Beautiful Lies

by Heather Bentley

  “They actually showed you a video in school of cows being slaughtered?”

  “Well, not the actual act itself. Just the before and after. But it was enough that I didn’t eat meat for two years.”

  “So what did you eat? Pasta?” I ask as I stuff an envelope.

  “Sure, mac and cheese. But mostly grilled cheese and cheeseburgers from McDonald’s—minus the meat.”

  I look his way and question, “For two years?”

  “Yep, two years.” He nods at the memory.

  “God bless your mother, is all I’ve got to say.” I laugh and reach for the next notecard.

  “Yeah, no kidding. She’s the best. What about …”

  I know what’s coming, so I cut him off with a question before he can finish his own. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about my mom, and in my office wasn’t where I was hoping to do it, but I need to get over my hesitation soon. I can’t expect him to open up if I’m not willing to do the same.

  “How did your parents meet?” My question does the trick.

  “Long story short, my parents grew up across the street from each other and were best friends as kids.”

  “Ah, so the quintessential friends to lovers story.” I nod in understanding, considering I’ve read a dozen or so similar stories on my Kindle.

  “Well, it wasn’t that simple. They never dated back in high school but had secret crushes on each other for years. They kept their feelings to themselves because they were too afraid they’d ruin their friendship.” I turn and give him my full attention, because their story is just like one of my books. Maybe even better. I nudge him to continue. “It wasn’t until my mom came home one weekend from college—with a fiancé, that my grandpa took my dad aside and told him if he didn’t get his shit together soon, he’d lose my mom forever.”

  I lean in, enthralled. “Wait, how did your grandpa know?”

  CJ lifts a shoulder. “He said he always just knew. That it was obvious to everyone but them. Fortunately, my dad finally worked up the courage and told her how he felt. Needless to say, she felt the same way about him, and the rest is history.”

  “That is straight out of a romance novel. I’d love to meet your mom one day and get the real story.” He seems to blanch a bit at my words, but I continue. “I bet it’s way saucier than what they told you.”

  He makes a sour face and laughs, “Hell, I hope not. As far as I’m concerned, my parents have only had sex three times.” I look at him, questioningly, waiting for him to elaborate. “I have a younger brother, Nate, and a younger sister, Emily. We were each born about a year apart. I think my parents just wanted to get it over with.”

  I lean in with a mischievous smile, “Or they really liked each other.”

  He looks at me sternly before shaking his head and pretending to have the chills. Needing a change of subject, he says, “When we were young and our parents were working late, the babysitter had to keep us occupied with the little we had. We got this old rusted Radio Flyer wagon from a garage sale and I’d pull my brother and sister around the yard, but I wouldn’t sit in it.”

  I interrupt. “You wouldn’t sit in the wagon? Why?” At some point throughout his stories, I’ve stopped writing.

  He sits back, fighting a smile, then looks to me. “If I tell you, you have to promise to never repeat this.”

  I immediately nod.

  He says with all seriousness. “I was afraid to sit in it.”

  “Afraid?” I tilt my head, not quite understanding.

  “Yep. Afraid.” He looks down in chagrin.

  Instead of going easy on him, I throw my head back and laugh. “Who’s afraid of a wagon? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Give me a break!” He laughs back and lifts his shoulders in defense. “I was only five. Besides, I ended up finding a creative way to ride it.”

  His pointed look encourages me to ask, “How many different ways are there to ride a wagon?”

  “Two. One with your butt in the wagon … and one hanging off the back end.”

  “What? Like, literally?” My forehead rises in disbelief.

  “Pretty much. I’d hold on to the end with my stomach and legs dragging in the grass,” he holds his hands up to demonstrate, “and my brother or babysitter would pull me around the yard, sometimes with my sister sitting inside. My mom’s got old family videos of it somewhere.”

  “That is hilarious! Whoever would think someone could be afraid of an old, rusted out kiddie wagon.” Clutching his knee, I laugh until my eyes tear up as I picture a little CJ. Too bad I won’t be around to ever see that video.

  His stories are all charming and heartwarming, giving me the courage to open up a little about my family. I start with someone safe—Fatima. I explain how she’s known me my entire life, how she basically raised me, taught me to cook and speak Spanish, among so many other things.

  “You asked me how my parents met, and honestly, I don’t know.” I look around my office, swallowing harshly, unsure how to explain this tragic part of my life. I open my mouth to speak, then lose the nerve and close it tightly. I take a deep breath then try again. “I lost my mom when I was young and …” I hesitate, not wanting to talk about what happened.

  He places my pen and stationary on the table, then takes one of my hands in his, massaging his thumb across the top, and whispers, “Tell me a good memory. One of your favorites.” My chest falls in relief as I watch his finger move over my hand a few times, settling me like always, before I decide where to begin.

  I share with him a special set of memories with my mom. Sacred memories of a game we played every night when she tucked me in. Memories that I’ve never shared with anyone before. I keep my focus on the circular movement and let the words flow.

  “We called it the ‘Thankful Wishes’ game. Well, now that I’m older I realize it wasn’t a game at all. More of a way to take a moment and appreciate all that we had. The rules were pretty self-explanatory. You tell one thing you’re thankful for, followed by one thing you wish for. And the wish can’t be anything material. Like, I couldn’t wish for a pony or anything.” I let out a small laugh and finally look up at CJ.

  He responds with a reassuring smile, so I focus back on our hands and keep going. “She’d say, ‘Today I’m thankful for Fatima’s homemade enchiladas. And I wish for rain so our flowers will grow.’ Then I’d answer with something like, ‘I’m thankful for swimming with her that day. And I wish for a sister.’”

  CJ’s endearing smile encourages me further. “My mom believed in putting positive thoughts out into the universe. You know, if you send good vibes out, you get good vibes in return. Not that she was a flower child or anything. Just that, in a house full of excess, it was important to her to take time to appreciate the little things.”

  “She sounds like an amazing woman, Christina.” He squeezes my hand, causing me to look up once again. I’m familiar with the pity in his eyes. I’ve seen it so many times from so many people over the years. It’s like another language to me. So I put him out of his misery and answer his silent question. “I was seven when my mom passed. Fatima has taken care of me ever since.”

  “How did she die?” I look back at our hands and watch as he resumes the calming motion, and brace myself for the words I haven’t said in years.

  “It was a carjacking gone wrong. One minute my mom is telling me we’re going on an adventure and next thing I know …” I look off to the side, “… a man is pulling her from the car.”

  His body jolts back, his face in shock as his voice suddenly bounces from the walls. “You were in the car?”

  I know it’s a lot to imagine, so I squeeze both his hands and give him a moment before I continue. “Yeah, I was buckled in the back seat. He never hurt me. I don’t think he even knew I was there until he took the car and drove a few miles. When I started to cry he turned off onto a side road and just ran away. I stayed in the backseat holding onto my stuffed animal until the police
came. When they brought me back to Father, he brought me home and had Fatima tell me my mom was gone.”

  “Jesus, Christina. I’m sorry.” He releases my hands and pulls me onto his lap. My arms instinctively go around his shoulders.

  I plant a light kiss to his cheek, then find his eyes. “Thanks, but it’s okay, really. It’s been so long, it feels like all I know now.” I shake my head, trying to brush off the pain that still lingers.

  “And your dad never remarried?”

  My shoulders relax, relieved it’s an easy question. “No. There have been women, but not like my mom. From the way I remember it, she was everything to him. Fatima tells me he was actually very loving toward me before my mom died. Attentive. She thinks he is the way he is now because I look so much like her. That it’s difficult for him to see her in another form, especially as I get older.”

  “Have you ever talked to your dad about it?”

  I tense up just considering the thought. “About that day? Oh God, no. Father and I generally don’t talk at all, and we certainly would never talk about that.”

  “Can’t you go to your Grandma? Grandpa? Anyone?” I don’t miss the genuine concern in his voice.

  I rest my head on his shoulder as a few chords of strained laughter escape. If I ever dared to call them “Grandma” or “Grandpa,” I’d probably lose my trust fund.

  “Grandfather doesn’t bother with anyone anymore, especially Grandmother and Father. If he’s not out on the lake fishing, he’s traveling somewhere to go fishing. And Grandmother, well, let’s just say, she’s not easy to talk to. I’d probably get locked in my room again for even asking about my mom.”

  CJ pulls back from me, his brows squeezed together as his mouth hangs slightly open. “Have you seriously been locked in your room before?”

  I grimace at my own words. Why did I say that? I don’t want to lie to him, but I’m too embarrassed to tell him the truth. I look away and replay what I’ve just said, how easily the comment rolled off my tongue. How sick is it that this has all become normal for me? Spending time with CJ, hearing what goes on in a healthy, functional family, I see now that mine is even more messed up than I realized.

  He says concerned, almost pleading, “Why don’t you move out? Go to the city?”

  I rise from my seat and walk towards the window. I’ve been silent about my plan for so long, that it’s become second nature to protect it, but he’s inching his way into my heart, making it harder to hide all of my secrets from him.

  Turning to CJ, I take in his kind, compassionate eyes.

  You can trust him.

  I lean back on my desk and listen to my heart. “When I do decide to leave, CJ, I’m going to leave.” I read his face to make sure he understands my meaning, before continuing. “I’m biding my time. I just need to have a few things in order so I can start fresh without any help from them.”

  “Are you serious?”

  I give him a small nod in response.

  “You’re serious.”

  Another nod.

  He stares at me a moment before speaking slowly, pointedly. “Promise me you won’t leave without talking to me first.”

  I can’t promise him that, and by my silence, he knows it.

  He reaches a hand out to me. “Come here.”

  I don’t move.

  “Christina.” His soft but stern tone borders on command more than request, so I walk toward him, stopping just a step away. He motions his gaze to the space directly in front of him. A silent command for me to take those few extra steps. I do.

  My slender legs are barely touching his muscular ones, our eyes locked together. His hands reach out, lightly running up my calves, until he takes my hands in his and slowly pulls me down onto his lap, straddling him.

  With our hands now palm to palm, he wraps his fingers with mine. “I’m not kidding, Christina,” he whispers gruffly. “If you’re really serious, please talk to me before you ever think of leaving.”

  “Why?”

  He leans forward until his forehead reaches mine. “Because I just found you.”

  I suck in a breath at his words. “I didn’t know you were looking for me.”

  “Neither did I.” He tilts his chin up, causing our lips to brush together. “And I think this could be good. Really good.”

  “Really good?”

  He doesn’t miss the fear in my voice, answering resolutely, “Really, really good.”

  My eyes are scrunched up tight as my emotions go to war. Do I challenge myself to push through my doubts and anxiety and allow myself to trust again? I’ve come this far, already giving him more than I ever intended. I may as well go all in.

  I lay my hands flat on his chest, taking in his warmth, before opening my eyes. I need to see that he gets this. That he gets me. “CJ, I don’t just plan to leave the city, or even the state for that matter. I plan to leave my life. And you have a life. An amazing one that comes complete with a loving family and good friends. That’s not something you walk away from. That’s something you run to. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, for as long as I can remember. But I can’t have that as long as I’m here.”

  He brings his hands to my face, wrapping my jaw and pushing his fingers back into my hair while holding my gaze steady. “And you need to understand, Christina, that there is something here. Something worth taking a chance on. And I want more than anything to give this a try. Just tell me you’ll try.”

  His conviction dulls my fears and I fight to conquer what’s left of them. I should tell him he’s wrong, that there’s no future here—that there’s an expiration date on this relationship. But when he brings us nose to nose, his breath dances along my lips, causing my mind to muddle and my eyes to close without a fight. Just before his mouth takes over mine, I whisper, “I’ll try.”

  I pause on the landing to survey the rising sea of stairs, expelling an exhausted breath at the never ending steps above me. “Doing okay back there?” CJ asks with muffled humor.

  “How many more flights do we have to climb?” I struggle to hide the whine in my voice that wants to break free.

  “Just one. Want me to carry you?” He turns back to me with an eager look, but I shake him off.

  “And there’s no elevator because?” I’m regretting not taking my heels off now as we turn to the next, and fortunately last, flight.

  “Because this is pre-war construction, sweetheart. And what it lacks in modern conveniences it makes up for in space.”

  He lost me at, “sweetheart.”

  “Christina?”

  “Huh?”

  He points the way. “We’re here. First door on the right.”

  We enter Eric’s apartment and my eyes are immediately drawn to the sunlight pouring through the long wall of windows that travel from the floor up to the twelve foot ceiling and over an expansive tan sectional aimed at one of the biggest TVs I’ve seen. This leads to a large dining area and recently updated galley style kitchen that looks like it’s never seen a cook. There’s a long hallway off of the living room, where the bedrooms and bathroom must be. I’ve been to some of the nurse’s apartments, and they are easily half the size of this space, the stereotypical New York shoebox apartment.

  CJ heads to the kitchen and takes two bottles of water from the fridge as I continue my slow perusal of the space. There’s not a speck of dust in sight, and I swear I see vacuum marks on the rug. For two single guys, this place is, oddly, very clean.

  “What’s that look for?” He sets the water on the table and walks up to me, wrapping his arms around my waist, kissing my neck. I bring my arms around him without thought and forget for a moment that he asked me a question. Because this is the first time we are alone. Alone. As he plants warm kisses up my neck and along my jaw, I smile at all the possibilities that come with that single word.

  As he waits for my answer, he marks a trail of kisses, along one cheek to the next, making it difficult to focus and answer his question.

  “It doesn�
�t look like a bachelor pad.” Kiss. “Not a single beer bottle.” Kiss. “Or pizza box.” Kiss. “Or women’s underwear, anywhere.” With his mouth now pressed against my jaw, a laugh escapes and vibrates against my skin. Nice.

  He brings his mouth to mine and answers, every word teasing my lips. “Not all guys live like that, and I want you to feel comfortable here, especially since I plan to be here much.” Kiss. “More.” Kiss. “Often.”

  I try to hide my happiness, but he sees it and gives me a cocky grin. I have no choice but to wipe that look off his face, so I surprise him and swiftly bring my mouth to his. The kiss takes off on contact, my arms traveling up his back to his shoulders, digging my fingers in tight. As my hands go up, his go down. Down over my skirt, grabbing my ass, pulling up the fabric inch by inch until he meets skin. That slight touch only makes me want more. I run my hands down his back and begin to lift his shirt as he leads me toward the hall. He backs away just enough to pull his shirt off and my eyes pop open in shock as they travel from his chest, to his face, down to his chest again. I raise my hand and carefully trace the ridges before me.

  “Christina?”

  My thoughts escape as a whisper. “I’ve heard guys like you exist. I thought it was urban legend, though, like Walt Disney being cryogenically frozen or Mr. Rogers was really a Navy SEAL.”

  “What?” He asks, in amusement.

  “This … you …” I leave my hand where it is but take a slight step back for a better view, because I swear, if there is a … “Oh my God.” I turn my head and suck my lips between my teeth, focusing on the smoothness of his skin as my fingers travel south to the coveted “V,” before whispering reverently, “It’s real. They do exist.”

  With a finger to my jaw, he turns me until we’re eye-to-eye then lowers his head and kisses me as he lifts my blouse from my skirt. When he brings it over my head, I expect his mouth to immediately find mine again, and I’m thrown off balance when it doesn’t. That’s because he’s staring at me now. Not just my blush-pink lace bra and the cleavage it creates, but my skin, my hair, my eyes. He runs his fingers along my shoulder and down my arm, taking in every curve. When he reaches my fingertips, I step back and slowly unzip my skirt. I let it fall around my feet, giving him a full view of my matching lace thong.