by Liz K. Lorde
“Just pour me a double from that bottle of Glenlivet 12 I see up there. Neat. There’s enough ice and water outside, I don’t need to drink it too.”
This gets a laugh from the bartender. He must not think I’m that much of a fucking sad sack.
I’m just not normally a ‘sit at the bar and think’ type of guy, but the way things unraveled so fucking fast, I need to be that guy right now. I’ve got no other choice, especially after the bartender presents me with a glass of scotch on a wood coaster. It’s a very heavy pour, more than even the double I ordered.
I sip my whisky, trying to assess what I know for sure.
It’s my fault. That’s something I know. I saw it in Chloe’s face, and her eyes.
I felt it, and I’m still feeling it now. I fucked up, whether I meant to or not.
And no, I didn’t mean to. It’s not like I knew what was really going on with Thebadboys.net, and Mr. BadBoy, and Chloe. I still don’t, so it’s not like I intentionally misled Chloe.
Fuck, I can’t say that. Misleading people is part of what I do, it’s part of what a lot of people do on Thebadboys.net. It’s kind of the beating fucking heart of the whole thing.
I hear the room emptying out behind me. People leaving tables to go off and do whatever they’re going to do on this snowy night in Reykjavik—they’re probably just going back to their rooms and suites, their hot tubs and fireplaces, doing the same types of things I’m supposed to be doing…
There it is again: supposed to. Who the fuck am I to say what’s supposed to happen, especially when it involves other people?
Like the way everything is supposed to work out for me, since it always has in the past. Well, those assumptions need to go out the fucking window when it’s not just me, but someone else. Someone who I can’t stop thinking about, even right now.
I always knew there was something about Chloe, from the very fucking start, and I never denied that. What I never did was make the connection with what a senior editor at the Times once told me back in the day when I was going to be a journalist, before I started Thebadboys.net.
This was someone at the top of their field, a long, illustrious career and all that shit. In short, someone you’d think could lay some profound insight on you that could instantly change your life if they wanted.
Without naming any names, I’ll tell you what she told me over lunch one day:
“When you get seriously involved with someone, the most important thing to remember is to always be honest about everything, no matter how small. If you stray from that, they will find out.”
Doesn’t sound that profound, does it? That’s what I thought at the time. And it’s not like I think in terms of getting ‘seriously involved’ with someone. I mean, come the fuck on.
Yet I’m thinking about that now, halfway through my double scotch, since I did stray from that with Chloe. I had those same fucking thoughts earlier tonight when I finally told her about my son.
When we were first getting on the plane, she said she wanted to have a ‘serious discussion’ about how I make my living. It was lighthearted, because she just found out I have a private fucking jet, but she asked me.
And I told her the truth: I own a business.
I was planning to reveal the rest of it in time. I mean, if you’re on a date with someone and they ask what you do for a living, you can just say ‘I work in a bank’ or ‘I’m in advertising’ or whatever. It’s not like you need to start spouting every fucking detail right of the bat.
That’s not lying, right?
Saying that you own a ‘small company’ when you actually own Thebadboys.net, on the other hand, is totally fucking lying and I’m totally fucking guilty.
I decided to forego honesty, and, wouldn’t you know it, that shit came to light and blew up in my face in the worst way it could.
I’m already getting close to the bottom of my expensive glass of scotch. I better figure this out quick, or I’ll need to order another round.
I do realize that the New York Times editor’s advice is spot-on, although it’s probably too late for that to make any fucking difference for me.
There’s something else I’m also starting to realize, and that’s just how much of a role that deception plays throughout the workings of Thebadboys.net.
Most users on the site know that things become much easier once you make a good first impression, and when that first impression is just a screen name and some text, it’s much easier to employ outside help than if you’re face to face at some bar or club.
And fuck, one thing that I really should have figured out by now is the ingenious idea of hiring women, who have a natural understanding of what would appeal to other women, to make the perfect first impression.
My drink is finished, but this is all just starting to make a lot more sense.
Just starting.
“One more round of the same, please.”
The bartender signals to me that it’ll just be a minute. He’s a few spots down, where he’s trying to decipher drink orders from gaggle of intoxicated, seemingly well-off American businessmen—the type of guys who are probably not too smooth socially, but can afford to employ help with the impression they make online.
Of course. I guess I’m still working on vacation, because I’m just realizing a thought that’s something I’m sure is rampant on the site now, and likely has been for a long time.
A man hiring a woman to pose as a man to attract women is obviously a deception, but the women who pose as men must assume that the deception only goes one way, and that they’re talking to other women. I’m sure they usually are.
Not Ms. Winters, though. Chloe, as Mr. BadBoy, was pretending to be someone else, talking to Ms. Winters who was pretending to be the same thing, both of us trying to appeal to fake personas we thought were real.
I hope that scotch comes soon because I’m getting motion sickness just fucking thinking about it.
But even with the layers of playacting and phoniness, we had such a great time during those chats. That’s another realization. I had a lot of fucking fun talking with Mr. BadBoy, and I could sense the chemistry.
That was part of the puzzle for me, that this person was so skilled they could get me, or anyone, to enjoy typing on a goddamn website so much—but now I know it’s Chloe, that’s what I liked so much about those chats. That’s why I became so determined to find out what his deal really was.
Even when I’m Ms. Winters and she’s Mr. BadBoy, it’s pretty great. When I’m Aaron and she’s Chloe, and we’re together, in real life, in the flesh, it’s fucking magical.
It was, at least.
The snow’s stopped, for now, the skies have cleared up and the northern lights are back. Nobody in the bar seems to give a damn. If you live here, it probably gets old after a while.
It’s tough to fucking imagine that, but I’m watching them dance and twinkle and it’s not doing much for me either, at the moment. The wind’s howling so loud against the outside of the window that I think the panes might break.
Maybe I need more scotch. I’m about to remind the bartender when I see he’s already pouring my drink.
Honest about everything, no matter how small.
Maybe that advice was a sly insult, knowing what business I’m in. Either way, it’s come back to haunt me.
I notice my next double scotch placed neatly on the coaster in front of me. As the wind keeps howling outside, I take it down in a hearty gulp.
Chloe
“How many people fucking live here? It can’t be that many.”
Cassie’s complaining from the front passenger seat, absentmindedly checking her lipstick in the rearview while her face twists with annoyance.
“About 120, 000,” Ethan replies, unaffected by the traffic jam that has Cassie so up in arms.
“In the city or the whole country?”
Cassie’s still looking at herself in the mirror, and her mind seems to be on something else, now. There’s somethi
ng bothering her, and it’s not the traffic.
“Just in Reykjavik.”
“Ah, I guess they’re all out today, then.”
Her matte lipstick looks so perfect, it’s almost irritating. But she starts senselessly blotting at her lips with a tissue, not paying attention to what she’s doing.
“Cassie, stop that,” I scold her, sounding much harsher than I mean to.
“Why are you watching me?” Cassie puts her tissue away and starts rooting around in her purse for some other excuse to use the mirror. Despite her protests, she’s the one watching me in the mirror, trying to read my mood, and maybe trying to communicate something to me.
Ethan lets out a low scoff as he brings the car to a stop behind the silver Mercedes in front of us. The traffic’s become so bad that we’re now basically parked, and Ethan’s supply of patience is starting to grow sparse.
“Are we going to Keflavik?” I ask, realizing I don’t even know the departure point of my flight.
“No, just Reykjavik, thank God. Now, that would take forever.”
I try to hide a disappointed expression, since I know Cassie’s still sneaking glances at me in the mirror, but I probably don’t want to walk through that Keflavik terminal again.
Those may be sweet memories one day, but right now they’re sour and I don’t want to think about them.
Cassie pulls out a bottle of lip gloss and makes a point of turning around and showing it to me.
“My lipstick’s getting dry, and it’s looking too intense right now,” she explains, as if mundane details will make everything seem normal.
“So? Are you planning to do a YouTube tutorial or something?”
Cassie shakes her head, ready to verbally jab back at me. She stops herself so she can sadly dig around for a lip brush or something. I don’t see my sister like this often, and I suddenly feel awful.
“You look great,” I tell her.
Cassie misreads me and shoots a very sarcastic smile my way.
“Oh, thanks dear,” she says caustically.
“I mean it, Cassie. I’m dead fucking serious. Doesn’t she look great, Ethan?”
Ethan turns his head to look at Cassie directly—it’s not like he even needs to watch the road at this point—and Cassie slowly looks towards him at the same time.
It’s like their eyes magnetically detect each other, and I watch Cassie soften as Ethan beholds her sincerely.
“Baby, you look amazing. Everything about you is perfect, lipstick included.”
Damn, it’s so cheesy, but the way Ethan says it, I know it’s just what Cassie wanted to hear. As shitty as this ride is, I’m happy to trigger a moment like that.
The Mercedes in front of us drives off and the traffic is moving again, somewhat. Ethan goes back to driving and Cassie faces me again, now ready for me to continue.
“So, don’t waste any more lip gloss or anything, put that shit away.”
Cassie doesn’t like being told what to do, but, with Ethan’s help, I’ve rendered her speechless. She really doesn’t know where this is going next, and to tell the truth I’m not sure, either.
On the other hand, as soon as Cassie gets all her crap back in her purse, and turns around to look at me again, I know exactly what I want to say.
“Stop holding it in, Cassie.”
“What?” My sister’s regaining a touch of her usual self.
“Whatever it is you have to say, just spit it the fuck out now before we get to the airport. I don’t want this hanging over my head the whole way home.”
“Um…”
Cassie’s still hesitant. I reach forward and touch her gently on the back of her hand.
“I don’t want it hanging over your head, either. Just let it out. It’s okay.”
“Do you think you’re going about things the right way?”
I pull away from my sister like I just felt a static shock.
“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”
She rolls her eyes to the sunroof and back.
“What the fuck else would I be talking about, Chloe?”
I fold my arms over my chest and sit up straight in my seat. I glance out the window at the barren landscape moving by slowly.
“Honestly,” I say to the window, “I have no idea.”
I expect Cassie to have some sort of empathy in her eyes, a caring, or at least an understanding look. But when I turn to her, waiting for a response, she looks exasperated.
At me.
What the fuck?
“You have no idea? Really?”
Ethan slams on the brakes to avoid hitting that stupid silver sedan, which is in front of us again. I see a sign for the airport through the windshield, but we aren’t getting there very soon.
“Goddammit!” Ethan exclaims, settling back into stoicism a second later. “Don’t mind me,” he mutters, turning on the radio. Some ambient, new-age music starts playing quietly.
Ethan’s frustrated by the traffic, but he’s letting us have our private conversation.
“What idea should I have?” I ask Cassie, trying to stop my voicing from climbing too far into antagonism.
“An idea of how to act reasonable.”
My arms uncross, and I my hands thud down onto the seat. I should’ve just let Cassie stare at me silently. Then I could fly home blissfully unaware that my own sister’s turned against me.
“Reasonable?” I croak out, hoping that maybe I’m misunderstanding her, that she’s talking about something else.
“How to act fair.”
There’s no fucking doubt that she’s talking about Aaron. Ethan turns up the radio; it’s playing Sigur Ros or something.
“I’m glad I finally know the truth.”
“The truth? Do tell, Chloe.”
I feel the backs of my hands digging into the fabric of the seat. I concentrate on not getting physically upset. Why did she have to do this on the car to the fucking airport?
“The truth that when push comes to shove, I can’t even count on my own sister to be on my side.”
“Chloe…”
I’m looking out the window again. I’m trying not to cry before we get to the airport, but the tone in Cassie’s voice—a tone that says you know you’re being ridiculous, plus you’re hurting me—doesn’t make it any easier.
The traffic’s cleared up, and the sound of a commercial airliner taking off overpowers everything for a few seconds. I take a breath and get myself together, knowing the ride will be over soon.
I turn back from the window and Cassie’s still facing me, with a little bit of the compassion I expected earlier—probably because she just watched me stop myself from breaking down.
“It’s not a matter of sides, Chloe. It’s a matter of perspective.”
I’m trying to give Cassie a chance, but she’s not doing much to help her cause.
“He lied to me. Not a small one, either. We’re talking massive deception here. I mean, come on, how is that okay from any perspective?”
I wait for Cassie’s response, but she’s just looking at me blankly. She must be getting uncomfortable in that position by now—but she’s still focused on the conversation.
“It’s over, that’s all,” I add. I think I sound completely reasonable. That should be enough to convince Cassie to just let it go, already.
“Okay,” Cassie responds.
I feel a surge of relief. This is all painful enough without having to worry about an unresolved argument with Cassie that’ll carry over back into the States.
But why is she still looking at me?
“If that’s what you want,” she continues. “Is that what you want?”
“Do I have a fucking choice?”
Ethan hits the brakes again, stopped behind another line of traffic heading to the airport. I can tell it’s going to be much more crowded than Keflavik.
“What if you stayed with Aaron?”
“Cassie, that has to be one of the craziest, most to
ne-deaf…”
“Hold on—what if you stayed with Aaron, and he broke up with you?”
“Okay, in this hypothetical world in which I say ‘okay, Aaron, you completely fucking misrepresented yourself from the get-go, but no biggie. What’s for lunch?’ And after that…You know what? Who knows? Who cares? Why are you even fucking asking me this?”
“Okay, let me ask another question.”
The airport’s in sight, but the traffic’s still not moving.
“Fine,” I say, like a petulant child, looking out the window again.
“What’s the simplest explanation for you wanting to leave Aaron?”
“I already told you: he lied. It’s simple as that.”
“Couldn’t Aaron say the same about you, if he wanted?”
“Cassie, what the fuck?”
“If the crime is dishonesty, it seems like both parties are guilty.”
I stare hard at Cassie. I feel my cheeks flushing with anger, but I can’t think of a single word to say.
Cassie turns back to face the windshield as we start moving again.
“Like I said, I have no idea.” I get the words out, my voice sounding weak, as Ethan pulls carefully to the curb by the terminal entrance.
Cassie turns to face me one last time.
“I know, Chloe, but you’ll figure it out. And you know I’ll be there for you, whenever you need me, every goddamn step of the way—just like you’d be there for me. Now, if you’re determined to run away from this, go catch your fucking flight.”
Aaron
I swirl the amber-looking liquid in my heavy glass. It’s dangerously close to spilling, but it recedes just in time. I’ve created a tiny whirlwind in my glass.
For a minute or two, my imagination runs away with me. I think I can see tiny Chloe heads bob up and down in my glass. I can’t quite understand what they’re saying, but she’s trying to say something.
Their mouths open and close, goldfish-like. I feel like giggling, but her eyes look fucking serious.
Quickly I bring the glass to my lips and take a big swig of whiskey. All those Chloe heads are now bobbing on my tongue.
“You fucking lied to me,” they say until they tumble down my throat.