True Love (and Other Lies)

by Whitney Gaskell

  The only thing that kept Maddy out of professional modeling was her height—she’s only five feet two inches tall—because other than that, it was hard to find a blemish on her. Her mother was of Japanese descent, and her father a redheaded Irish-American, and Maddy had inherited the best of both worlds: she has cream-colored skin, long glossy black hair, her mother’s perfectly proportioned dainty features and her father’s wide blue eyes. Perhaps her most offensive trait is her ability to eat anything and everything she wants and yet remain waifishly thin. She has the body of a professionally trained dancer, which is completely unfair, since I happen to know for a fact that she’s a complete klutz and her idea of working out is running for a cab. But despite these loathsome qualities, Maddy has an enormous heart, is compulsively generous, and although she isn’t book smart, she does possess a sharp insight into human nature. Frankly, she’s pretty hard to hate . . . she’s too damn nice.

  But Maddy has been so much more to me—she’s more like a sister than just a friend. When my parents finally put an end to their decaying marriage during my sophomore year in college, Maddy stayed up with me during the long late nights, chain-smoking Marlboro Lights and plotting revenge on the latest of my father’s extramarital girlfriends. When her father, a stockbroker, died of a heart attack at the young age of fifty-one, I sat next to her at the funeral, holding her hand and keeping her supplied with tissues. But it was more than just support during sad times—we’d vacationed together, socialized together, and were roommates for the first year we lived in Manhattan. Maddy had always been there for me . . . and if she had a tendency to be a little scatterbrained at times, she certainly made up for it with her loyalty and compassion.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Maddy gave me a glass of chilled white wine, and then sat down next to me at her Scandinavian stripped-pine table. She smelled so familiar—her signature scent was Joy perfume, she’d worn it for years—and she looked distressingly thin. I had forgotten this was another one of her offensive traits—unlike most of the female population, who turn to chocolate for solace, Maddy actually loses weight in the midst of a crisis.

  “I’ve just never felt so alone . . . so unloved,” Maddy said, starting off slowly, but then her voice caught in her throat, and pretty soon her words were punctuated with small sobs. “He said he didn’t love me, and that he never has. Said we weren’t right for each other. I can’t believe it . . . I thought he was the one. You know, the one. I can’t believe that he doesn’t want me, that this is happening to me. How could he not love me?” she asked, looking at me with her wide, confused bottle-blue eyes. “I’ve never had anyone break up with me before. Never. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”

  It occurred to me again, perhaps uncharitably, that Maddy’s ego might be more bruised than her heart, that she was more shocked by the fact that Harrison had broken up with her, rather than truly mourning the fact that he was no longer in her life. But then I quickly dismissed the thought—yes, Maddy was blessed in all things, and yes, sometimes it was hard to watch everything come so easily to her when my life always felt like an uphill battle through the mud on a rainy night. But she was human after all, and just as capable as the next person of being hurt and disappointed.

  “I owe you an apology, Claire,” Maddy continued. She cupped her wineglass in her delicate hands. They were tiny and birdlike, with long, elegant fingers. I coveted those hands, and folded my own—large, capable, clunky—under the table.

  “I never really understood how you felt when Sawyer dumped you. I didn’t tell you at the time, but I thought you overreacted a little. No offense,” she continued, looking at me quickly. “But he wasn’t exactly a prize.”

  “Uh . . . no,” I agreed hesitatingly, not sure if it was Sawyer or I who was being insulted.

  “I just didn’t know how you felt . . . how awful it feels. To have someone you love stand there and tell you that he doesn’t love you, that he never loved you.” Her voice broke with a little sob. “But now I know, and I understand why you just kept going on and on and on about it for so long after you guys broke up.”

  I was eager to get off the subject of how pathetic I’d been after the Sawyer incident.

  “Did this all just happen today?” I asked.

  “No, a few days ago.” Maddy sniffed. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. But between everything that’s happened with Harrison, and the presentation I have to give on Monday, I’ve been swamped. Not that the presentation is going to take that long . . . it’s on the latest trends of urban girls, aged thirteen to seventeen, which can be summed up in two words: Jailbait Sluts.”

  I snorted. “Is that the new look? I suppose they’re all inspired by Britney.”

  “And a dozen other celebs who are far worse. Seriously, all I see are young girls with their stomachs bared and thongs sticking out the back of their jeans. Or, at the other end of the spectrum, there are the little comradettes, who all seem determined to find and wear the least flattering shade of olive drab possible. Can you imagine what my mother would have said if I came home dressed like that when I was fourteen?” I could not. Her mother was a tiny, frail-looking Japanese woman, but I happened to know for a fact that she ruled her household with an iron fist. Especially where Maddy was concerned. “Anyway, I had to work late last night getting my PowerPoint presentation together, so that’s why I didn’t get back to you. I’m so sorry, I know we had plans.”

  “It’s okay,” I said vaguely. It didn’t seem the time to launch into an excited recital of my whirlwind romance with Jack. It would smack of saying, Oh, I’m sorry your life is shit, but let’s get back to me and how well I’m doing. Which would be a little ironic, considering Maddy is Maddy, while I’m . . . well, me.

  Besides, I was already starting to feel guilty because my best friend in the whole world was suffering her first true heartbreak, and for the first time in three years, I wasn’t a million miles away, separated by an ocean, and it was my job—no, it was my duty—to sit there with her for hours, drinking white wine and eating salty, fatty things that would make me break out, retain water, and gain weight, handing her tissues and listening to her rail on about what a son of a bitch Harrison was and how much she missed him . . . and yet I had a date that I wanted to keep. Sure, I had a few free hours, and would be happy to indulge in a tear and junk food fest for a while, but then I really wanted to see Jack.

  Jack. Just the thought of him made my insides go a little woozy, a happy nervous tremor that started in my heart and then ricocheted through my limbs. I knew that even contemplating deserting Maddy in her hour of need made me the worst friend in the world, and even worse, I knew if it were the other way around, she’d immediately ditch her date for me.

  The night that Sawyer left me, I showed up on Maddy’s doorstep (at the time she still lived in Manhattan, but we were no longer roommates) with a tearstained face and deflated heart. She had her current boyfriend over (I think that his name was Jonathan, but really, who could keep them all straight?). She immediately expelled him from her apartment, and then took me out for chili cheese fries, after which she marched me back to my apartment to help me destroy all of Sawyer’s pictures, as well as his favorite shirt, his CD of “The White Album,” and the electric shaver he just had to have after he saw it being used in a James Bond movie (I figured if he was going overseas, he had no need for any of these things, so I was doing him a favor by crushing them into little pieces with the hammer I borrowed from my super). And she taped reminders to my phone, fridge, bathroom mirror, and nightstand lamp not to call Sawyer under any circumstance.

  “For God’s sake, you’ll only feel worse if you do. Call me instead, and I’ll talk you down from it,” Maddy advised.

  Besides, I had just met Jack, and it wasn’t like the relationship was going anywhere. As I kept reminding myself, I was returning to New York, he was staying in London. And I still wasn’t 100 percent sure that he wasn’t a Chaser . . . just because he’d aske
d me out again after we slept together didn’t necessarily mean anything. He knew I was leaving the next day anyway, so maybe he was just being nice. Or . . . oh God . . . maybe he wasn’t even going to call me today. It wasn’t like I could call him, since I had neither his phone number nor his last name. The only way I could possibly track him down would be to call his company and ask them if they had anyone named Jack working there, which I could just imagine.

  “Oh, I don’t know his last name,” I’d giggle nervously, before pausing to listen to the annoyingly clipped British tones of the receptionist asking for more information, and then snap, “Why don’t you just give me the extensions of all American lawyers named Jack between the ages of thirty and forty who work there, and I’ll call each of them up myself.”

  There was no way I’d ever lower myself to those humiliating depths.

  Maddy was still talking. Great friend that I am, I’d been tuning her out, until something she said caught my attention.

  “And then after I left work last night, I was stuck going to a dinner party at my boss’s house. It was a nightmare—all couples, and I didn’t even have a date. I’d been planning to bring Harrison, and it was too late to get anyone else. Well, anyone I’d want to be seen with, anyway. And then tonight there’s a restaurant launch party that I have to go to, so I can’t seem to get a break,” she continued. “I’d ask you to come, but it’s an invite-only kind of a thing.” And then she sighed heavily, as though someone was forcing her to attend this whirlwind of glamorous events, when all she wanted to do was stay at home in her pajamas and eat her way through a tub of butter pecan ice cream.

  What? Was she really saying that she’d made plans for tonight? After not seeing me for the past two days I’d been in London, now she wasn’t even planning to get together with me on my last night there? All right, maybe I was being a bit fickle, since I too had made plans for the night, and had just been wondering how I would get out of spending it with her. But at least I’d made the effort. She’d just gone and made other plans, with no thought or consideration of me.

  “God, I’m surprised you had time to see me at all,” I said tartly.

  “Oh, please don’t be mad,” Maddy said, smiling suddenly. She reached out and grabbed one of my hands. “It’s a work thing. I want to spend the evening with you, really I do, but my boss couldn’t go to this thing tonight, so he’s sending me in his place. I’d get out of it if I could, but I can’t. . . .”

  She looked at me beseechingly, and I softened, feeling the anger leak out of me. Maddy could sometimes be a little clueless, but she did it with absolutely no malice, so it was impossible to stay mad at her. Besides, I’d just noticed that she had a picture of the two of us from our Mexican vacation posted on her refrigerator with a magnet, the same photo that I kept at my office. In it, we’re both laughing and tan, and holding up massive margarita glasses in a toast. I tried without success to remember just what it was we were toasting, or who was taking the picture. Suddenly I realized how stupid and hypocritical it was to get annoyed at Maddy for being otherwise engaged that night.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just glad I got a chance to see you,” I said, squeezing her hand.

  “Me too. Although I also had an ulterior motive in asking you to come over,” she said, looking bleak again. “Harrison is coming by today to pick up some of his things. There’s not much here, really—a few CDs that I borrowed, a DVD, a sweater. Nothing I thought he would even want, but he seemed eager to get them back. I didn’t want to be alone when he got here. Will you stay and be my moral support?”

  “Of course,” I said patting her hand. Then I raised my glass in a mock toast. “To Harrison. Good riddance.”

  Maddy did not toast with me. She just looked a little more miserable. Wow, she really does have it bad, I thought. She’s not even up to joking about who needs men, and the whole fish-and-bicycle thing.

  “No, it’s not good at all,” Maddy said sadly. “He’s really wonderful. I just wish he loved me as much as I love him. In fact . . . when he said he had to talk to me the other night, I thought he was going to propose. Just like what happened with you and Sawyer!”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she collapsed against the table, resting her head on folded arms, her silky black hair pooling around her shoulders. I quickly stood and scooted around the table, so I could pat her back sympathetically while she sobbed quietly. Maddy usually has such an effervescent spirit, and it was strange to witness her falling apart. I hadn’t seen her so upset since she lost her father, and even then she’d been so composed in her grief. Before I could think of something to say to cheer her up—knowing that there was nothing I could do to make her feel better—there was a sharp rap at the door.

  “Oh God, it’s Harrison. He’s here early,” Maddy said, her head popping up so quickly, she hit it against my chin. The impact was hard, and my eyes stung as they filled with tears.

  “Ow,” Maddy cried out, reaching for the top of her head, which, if the pain in my chin was any indication, probably hurt like hell.

  “Oh . . . ouch,” I agreed, holding my chin in my hand, waiting for the radiating pain to subside. There was a second knock at the door.

  “Oh . . . Claire, will you get it? I look horrible. Christ. I need to put some lip gloss on,” Maddy said, and she ran out of the room, leaving me little choice but to walk back through the frigid elegance of the flat to the front door and swing it open.

  “Look, Maddy will be just a minute,” I said, before I was able to register who was standing there. When I did take him in, I gasped, and felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach, rather than the chin.

  Standing there on the other side of the doorway was Jack. He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

  Chapter 5

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, gaping at Jack. My mind was racing as I considered the possibilities, which ran from the flattering (I was being stalked) to the scary (I was being stalked). How had he known to find me here? I suppose he would have had to follow me from the hotel, which was . . . well, actually, that would fall under the scary-stalking category. But Jack didn’t look like a stalker . . . in fact he looked confused, squinting at me as if I were completely out of place.

  “I might ask you the same thing. Is this supposed to be some kind of a joke?” Jack asked. He looked so grave, so serious, and there was no pleasure in his face as he considered me with bright, sharp eyes. Something about this careful appraisal made me uncomfortable, and I got the feeling that he was on edge, like a patient waiting to hear an unwanted diagnosis.

  “Joke? What do you mean? You didn’t know I’d be here?” I asked, now completely bewildered.

  “Of course not. How would I?” Jack replied.

  “Why are you here then?” I asked.

  “To see Maddy.”

  “What? How do you know Maddy?”

  Jack sighed. “Up until two days ago we were seeing each other,” he said. Suddenly the sharpness vanished from his voice and face, leaving him hollow-eyed and haggard.

  I stared at him, not comprehending what he was saying. It was a lot like the sensation you must feel when you open your door and find Ed McMahon and the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol on the other side, holding a bunch of balloons and an enormous cardboard check made out in your name for ten million dollars . . . only the exact opposite, more like a reverse lottery, where winning means that you’ve lost and your tribe is about to stone you to death.

  “You told me your name was Jack,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around my body. I felt cold and empty, as though someone had pricked me with a pin and all of the happiness and smug postcoital self-satisfaction I’d been feeling earlier had leaked out of me.

  He nodded. “It is. Jack Harrison,” he said.

  Before I could interrogate him further, Maddy appeared at my elbow. I glanced down at her, wondering if she’d overheard any part of our conversation, but I didn’t think she had. Instead, her face—now
perfect again with the minor addition of mascara and lipstick—was hurt and brave and sad as she looked up at Jack. He towered over her, making Maddy appear even more delicate and petite. She was every bit the plucky heroine, ready to stand up and fight for her man.

  “Harrison,” she said in a dignified voice. “This is my friend Claire.”

  Jack looked from Maddy to me, and despite my bewilderment at this bizarre turn of events, I couldn’t help but cringe at knowing that when we stood there, side by side, it was all too easy to make the usual comparisons between us. Maddy—thin, beautiful, glamorous, dainty. Me—big, big, big. I wouldn’t be surprised if pimples were popping out all over my face at just that moment, along with the scary braces and thick ugly glasses I’d worn as a teenager suddenly materializing.

  Jack was Harrison. Harrison was Jack. And why the hell did Maddy call him by his last name? Jack Harrison. What were the chances? One in a million? One in a billion? How could the great guy I randomly met on an airplane just happen to be my best friend’s newly ex-boyfriend? There was only one answer, only one thing that made sense: I’d been wrong when I thought that there was no such thing as fate. Because fate did exist after all . . . and it was intent on screwing me over.

  I wanted to scream, to kick someone, to hit something (expressing anger has never been an issue for me). Why did this always happen to me? Over and over and over again. This was what my life had come down to, these were the kinds of men I meet. Men who are witty and smart, but would never consider dating anything less than four women at the same time. Men who are accomplished, but are obsessed with their careers. Men who seem emotionally available, but turn out to be married.