True Love (and Other Lies)

by Whitney Gaskell

  I stared at him. Surely he must be joking . . . but how could he pull it off without laughing, especially in the state he was in? I leaned forward to sniff his sweater, wondering if he’d doused himself with rum so that he’d smell drunk—Max really would go that far to perpetrate a practical joke. But his sweater smelled only of wet wool and stale cigarette smoke.

  “What are you doing?” Max asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. I was beginning to feel really uncomfortable.

  Things didn’t improve when Max suddenly keeled forward, stretched up, and kissed me directly on the lips. It was horrible. His lips were rubbery and thick, and his breath reeked of alcohol. He was holding my arm, balancing himself as he reached up at me, and his clench became unbearably tight. I started to pull away, but he just held on tighter, and then I felt his tongue, wet and pointy, probing at my mouth. It felt disgusting, like a lizard slithering against my lips.

  “Stop it! Just . . . stop,” I said, turning my head away and stepping back from Max.

  I didn’t want this. I’d meant it when I told Jack that I thought of Max as a brother. And I’d been sure that he felt the same way about me. He and Daphne had been so great together, and despite Max’s joking—or what I thought was joking—about not wanting to marry her, he’d always seemed to truly love her, to treat her with a tenderness and care that he’d certainly never shown me. So where was this confession suddenly coming from?

  “Why?” Max asked, and then, to make matters just that much worse, tears began to stream down his face.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said, shaking my head from side to side.

  “I want you to say you love me, too, or that you could love me. I want you to say you won’t go to London, that you know it will never work out with that guy, but that we could have a chance. I want you to say that for the first time in your life, you’re ready to actually take a chance with someone you can have a real relationship with, because that’s what it would be if you and I got together. That’s what I want you to say,” Max said.

  “I can’t say that. I’m sorry, I wish I could,” I said, meaning every word. I loved Max dearly, but I could never have romantic feelings for him, and it had nothing to do with my dating rules, or with his height. It had everything to do with chemistry and pheromones and heat and reaction, all of which I had with Jack, and none of which I had with Max. Not even a hint. The very thought of being with Max in that way felt vaguely incestuous.

  Max’s face contorted with—what? Rage? Hurt? I couldn’t tell, but suddenly he was on his feet, barreling past me.

  “Max, please, wait! Let’s talk,” I called after him, but after struggling with my doorknob for a second, Max was suddenly gone. A second later, I heard his door slam shut. I just stood there, not sure what to do. Should I go after him? I knew he’d never let me in, not in the mood he was in. For all of his joking, Max wasn’t one to wear his emotions on his sleeve—it was probably the reason I’d never guessed that he had feelings for me—and now that he had, and had been rebuffed, I knew he’d retreat to lick his wounds. I was the last person he’d want to talk to right now, maybe forever. And then I was gripped with a strong wave of panic . . . was this going to be the end of our friendship?

  I hurried out my door and down the hall, and knocked on his apartment door. First softly, then, when he wouldn’t answer, louder, banging against it until my knuckles hurt. Mrs. McGory, who lives across the hall from Max’s apartment, opened her door as far as the security chain would allow it, and peered out to see what the commotion was. I ignored her, and continued to knock, now with the heel of my hand, which made a loud thudding noise as it hit the wood.

  “Max, please. Open the door, talk to me,” I pleaded. But my voice just echoed down the corridor, sounding like I was shouting into an empty cave. I waited and waited, listening for footsteps or some noise to indicate that Max was there, listening to me, willing to talk. Even Mrs. McNosy gave up on me, muttering under her breath as she pulled her door closed. Finally, I turned away, and after fetching my suitcase and locking my door, I went down to the street to hail a cab.

  Chapter 16

  Needless to say, I didn’t get any sleep on the flight to London. Instead, I just curled up miserably in my business-class seat—the fact that Jack hadn’t stuck me back in steerage would be reason enough to fall for him, if I hadn’t already—resisting the urge to request one of those mini-bottles of gin and tonic every time the congenial flight attendant sashayed by.

  I also wanted to ask the flight attendant how on earth she was able to work an entire shift in such ridiculously high stiletto heels. I couldn’t walk one block in heels that high and narrow, so how was she able to navigate through the tiny airplane corridors, bending and kneeling and balancing trays in them, for six-plus hours? Were they like the pumps featured in that commercial where all of the women are playing basketball in high heels? And I’ve always wondered how those shoes work. Your heel is still elevated three inches over the ball of your foot—how comfortable can any shoe designer make that? These were questions I’d have liked to have answers to, but I chickened out of asking. I was afraid that the flight attendant would give me a blank, Stepford Wife look and then tell me that she never finds wearing high heels uncomfortable, and it would be just one more area of my life where I’d feel inadequate.

  My mind felt like a wastepaper basket full of crumpled odds and ends, pieces of my earlier conversation with Max jumbling around with Maddy’s confession about her married lover, and my trepidation over what to expect during my visit with Jack. Could Max really have meant it when he said he was in love with me? Was that possible? How could I have not known how he felt? We’d spent hours slouched against each other on the couch watching movies, eaten countless meals together, taken sunny afternoon walks in the park. I’d even fallen asleep in his bed once when we were up late talking, and we spent the entire night sleeping chastely side by side, barely touching. I’d never, not once, gotten any sort of a sexual vibe from him, never caught him looking at me in an off way or had him say anything remotely seductive to me, except when done for humorous effect. Sure, Max was touchy-feely, and had often grabbed my hand or thrown an arm around me. But that was just the way he was with everyone, even other men. I’d always considered him to be as safe and asexual as an old teddy bear, in that way you do with male friends who appear happy in their long-term relationships.

  I just couldn’t believe it. I’m not the kind of woman who men randomly fall in love with. Sure, I’ve had male friends before, but other than the occasional off-color comment about the size of my breasts, each and every one of them regarded me as one of the boys. I certainly had never entertained confessions of hidden love before. That had always been Maddy’s department, along with the hundreds of other gorgeous and enigmatic women who have that certain indefinable quality that men go gaga over. I don’t have that quality, and wouldn’t even know how to go about acquiring it. Maybe women are born with it, or maybe it’s something they learn, carefully studying those magazine articles on how to dress and make eye contact and pick out sunglasses that broadcast to the world that you are It. I am not It. I’m not even close to being It. Sure, I know some things, like what cut of pants keeps my hips from looking a mile wide, and to get my highlights retouched every three to four months, and that I look horrible with short hair. But just as I don’t know how women can spend hours on their feet tottering around on spiked heels, I’ve never learned that Mona Lisa secret of getting men to fall madly in love with me on first sight. And even if I did have that kind of power, I would never have turned it on Max. My feelings for him were, and forever would be, entirely platonic.

  Even though I had the luxury of stretching out in my business-class seat, I was soon itching to be up and off the plane. The recycled air was stale and smelled of bad breath and body odor, and my muscles ached at being immobilized for so long. About an hour before we landed, I headed to the tiny bathroom to survey the damage caused by the
sleepless night spent on the plane. I brushed my hair and teeth, and touched up my makeup as best I could (I didn’t dare tackle anything tricky, like mascara or eyeliner, as it would be just my luck for the plane to hit yet another patch of turbulence and cause me to lose an eye). I still looked tired and bedraggled from travel, but tired with lip gloss was better than tired without.

  We finally landed—a heart-stopping endeavor that made me wonder if our pilot entertained Top Gun fantasies. I disembarked, and followed the signs to Customs, and joined the flood of travelers bottlenecked there. As I was jostled and bumped by grumpy passengers, I started to notice that all of the women around me were six feet tall and stunning. At first I thought I was just imagining it, but I peered right and then left, and sure enough, there was a tall, thin, gorgeous woman in every direction I looked. And, unlike me and the rest of the bedraggled travelers shuffling through Customs, these women were all made up and coiffed to look like a parade of Barbie dolls come to life.

  “Ooooh, I read about this in People,” a middle-aged woman behind me explained to her husband. “They’re here for a beauty pageant. Miss World or Miss Universe . . . something like that.”

  Just great, I thought. Not only was I going to have to see Jack for the first time looking scruffy and grubby, but I was now going to be flanked by stick-thin leather-clad beauty contestants.

  Jack was waiting for me on the other side of Customs. When I saw his tall figure first waving and then striding toward me, a wide smile on his face, I felt a rush of euphoria and grinned wildly back at him. I’d secretly hoped that distance and time would blunt the edges of my feelings for him, but apparently they did just the opposite. When he got to me, he swept me into his arms, kissed me firmly on the mouth, and then enveloped me in a bear hug.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice muffled from being squeezed up against his shoulder.

  “Hi,” he said, and hugged me tighter.

  “I can’t breathe,” I squeaked.

  Jack released me, laughing, and grabbed both of my hands, holding them out to the side a little, and looking me up and down.

  “You look great,” he said, gazing down at me.

  Amazingly, he didn’t seem to notice the parade of pageant contestants streaming by us, although I noticed quite a few of them checking Jack out. He did look quite handsome in his camel hair overcoat, his cheeks flushed to a healthy pink and his endearing smile lighting up his face. Even his unruly hair, which normally flopped over his forehead, was behaving itself for once.

  “Oh, don’t lie. I just got off a six-hour flight. I’m sure I look exactly like I feel,” I said.

  “Nope. You look beautiful,” he said, and then kissed me again. This time his lips lingered against mine, and I savored the peppermint-flavored warmth of his mouth.

  Jack had another one of his company’s hired cars waiting for us. Once my luggage was loaded into the trunk, we piled into the backseat. Jack snuggled me up in his arms, so that I was leaning back against his chest, his chin resting on my head. Strangely, despite the lust that was swelling up inside of me from his close proximity, I somehow managed to fall asleep during the ride into London. When I woke up, the car was parked, and Jack was gently jostling my arm.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead. We’re here,” he said.

  I yawned, and then shivered a little as Jack slid out of the car and I was deprived of his body heat. Between my exhaustion and the cold, my body felt stiff and unwieldy as I followed Jack out of the car, and I stretched my arms and stamped my feet trying to wake up. The driver unloaded my luggage onto the curb.

  “Well, what do you think?” Jack asked. Only then did I look around and take in my surroundings.

  We were standing on a little side street with two-story town houses lining either side. It was clearly a vein off of a busier street—which I could see up the block, just past a stone arch—and yet had the charming effect of appearing removed from the city. The row houses were quaint and otherworldly, and if not for the absurdly tiny cars parked in front of some of them and the faint laugh track of a television set playing in the distance, it could easily have felt like we’d gone back in time a hundred years.

  “You live here?” I asked Jack, and he smiled and stepped forward to unlock a dark green door.

  “They’re called mews—I honestly don’t know why—but whatever they once were, they’ve since been converted into town houses,” he said, struggling with my suitcase, yet waving me off when I offered to help. Mmm, I liked that. Because of my size, not many men rush forward to help me with my bags, apparently assuming that I can easily hoist steamer trunks up on my shoulders.

  “It feels so peaceful back here. It’s like we’re not even in the city anymore,” I said.

  “That’s why I like it, too. It’s small, but quiet,” Jack said, and reached an arm to usher me through the door.

  I immediately felt at home. In fact, his house reminded me of my apartment, in that it was furnished to suit a lifestyle that included lots of lounging around (although Jack’s idea of small was actually about a thousand square feet bigger than my place). The front living room was full of leather club chairs and comfy sofas, with ottomans sidled up all around, crowded bookshelves surrounded the walls, and the color scheme was soothing, masculine earth tones. Jack had even put up a small tabletop Christmas tree, strewn with tinsel and twinkle lights. The room was the perfect place to curl up in front of the fireplace for a day, watching movies and eating buttered popcorn. Unlike my apartment, there was a noticeable absence of clutter; Jack seemed to be far neater than I. However, when I commented on how organized he was, he just laughed.

  “Far from it. The cleaning lady was here yesterday, and she makes me look good,” he said. He helped me out of my coat, and then shrugged his own off. Leaving my luggage at the foot of the stairs, he stepped forward and wrapped me into his arms.

  “Hi,” I said, his nose next to mine, our eyes inches apart.

  “Hi,” he said, and leaned in to kiss me again. And then, despite my prediction that I’d be too tired for such activities, we spent the next hour finding out just how comfortable his sofa really was.

  Despite all my best intentions not to fall asleep again, so as to adapt to the local time more quickly, Jack and I both drifted off, still on the sofa, pretty much on top of our tangle of discarded clothes. The fire—which Jack had lit before turning his attentions to me—was still going full blaze, sparking and crackling and generally keeping us warm in our undressed state. I was amazed at how hedonistic I was around Jack. Nudity is not a good look for me, and I normally try to remain as clothed as possible at all times, especially when I’m near a man I’m interested in. As far as I’m concerned, no good can come from anyone looking at my cellulite and blemishes and how unlike Kate Moss’s my butt is. And yet, I seemed perfectly content to lounge around like some sort of a brazen hussy in front of Jack, wearing nary a stitch. I glanced over at him—very much enjoying the sight of him in full-frontal glory—and then began to sort through the clothing directly underneath me.

  My rustling woke Jack, who yawned and stretched, and then reached out and pulled me down against his chest, snuggling me close.

  “Whatcha doing?” he asked sleepily.

  “Getting dressed,” I admitted.

  This caused him to stir, and open one eye. “Why? Are you going somewhere?”

  “No . . . but I was thinking of taking a shower, and making myself somewhat presentable again,” I said. “Traveling always makes me feel gross.”

  Jack nodded, and after planting a firm kiss on my forehead, he struggled up. “First shower, then food, and then I have a surprise for you,” he said.

  “Oh no, you know how I feel about surprises. The last time you surprised me, I assaulted you with my stun gun. And the time before that, you dangled me from the top of a ridiculously large Ferris wheel,” I reminded him.

  “Dangled,” he snorted. “You were as safe as houses.”

  “I have never in my whole life unders
tood what that expression means,” I said. “Why are houses considered safer than other buildings? Don’t they catch fire? Have trees fall down on them? Get swept away in tornadoes?”

  “Don’t worry, this won’t be a tornado. Far less traumatic,” Jack said.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  For whatever it was that he had planned, Jack had rented a car. It was silver and tiny, and when I first saw it, I thought there was no way I’d ever be able to fit into such a thing.

  “Let me guess, when I open the door, fifteen clowns are going to come pouring out,” I said, looking at it doubtfully.

  “It’s part of the real British experience. No one here drives an SUV like you do back home,” Jack said.

  “I can’t even remember the last time I drove a car,” I said, and then headed for the passenger door.

  “Are you going to try now?” Jack asked, watching me. “I thought you might be too tired.”

  “Absolutely too tired,” I said, stifling my umpteenth yawn. The nap had helped, but I could still use a good twelve hours of downtime.

  “Then you’re getting in the wrong side. Remember? Drivers sit on the right side of the car over here,” Jack said. He kissed me on the forehead, and then opened the left-hand door of the car for me. As I folded down into my seat, I immediately felt claustrophobic.

  “This isn’t a car, it’s a tin can strapped to a roller skate,” I muttered to myself, while Jack walked back around to the driver’s side of the car. I prayed that all of the other drivers on the road were also driving tuna cans, because if anything bigger than a bumper car hit us in this thing, we’d be flattened.

  But once we got on the road to wherever it was we were going—Jack still wouldn’t tell me, it was all part of the surprise—I immediately went to sleep again. Apparently the insomnia that plagued me at home had not followed me overseas, because every time I sat still for even a few minutes, I was out cold. Just as I was falling asleep, I had a fleeting thought about Maddy’s private investigator, and wondered if she had actually hired one, and, if so, whether he was at that moment following us, but a minute later all thoughts left me as I succumbed to bone-numbing exhaustion. It wasn’t until I felt the car slowing down and turning off the highway that I was roused back to consciousness. As I came to, my eyes blinking and my mouth gaping open in a yawn, I was faced with the most beautiful sight.