The Lies That Bind

by Emily Giffin

  “Yeah,” he says, draping one arm behind the sofa. “We are…for now….”

  Feeling weak, I take a few rapid breaths, trying to steady myself, wondering if he has any immediate plans to kiss me. Just as I think it’s about to happen, he looks away.

  I’m disappointed, but also strangely relieved. We could do better than this moment. Our first kiss could be more perfect than a Wednesday night in my apartment.

  We talk for a while longer, our conversation comfortable and easy, before he says he should probably get going, that he has to finish up some things for work.

  I nod and say, “I’m glad you came by.”

  “Me too,” he says, as we both stand and he casually asks what I’m doing this weekend.

  “Nothing much,” I say, breaking yet another of Scottie’s rules—never be too available. Which is probably especially egregious given that the upcoming weekend is Memorial Day. But I really don’t care. “Why?”

  “I was hoping to see you….”

  “I’d love that,” I say, as we start walking slowly toward the door. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Honestly?” he says, raising his brow. “I know this is sort of nuts—but…what would you think about a road trip?”

  “Seriously?” I say, smiling.

  He nods. “Yeah. There’s a place I’d love to take you.”

  “That sounds intriguing,” I say, feeling a little anxious but mostly just excited. “When would we go? Where would we go?”

  “Friday afternoon? And…um…can the ‘where’ be a surprise?”

  I smile and say yes, it sure can be. After all, everything about him is a surprise so far. “I just have to make sure I can get off work,” I add.

  “I get it,” he says. “Just check and let me know?”

  “Okay. But…I don’t have your phone number,” I say, stopping at my desk. I take a pen from my cup holder, hand it to him, then point to the pad I keep by the phone. He leans down and writes his number, then returns the pen to its cup and looks at me. “So. Now you have my number.”

  “And your name,” I say.

  He smiles, and we finish our walk to the door. I can tell he doesn’t want to leave any more than I want him to, but at the same time, I love that he’s not staying. That this was the furthest thing from a booty call.

  “Good night, Cecily,” he says, lingering a few seconds before leaning down to hug me again.

  “Good night, Grant,” I say, my cheek against his neck.

  We freeze there a beat, as so many things run through my mind, including that I can’t wait to tell Scottie that he sure got it wrong this time.

  Except for assigning me a generic piece about the history and traditions of Memorial Day that I can write with one arm tied behind my back, my editor gives me the weekend off. As a bonus, the remainder of the week is on the slow side, giving me time to hit the gym, get my nails done, and shop for new lingerie and perfume. I still have no idea where Grant is taking me, only that I should pack “casual stuff with maybe one nicer thing for dinner.” I’m not sure what his version of “casual” or “nicer” entails, but Scottie, Jasmine, and I all agree that I should err on the dressier side, just to be safe. We all also agree that it likely isn’t the Hamptons, which is a relief. I’m not in the mood for a scene, nor am I quite ready for my first post-breakup encounter with Matthew, and odds are very good that he’ll be there for the weekend. I just want to be alone with Grant, focused on him and whatever “us” might materialize.

  On Friday, at four o’clock sharp, as we planned, I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of my building in a cotton sundress and sandals. I am mostly excited, but also a little nervous, and as the minutes pass, I find myself thinking of all that could go wrong on what is essentially a weekend first date. I worry that our chemistry, when it comes right down to it, will be off. That we’ll run out of things to talk about. That I’ll relapse and start missing Matthew.

  But all my worries melt away when I see Grant pull up in a black Jeep Grand Cherokee and wave at me. I wave back, then grab my duffel bag at my feet, heading toward him. Meanwhile, he double parks, jumps out of the car, looking so cute in khaki cargo shorts, a Buffalo Bills T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses. He says a quick hello, then starts to take my bag from me.

  “It’s okay. It’s not heavy,” I say, having followed Jasmine’s advice not to overpack or be “all high maintenance.”

  He takes it anyway, and walks around to open my door for me. As I climb in, he jogs back to the driver’s side, puts my bag in the backseat next to his, and jumps into his seat. Once inside, he is all business—putting on his seatbelt, turning off his hazards, and checking his rearview mirror before merging into traffic. It occurs to me that he may have a few jitters himself, with all the added pressure of being in charge of logistics, so I look out my window, giving him a few seconds to concentrate.

  When we stop at the first traffic light, I turn back to him and say, “I’m really excited.”

  “Me too,” he says, our eyes locking as he gives me the most incredible smile.

  When the light turns green, I say, “Okay. Now will you tell me where we’re going?”

  He shakes his head and says, “Nope. Not yet.”

  “It’s not the Hamptons, is it?” I ask.

  “Nope. Not the Hamptons.”

  “Good,” I say, relieved.

  “You don’t like the Hamptons?” Grant asks.

  I shrug and say, “I’m over the scene….What about you? Do you like it?”

  He shakes his head and says, “Nah. Not a fan. Too crowded. Way too pretentious.”

  I nod, thinking this is such a marked contrast to Matthew—who isn’t pretentious, but seems to love the exclusivity of the Hamptons.

  I push him out of my head as Grant flips on the radio. “What do you want to listen to?” he asks. “Did you remember to bring your CDs?”

  “Of course I did,” I say, reaching down to pull the small leather case out of my purse. I flip through the plastic sleeves, reading aloud albums and artists that I culled from my wider collection, especially for this trip.

  “All of those sound good,” he says. “You choose.”

  “Okay,” I say, selecting Liz Phair’s Whitechocolatespaceegg. I pop in the disc and go to the third track—“Perfect World.”

  “Ah. Good one,” he says, tapping the steering wheel as the happy tune gears up. “I love Liz Phair.”

  “Do you think she’s pretty?” I ask—because, according to Scottie, she’s my celebrity doppelgänger. It’s a stretch, but we both have slender, borderline boyish figures, big eyes, and angular features.

  “Yeah,” Grant says. “In a nonobvious way.”

  “Nonobvious?” I say with a laugh. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yeah. For sure. It’s the best kind. Generic pretty is boring.” He glances at me as we stop at another light. “You kind of look like her, actually.”

  I tell him I’ve heard that before, but unfortunately, I sing nothing like her. I smile, listening to her croon that she wants to be cool, tall, vulnerable, and luscious. I consider these adjectives, knowing that I’ll never be tall, but that I could aim for cool and luscious. As for vulnerable, I have that box checked at the moment. It crosses my mind again that Grant could be a sociopath—that he could be taking me anywhere. That this will be the weekend I go missing.

  “What are you thinking?” I hear him ask me.

  I look over at him, laugh, and say, “Honestly? I was thinking that you could be a serial killer. Taking me to some storage unit or shed…with your other victims.”

  “Jesus,” he says, looking appalled even as he laughs. “Were you really thinking that?”

  “Well…yeah. Kind of,” I say, enjoying his reaction. “But I think you would have offed me by now.”

  “I’m
serious—stop that!” he says, shaking his head, but still laughing.

  “I’m kidding,” I say. “But I really was thinking that this is a little crazy.”

  “What’s crazy?” he asks, although he has to know the answer.

  “This trip…This is only the third time we’ve laid eyes on each other—and here we are going away for the weekend.”

  “Well, it’s more like the fourth,” he says. “Because you have to count Saturday night as the first and Sunday morning as the second….But yeah…it’s kind of wild.”

  And we haven’t even kissed, I think, wondering when that will finally happen. After all, a boy doesn’t typically ask a girl to go away with him unless he plans on either killing or kissing her.

  * * *

  —

  It takes us nearly an hour to reach the George Washington Bridge—and the traffic is even slower as we cross it. But I don’t mind, and he doesn’t seem to, either, as we talk and laugh and listen to music. Our conversation is relaxed, winding, downright Seinfeldian, as we go in-depth on some pretty random topics, such as why candy tastes better from a gas station on a road trip than it does at any other time, and what states have the best license plates and mottoes, and how much we both hate convertibles because of the wind and noise (and that we actually think everyone hates them, even the people who drive around in them, pretending to like them). Once again, I’m struck by the fact that everything feels so easy with him, like I’ve known him my whole life.

  At one point, I tell him this, and he becomes animated. “I know,” he says. “It’s like you’re that girl on the school bus I always wanted to sit beside because she was so fun to talk to.”

  “Wait. What? School bus?” I laugh, pretending to be confused, even though I love the description. “Was there such a girl?”

  He shrugs and says he doesn’t remember much about his childhood—but that if there were such a girl, she would have been exactly like me.

  I smile at him, and then to myself, as I look out the window. I see signs for Kingston, then Albany, as we keep going north, the traffic eventually thinning, our speed increasing, along with the volume of our music. Every mile away from the city, I feel more free, downright exhilarated—the way only a summer road trip with a guy you really like can make you feel.

  About two hours into our trip, despite all my adrenaline—or maybe because of it—I feel myself nodding off. I shake myself awake, sitting up straighter, opening the window for a blast of air. “Sorry,” I say.

  “Sorry for what?” Grant says.

  “For sleeping while you drive.” I smile. “That’s bad road trip etiquette.”

  He laughs and says, “It is?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s a rule.”

  “Well, I waive that rule,” Grant says, patting my leg. “Now go ahead…close your eyes.”

  * * *

  —

  When I awaken, it is dusk, and we are bumping along a narrow dirt road cut through a forest of trees with uniform straight trunks. I take a few seconds to gaze out my window, basking in the adventure. When I finally turn to Grant, he says, “Oh, good. You’re awake….We’re here.”

  “Where’s here?” I say, wondering how long I’ve been asleep.

  “In the Adirondacks,” he says. “Near the Great Sacandaga Lake, if you’ve heard of that?”

  I shake my head, intrigued. “Is this a driveway?”

  “Yeah,” he says, just as we round a bend and pull into a clearing. As Grant parks the car, I gaze out my window at the perfect little log cabin with a stacked stone chimney and a simple front porch housing two Adirondack chairs, appropriately, and several stacks of firewood. The roof is moss-covered cedar shake, the window trim and front door painted forest green to match, reminiscent of my Lincoln Logs growing up.

  When I look back at Grant, he’s staring at me, looking so happy. “Do you like it?” he says.

  “Oh my goodness,” I say, my mouth falling open for a few seconds. “I love it. Is it yours?”

  He nods and says, “I share it with my brother….When you told me you were from Wisconsin, I thought it was a good sign…you know, that you might be a fan of log cabins.”

  “Oh, I am. I really, really love it….It’s like a cross between Thoreau’s cabin and the Three Bears’ house,” I gush. “It’s absolutely enchanting.”

  He laughs and opens his car door. “I wouldn’t go that far….But come on. Let me show you around before it gets completely dark.”

  I step out of the car, noticing more details—a weathered split-rail fence at the tree line, a gravel and stone firepit that looks recently used, a clay pot filled with red wildflowers at the base of the railing leading up to the porch.

  Out of nowhere—or maybe prompted by those pretty planted flowers that seem to be a woman’s touch—I feel a pang of jealousy, imagining other girls here with him. I tell myself it’s absurd to be territorial over a guy I’ve never even kissed, as I follow him up several stone steps to the porch. He bends down, finds a key under the mat, then stands to unlock the door. He pushes it open, motioning for me to go inside first. I do, walking into the darkened room as he follows me and immediately sets about brightening the place. He opens curtains and switches on lights, including an enormous wagon-wheel chandelier hanging from the center beam of the ceiling.

  “Wow,” I say, glancing around. I didn’t think it was possible to love the inside more than the outside, but I do. With vaulted timber ceilings and an open floor plan, the room is larger than I expected, but still cozy. There is a kitchen on one side with vintage appliances and a wood-burning stove. On the other side is a stone fireplace with a single-slab mantel. On it sit a pair of pewter candlesticks, the candles melted nubs, and an antique clock, which he goes to wind. The furniture, including a long sofa and two chairs, is made of rough-hewn logs, the cushions covered with a Native American–inspired print. There is also a large rocking chair woven with rawhide, a green military-style wool blanket folded over one arm. To the left of the fireplace is a nook filled with more wood as well as a ladder leading up to a loft. To the right is a floor-to-ceiling bookcase overflowing with books, old and new, hardcover and paperback. I take a few steps over to it, reading some familiar titles, Angela’s Ashes, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, All the Pretty Horses, Beloved. Running my finger along the spines, I say, “Have you read all of these?”

  “Pretty much,” Grant says, coming up behind me.

  “Wow,” I say, nodding, still looking, spotting a very worn copy of The Secret History, one of my all-time favorites. I point to it and tell him I love it.

  “Me too,” he says. “One of the few books I’ve read more than once.”

  Grant’s arms are now moving around me, his large hands running down along my hips, then crossing over my stomach. Goosebumps rise everywhere as I turn to face him, putting my arms up around his neck, breathing him in. “I’m so happy to be here,” I say.

  “Me too,” he says, then holds me for a few more seconds before asking if I want to see the rest of the place.

  “Yes,” I say, slowly dropping my arms to my sides, beaming up at him.

  He smiles back at me, then takes my hand, leading me around the corner. He points into a small bathroom with a clawed tub, then opens an adjacent door and says, “And this is the bedroom.”

  I glance around, taking in the details of the four-poster bed, a jewel-tone oriental rug, and two dark chests of drawers serving as nightstands. The décor isn’t a complete departure from the main room, but is a little more Ralph Lauren than log cabin. On the chest closest to us, I spot an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of a stunning young woman in an etched pewter frame. Based on her Farrah Fawcett hairstyle, I guess that it was taken in the seventies; I also guess that it’s Grant’s mother. As I search for a resemblance, he catches me staring at it.

  “
Is that your mother?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  He swallows and says, “Thank you.”

  “This room is beautiful, too,” I say, noticing an old leather-bound Bible on the far nightstand and wondering whether it’s decorative or functional. I file this question away as something else to discuss. There are so many things I want to talk to him about, and it occurs to me that it wasn’t this way with Matthew in the beginning. It’s not that I didn’t love talking to him, but I distinctly remember having lots of awkward silences during our early dates.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Grant says as he leads me back out into the main room and over to the ladder. “I have one more room to show you.”

  He motions for me to go first, so I do, climbing the rungs, enraptured when I get to the top and see the small loft, like an alcove with a bed built into the wall. There are drawers beneath the bed and burlap curtains tied back on either side. There isn’t space for much else, other than a sheepskin rug, a trunk covered with faded stickers, and a small desk with a bronze task lamp.

  “So. What do you think?” Grant says. “Do you want to sleep downstairs or up here?”

  I don’t know whether he’s asking for me, or both of us. Hoping it’s the latter, I say, “Up here.”

  I can tell it’s the right answer—and that he meant both of us—by the way he smiles at me and says, “Really?”

  “Definitely,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

  * * *

  —

  After we get unpacked and situated, Grant takes me into town for pizza and beer and a game of pool that I badly lose. I’m surprised he doesn’t go easier on me, until he admits he just wants the game to end so we can be alone again. We appear to be the only ones in the smoky bar who aren’t local or over the age of forty—the exact opposite vibe of the Hamptons, which no part of me misses.

  On the drive home, we listen to Tom Petty as Grant holds my hand, letting go only when the road gets really windy. Then we are back in the cabin. Home, he calls it. I ask if I can take a shower, and he says of course, giving me a fluffy white towel and a bar of Irish Spring soap, still in the box. Although I hear Jasmine telling me to be quick and low maintenance, I take my time, even washing my hair. When I step out of the shower, I dry off and put on new black lingerie and a pink velour Juicy Couture sweat suit. As a final touch, I spritz my new scent—Clinique Happy—on the insides of my wrists and my neck.