to ratchet my nerves up a notch. Unsure as to how this is going to play out, I answer honestly. “Yes.”

  He takes one more sweeping look. “I like it. It definitely doesn’t lack for color.”

  “I know, right?” I release a nervous laugh. “The nurses say all I need is a unicorn. You know, because every rainbow starts with a unicorn.” CJ gives me a confused look, so I clarify for him. “Rainbows come from unicorn butts. Any of the kids here can tell you that.” My hands are out to my sides, facing up, the disbelief in my voice playfully evident at his lack of knowledge on the subject.

  He shakes his head and laughs lightly along with me as he moves to one of the two bright floral upholstered chairs opposite my desk and empties the white bag. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered you the same chicken you had last time.” He’s spreading to-go containers across my desk while I’m left looking at him like he’s just grown a second nose out of his forehead.

  “CJ, I think we should talk about this.” I speak softly, a subtle warning of what’s to come next. The let down. “It’s nothing to do with you, nothing personal. But you’ve got to understand, my family, well, we’re very private.” He’s stabbing a plastic fork into each meal, but he’s relaxed and rational, like sitting for a casual dinner is something we’ve done a million times before. Which makes me nervous. And what do I do when I’m nervous? I babble.

  “And as you could imagine, sometimes people want to be a part of my life for the wrong reasons, so I have to be cautious. Do you understand? I really need you to understand. Like I said, it’s nothing personal.” I’m wringing my hands while he takes a bite of food, as if we’re discussing the benefits of buying organic, giving me no clue as to what he’s thinking. Hell, I’d even take a grunt at this point.

  After a few minutes, glancing once again at my nameplate, he sighs. “I get it. Really, I get it.” He finally gives me the eye contact I’ve been craving, but he looks as though he’s seeing me for the first time. “Funny, I would never have pegged you as a Christina. Seems a bit formal for the girl I met at the bar.” If he only knew, truer words have never been spoken.

  With that, he gives me a wide smile and a flooding sense of relief. I’m thankful he doesn’t hate me. Maybe we could even stay friends after today? It’d be nice to have a friend out by my alma mater, especially since I get out there a few times a year for fundraisers. “So, no hard feelings then? You think we could be friends?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Ouch. My shoulders jerk at his lack of hesitation. “Sorry?”

  “Listen, Court … Christina,” he says with a shake to his head. “What did I expect? We met in a bar. We were drinking, dancing. A beautiful girl like you, you did the right thing, giving out a fake name. Harcourt or not. You probably never expected it to go past that night anyways, did you?” He eyes me with a raised brow. I give a weak, but honest, shake of my head.

  “So we start fresh. We start over.” His tone is easy, relaxed.

  My jaw drops and my head tilts in a mix of confusion and shock. “CJ, we can’t … it won’t … I’m not …”

  “Why not, Christina? Don’t you think there’s something here?” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Wouldn’t it be fun to find out?”

  My heart is screaming “Yes!” but my head is fighting back. I sit tall and force my shoulders back, gathering as much conviction as possible. “CJ, my life is not, well, it’s complicated and structured and … complicated. I learned a long time ago that relationships don’t come easy for someone like me, so it’s just best to avoid them altogether.”

  “Really, you have a problem with relationships? Because when I look around this office, all I see are relationships.” He motions to the frames under the window. “Every picture. Every piece of art. And each one tells me that not only are you capable of relationships, but that you thrive on them. Like you need them to survive.”

  My voice is just above a whisper as my eyes plead for him to understand. “That’s not the kind of relationship I meant …”

  “I know what you meant. But you’re wrong.” He rises from his seat and comes around to my chair, before taking my hands in his and pulling me up. We’re face to face, his hands holding firmly onto mine. “Christina, I know this is crazy. I know this shouldn’t work. We met at a bar, and I didn’t even know your real name or who you were. And I get that I live on the other side of the country, and it’s probably stupid to even try this, but then I push all that shit aside because I don’t care about any of it. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about what you make me feel. Like the heat of your hand on my back and the way your body danced perfectly with mine. How great it felt to see you laugh and know it was all for me. And how your mouth moved with mine, like we’d kissed a hundred times before.” He closes the small gap between us, lowering his voice. “Or, how letting you leave that night at the bar felt like the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “I don’t know what the future holds or where this is going, but hell, do I ever want to find out. And I can already tell, you are so much more than a name. You are the beautiful girl in cowboy boots, just like you’re the gorgeous woman behind the desk. You are something else, Christina Harcourt. Something beautiful, something strong, something graceful. And most importantly, something worth taking a chance on. So, if you think this is about money, I’m not impressed by those things, I …” He finally takes a breath, watching his hands travel lightly up my arms and back down again.

  My head is spinning, my convictions weakening as his words fill a space in me that has spent years vacant. He makes me feel brave and reckless, and I give in to that in a way I’ve never dared before. When I think he’s about to finish, I seize the opportunity, allowing my true feelings to finally break free.

  “I hate the money, CJ. I hate it. I hate the power it wields. I hate the pain it inflicts. I hate how it manipulates and makes people into something they’re not. My life consists of people telling me what to do, how to do it, and reminding me to keep my shoulders straight while I’m doing it. My life is not my own. A total façade. From what to wear, what to eat, what to dream, every day I’m told what to do, what is acceptable. For all of the indulgence that surrounds me, I feel none of it. I am surrounded by … by stuff. Not by love. And it all comes down to image and reputation. Money is truly the root of all evil, CJ, so don’t buy into the fallacy that it buys happiness. Because in the end, all that matters is who is in your life, not what is in it.”

  I’m breathing heavier now, just realizing my fingers are digging into his forearms, but I don’t care because that felt good. Not just good, but great. I catch myself smiling as satisfaction over my confession washes over me, along with a sense of relief I’m not familiar with. In fact, my whole body feels lighter, like I’ve just been freed of imaginary chains I’ve been carrying around for years.

  CJ’s only response is stunned silence. Great, he thinks I’m crazy. How could he not though, after the tangent I just went on. Poor rich girl, all that money and she’s still unhappy. I realize how ridiculous I must sound, but he doesn’t understand what life is really like when you have an endless supply of everything, yet feel like you have nothing all at once. I stand by what I said. Money buys luxury and excess. Not happiness. I like CJ. A lot. I like his confidence, his determination, and the kindness behind those damn blue eyes. But this thing between us isn’t going anywhere if he can’t understand me for who I really am.

  Unfortunately, he cuts me off with a warm hand to my neck before I get a chance to continue. “Christina, the way you feel, what you believe, you have a right to those things, and I would never judge. No one knows what it’s like to live your life ot
her than you. But I will promise you that if you give this a shot, I will never take advantage of your name or anything that goes along with it. Never. Because all I want is a chance with you.” He looks toward my photos then back to me. “The girl with a heart bigger than the rest of us. That’s the girl I want to get to know. That’s the girl I’m asking to give me a chance.”

  My spine tingles as his lips brush along my own, and for the first time, my mind isn’t focused on the end game … marriage and babies. It’s about the ride. I feel something burst open and fill me with a sort of strength and excitement I’ve never known. The honesty and warmth in his words are all completely new to me, and I want them to fill me up. I want more. I know the day will eventually come for me to go, but until then, I want it all.

  Cautiously, he cups my jawline in his hands, never pulling his eyes away from mine as he patiently waits for my answer. I place my hands on his hips, lean up on my toes and place a light, chaste kiss on his lips. His brow furrows in question because he’s not sure if that was a kiss goodbye or a kiss of acceptance, so I put him out of his misery and tilt my head back just a bit, so he doesn’t miss the smile that takes over my face.

  He only needs a millisecond to absorb my silent message before he tightens his grip and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s a hard kiss, full of promise, hope, and anticipation of what’s to come. I’m feeling all of that with this man and try to send those same feelings back to him, along with a confidence that is building within me. The confidence that I not only can have something good, but, more importantly, that I deserve it. I’m breaking my own rules and taking this chance. Because this time I’m going in with my eyes wide open. That includes doing everything I can to keep this thing between us safe. To keep it all mine.

  I move my hands to his back, pulling every inch of his body up against every inch of my own. The contact causes a deep moan to travel up his throat, as he moves one hand down along my side, slowly but roughly until he reaches my hip and holds me tight. I thought I had every inch before, but I was wrong. Now, now I have every inch pressed against me. Every … hard … I break away from the kiss and step out of his hold, giving my head a quick shake back to the reality of where we are. We’re both breathing heavily, trying to regain our bearings, when I look at him and just start … laughing. What starts as a quiet giggle quickly grows into side-splitting, gut-bursting, tear-inducing laughter. I can see through my happy tears he’s got a smile on his face as he shakes his head at me. When his own bout of laughter surfaces, I know we’re on the same page. He’s standing a few feet away, hands on his hips, head down, when another wave hits me, and I grab the corner of my desk for support. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.