The Truth of a Liar

by Cassie Graham

  I tilt my head and smile. “What is it?”

  A soft a smile crosses his mouth and he bites his lip, bending down, and brushes his lips to mine. It’s feather-light—a shadow of a kiss and it sets me a blaze. The tips of my toes tingle and my hand lands heavy on the piano keys, startling us with an obnoxious, intrusive bang. The loud clang of notes echoes off the windows. Lark jumps back with stealth, ready to fight and I cover my mouth with my hand, laughing a fit of giggles. Once Lark’s eyes tame, he tugs at his lip again with his teeth and laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

  I get up and rub my lips together, flustered and hot. I smooth my shirt down and try my hardest to appear unaffected. Like somehow Lark’s magical kiss didn’t just turn me to mush.

  Lark grabs my hand with a smirk and takes me back to the living room where the fire is roaring with burning ferocity, but it feels wonderful. He plants both of us on the small couch in front of the television and settles on a cooking show. I rest my head on his chest and he wraps his arm wrapped around me, and the slow beat of his heart thumps against my ear. As a famous chef cooks bacon wrapped chicken, my stomach growls and Lark looks at me with amused eyes, his chest rumbling.

  “The kitchen is stocked. Can I make you something?” he asks and I lift my head.

  “You cook?”

  He looks away. “Not much,” he lies, and I wonder why he’d feel the need to fib about such a thing. “But I can a little, yeah. Don’t seem so surprised.”

  “I’d love that,” I say and Lark pulls me up and we walk to the kitchen. He pulls out a chair at the table and I thank him as I sit down.

  I run my hand along the top of the table and stop when I feel very precise indentions. I look down and the word ‘punk’ seems to have been carved in the wood. Lark is bent down, looking for something in the fridge when I say, “Lark, what is this?” I run my hands along the cutting, again.

  He stands up and closes the stainless steel fridge, a carton of eggs and bacon in his hands. He sets the food down and narrows his eyes at my finger where I’m pointing to the word.

  He smiles. It’s adorable and maybe my favorite Lark smile yet. “Mom used to call me that.”

  I admire the carving for a little while longer, smiling, and Lark turns around, moving about the kitchen. He opens cabinets and grabs pans, looking so at home. I’ve never really seen him in his element before. Don’t get me wrong, there’s an air of worry and anxiousness, but he’s also different. Settled. We’ve never really been in his space before. I wonder how it’ll be when this is all said and done. I wonder if I’ll visit him or if he’ll figure out that I’m not really worth the trouble and move on.

  There it is. That insecure, little doubt bomb that I always seem to allow myself to feel when something is going well in my life. I do this all the damn time. I did it with Landon and Cameron. I do it every time my shows start picking up steam. I don’t know why I feel like the world around me is going to fall away the moment I get comfortable. It’s sort of annoying. I try to shake off my ridiculous worry and watch Lark make me lunch.

  Soon the house is filled with the aroma of bacon and fried eggs. My mouth waters instantly and I watch as Lark licks butter off of his finger. Oh, sweet baby Buddha in a cradle. I fan myself.

  He catches me staring and a dazzling smile appears on his face. “It’s ready, Little One. Want to eat in here or in the living room?” he asks with the spatula still in his hand.

  I weigh my options and decide to stay in the kitchen because that means I can have all of Lark’s attention. We haven’t really had any time alone. Also, I’d be crazy not to want to have him focused on me all of the time. The more I allow myself to dig deeper into him, the more I realize I’ve had him wrong for years. Or, maybe not wrong. Maybe he was a bad guy, but he’s not anymore. Not at all. This Lark is someone I want to be around each and every single day.

  After he serves up our food, he sits next to me and places a napkin on my lap. I thank him and pick up my fork, spearing the egg and scooping it into my mouth. I’m fairly embarrassed by the noises that follow.

  Lark chuckles at my side and kisses the side of my forehead. We eat in silence, only exchanging meaningful looks of excitement for what’s to come and adoration for what we already have. Sometimes, he lets me see a little into his soul and I know he wants me, too. It’s his slight movements. His light touches against my leg, or the way he pushes the hair out of my face, or how, even when we are around other people, he always has his eyes on me.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks after he finishes the last bite of his food. He sets his fork down.

  “Things.” I become evasive. I feel weird for being such a damn girl. I’m getting mushy over ridiculous things.

  He narrows his eyes and I look away. Damn his hard stare. “What kind of things, Rowan?” His voice is harsh and he almost seems angry I didn’t answer him right away. Oh goodness, am I seeing defiance?

  “Things, Lark,” I respond, looking at him in the eye, feeling disobedient myself. “It’s humiliating and I really don’t want to talk to you about it.” There are some things I’d like to keep to myself. My voice gets quiet at the end of my statement. I’m acting like a child, I know, but god.

  His eyes soften. “You can tell me. I want to know.” He’s giving me the option to tell him or to piss him off and I’m not sure which one I want to choose at this very second.

  I sigh.

  “Rowan,” he warns and levels his eyes.

  I grind my teeth. Honestly, with his moodiness and the fact that he looks so damn hot doing it, I can’t even remember what the hell I was thinking. I know I was ogling Lark, but that’s not necessarily news. The guy knows how I feel about him. Though, I think he’s the first guy I’ve put a guard up against. I’ve allowed myself to fall too fast too quickly in the past. Maybe he feels like I haven’t opened up much since that night at my parents’ house. Have I?

  Feeling nervous and a little guilty, I get up without answering, take our dishes to the sink and begin washing them in the soapy water. Lark huffs at the table and sits watching me as I clean up the mess. Maybe he’s letting me work though my thoughts? Hell, he could be mad at me for not telling him. I have no clue. It’s so ludicrous. Why don’t I just tell him?

  When I finish and the kitchen is spotless, I place both of my hands on the sink and take a deep breath. I’m doing it, again. I’m looking for problems somewhere that doesn’t have any.

  I turn and Lark is still looking at me with that same inquisitive and slightly irritated stare.

  “I just feel different,” I begin, and my hands begin to shake.

  His intense stare doesn’t change. “How so?”

  I comb through my hair with my hand and walk to the table, sitting down in front of him. “I don’t know. You. Us. This feels good. Too good. Almost like I’m going to screw it up somehow and you’re going to leave. Or after this is all said and done that you’ll go back to wherever you’re working now and I’ll never see you again. I mean, god, I don’t even know where you’re stationed. And let’s say that we do work out and you and the guys find this dickbag Davis and we’re able to live happily ever after, how could we ever work?” I’m rambling. I stop myself and take a deep breath. I feel like an idiot for spewing so much crap on the table.

  “We’re having fun, right?” he says and my heart sinks into my feet. I’m pretty sure it seeped out of my toes and is lying on the floor underneath our feet. Fun? What the hell does that even mean? Fun.

  Wasn’t he the one, only a few weeks ago, asking me to be with him? To not let go? Apparently I imagined that.

  I cut my eyes away and stand up, hurt and wounded. “Fun. Right. We’re having fun, Lark.” I stand up and stomp to the door, slamming it behind me.

  Fun? That’s officially the worst word in the English language. It’s taken on a whole new meaning and it can kiss my ass.

  Fun?

  Sure, I can have fun. Watch me, Lark.

  SO, I SAID SOMETHI
NG TO piss off Rowan. I squint my eyes and attempt to recall what stupid thing could have come out of my mouth moments ago. I sit back in my seat and cross my arms.

  The door slams down the hall and my body jerks at the unforgiving sound. Her heavy footsteps echo throughout the house and I wrack my brain. She had a fit about what to expect when this is done. She’s a woman. All women worry. But the things she’s worried about are things I can’t allow myself to fantasize about. I have to live in the now. I have to make sure I keep her out of harms way and I’ll figure everything else out later. Nothing else matters but her safety. Right here. Right now.

  We’re having fun. At least, that’s what I thought we were doing. I’ve never had such a good time with anyone before. Fun is a good thing. Actually, fun is a great thing. Is that what she’s mad about?

  I shake my head and get up from the table. I figure it’s best to give her some time to cool down, so I put the clean dishes in the cabinets. I keep my hands busy, but it doesn’t keep my mind occupied. I want to crash into that room and demand what the hell went wrong. My protective tendencies are screaming at me to follow through and I take hold of the counter and breathe deep through my nose, pushing my instincts down. This sensation, it burns. I’ve never been one to deny myself what I want. And because I have these, unknown, deep feelings for her, I have to shove it away.

  I can’t take it any longer. My boots hit the hardwood floor with force and before I can process what I’m doing, I’m banging on the door, demanding to come in.

  “Rowan.” I pound louder. “Let me in.”

  “No!” she shouts and I can imagine her with her arms crossed and one foot protruded to the side.

  I fight my smile. This not talking crap has to stop. If we are going to be anything, she needs to open up. Her only sign of vulnerability was at her parents’ house and I haven’t seen it since. I tried to not let that get to me, but now that it’s coming to a head, it might be the time to bring it to light. I need to know that she feels the same for me as I do for her. I’m turning my back on everything I’ve ever done and starting new with her. If she’s going to keep shit from me, I’m not going to be okay with that.

  But if she’s mine, and I mean truly mine, I want to know everything.

  “Rowan,” I say more softly this time, resting my head on the cold wood. “Please let me come in, Little One.”

  I hear her huff on the other side of the door. She steps close and the handle turns but it doesn’t swing open.

  “Open it,” I beg. My voice is quiet and pleading, very unlike me. I lick my lips and wait.

  It feels like hours. Days, even. She’s weighing her options. She’s never seen this side of me. I can understand it, but I don’t like it. All I can do is sit here. I’m locked out of a room, but I almost feel locked away from her.

  The door opens a just a crack. One of her green eyes looks at me from the other side and she hesitates to expose herself.

  I close my eyes and sigh. “Please.”

  The door swings wide and I chance a look at Rowan. She’s walked away, her hands are in her pockets and she’s pacing in front of the bed. She looks glorious with the sun cascading over her from the bay window across the room. The pine trees outside cast shadows on her face and she is undeniably stunning. But something is amiss. Not just her cheeks, but also her entire face is red with rage. Her bottom lip is trembling a bit and it makes my heart stop.

  Oh, Christ, what did I do? The look on her face—the anger—I don’t know if she regrets what we have or if she’d rather bolt and chance being found by a sadistic criminal.

  I begin to panic. Dread settles over my body and I rush to her. “Talk to me,” I implore, grabbing hold of her arms and forcing her to stop moving.

  She looks at me with vicious eyes and I drop my hands. If looks could kill, I’d be…well, you know the saying. I step back and give her some space, sitting on the bed.

  Like a caged animal, her wild stare finds me and she growls. I don’t say a word. I let her work through her anger. I let all of the brutal words she’s thinking run through her mind. We stare at each other for I don’t know how long, but each second that passes, a little piece of my heart breaks apart.

  Finally, she moves to the windowsill and sits down. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me intently. Her eyes are glossy and she sniffles. She angrily wipes at her eye and she swipes away the tear.

  The helplessness I feel in this very moment makes me sick to my stomach. The guilt—making her feel the way she does right now—I don’t want it to happen again.

  We aren’t having fun. Fun is something people do when things aren’t serious. Fun is a feeling of someone who doesn’t want a future. But I want this girl. I want her as mine. I want her to feel loved. I want her to be reassured. I wish I didn’t. I wish I could just finish the job and leave. Heartbreak usually goes hand-in-hand with loving me. But I can’t make myself stop. Suddenly, what I need to do is all too clear.

  I look down, away from Rowan, ashamed of myself and say, “I’m sorry.” It’s a whisper. A hint of what I truly intended it to be, but she hears it.

  Rowan barks a humorless laugh, amused. I’ve never seen her like this but my current vulnerability doesn’t allow me to care. So, I say it again. “I’m sorry, Little One.”

  She wipes at her nose and glares into my eyes, her green orbs almost on fire. “For what?” Her tone slices me with unforgiving harshness.

  I get up from my seat and move to her. And in four, desperate strides I’m in front of her body. My knees hit the hardwood floor with a jarring crack but I can’t feel anything but my guilt. Rowan opens her legs and I maneuver my way in between. My hands circle around her waist and I bring her close to my body. She doesn’t reciprocate my grasp but she huffs and I feel her body deflate a little.

  “I don’t know what this is,” I begin, swallowing the moisture in my mouth. I lay my head on her body, and let the ragged up and down movement steady my racing mind. “What you are to me is hard to explain.” My eyes begin to sting and I fight the tears threatening to roll from my eyes.

  One of Rowan’s hands moves to the back of my head and I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s at the very least willing to listen.

  “Try,” she croaks out.

  My hand traces circles on her back and I feel like if I don’t say the correct words I could lose her. I’ve always had the sense that she was holding on by a thread. One bad fight and she’d be gone. And maybe that’s why I made light of how I feel about her. About us. I don’t know. Either way, this is a now or never situation.

  “It would be so much easier if I did my job and left. I’d never look back. I’d regret it, but I’d do it. I wish I could let you go. Your life would be easier without me.” She starts to stiffen under my grasp and I know she’s about to say something, but I stop her. “No. It’s true. I don’t deserve you. Your heart is so pure. And mine—well, let’s just say it isn’t. I wish you weren’t so great. You’re so kind and so sweet. It would make this whole situation so much easier.” I smile up at her and she’s smiling back. Tears are running freely down her face and I’m still willing mine to stay put. “You make everyone around you better. But––” I stop and grasp her middle stronger. I don’t want to say what’s about to come out of my mouth. It’s a painful realization and it’ll be even more hurtful when I say it out loud. “I don’t make you better. I don’t make anyone better.” I lean further into her body, feeling humbled.

  Immediately, Rowan sits up and she hugs her body to mine. We mold together so effortlessly. “You do make me better.”

  I shake my head against her chest. “I’m not so sure. Look at how easily I made you upset. I want you to be happy, Rowan.”

  “I am,” she says and I allow myself to believe her. Her conviction gives me no other choice.

  “How you make me feel,” I continue. “I wish I could make you feel the same. And I’m too selfish to stop and wait for you to catch up. I wish…” I look up at her,
the hot tears now falling from my eyes. They burn as they roll down my cheeks and onto my chin but I don’t look away. “I wish I didn’t feel a damn thing.”

  Her thumb catches one of my tears and she wipes it away. Her chin trembles and tremors shake her chest.

  “Rowan…” I beg, swallowing my sob and my pride. Raw and vulnerable, I’ve never felt so exposed. “I love you. I’m not promising this’ll always be fun. I’m sure I’ll go and piss you off again. We’ll fight and you’ll drive me crazy because you like to keep your emotions close to your chest. And I like to be a dominant prick that likes to push your buttons. But I want to try my hardest to make you see how much you mean to me. I love you. I love you so damn much. I think I loved you when we were kids and I know I love you a million times more now.”

  She blinks a few times, more tears leaking from her eyes and shakes her head. “You…you love me?” Her jaw drops open as if she can’t imagine someone like me loving someone her. But how could I not?

  She covers her mouth with her hand.

  I chuckle, the sound feels foreign considering I was crying—what—two seconds ago. “I do.”

  She smiles. It’s radiant and relieved all at once. Her entire body softens in my grasp. She brings her mouth to mine and just as our lips are about to touch, she says, “I’m still mad at you.”

  I pull back and my eyebrows furrow. “I just poured my heart out to you and I don’t get a free pass?” I touch my heart and pretend to be wounded. I didn’t expect her to let my little ‘fun’ statement to go unnoticed simply because I was able to allow myself the realization that I’m in love with her. If Rowan is anything, it’s feisty. She’s not going to let me off easy. Which makes me love her even more. Submissive women are boring. Give me defiant and rebellious any day.

  “Quit being factious,” she says with a grin. “And no, you don’t get a free pass.” She shoves my shoulder and adds, “Ass.”

  I smile and shake my head. She stands up and I let go of her body and watch as she moves to the closet. With a strut in her step, she disappears into the small room. I move to the bed and watch through the doorway as she undresses. As each piece of clothing falls from her body, the more hyperaware my body becomes.