Love & Lies

by Julie Johnson

  But you, my darling sister, have been in love. And afterward, your little heart was broken and I was forced to listen to John Mayer breakup songs for almost two years. (Our apartment walls are treacherously thin, for future reference.) Maybe even now, a few years down the road, you’re reading this letter because you’ve been reminded of that same heartbreak. Maybe you’ve experienced a fresh one. I don’t know, I’m not there. (Dead, remember?)

  I do know one thing, though. You’re brave. It takes guts to give your heart to someone else, and trust that they’ll take care of it. And some day, you’ll find that someone who makes all the other someones in your life seem insignificant.

  When that day comes, when you’re absolutely sure he’s the one you’re supposed to be with, give him the red envelope at the back of this box.

  I may never have been in love, but I’ve witnessed more of it than most ever get to.

  People think of hospitals as being full of only sickness and sadness — patients dying, relatives mourning. But they’re wrong. I’ve spent a good part of the last five years in and out of hospitals, first in Jackson and now here in Atlanta. Of course I’ve seen the grief and the illness and the death here. That’s all you’ll see on surface level. Look a little deeper, though, and those things are insignificant compared to the immense love that fills the walls of these buildings.

  The baby wards, where new parents hold their little bundles close and plan out bright futures full of joy. The hopeful families who keep smiles on their faces in spite of the odds. The ones who’ve traveled around the world to hold the hand of a loved one who’s lying in a sickbed with a fate unknown.

  That’s love.

  There are all kinds of love in this world, sis. Great loves and little loves. The fleeting ones, and the ones that last a lifetime. I might be dead, and you might be a crazy person fueled by far too much estrogen, but I love you more than anything.

  Well, actually, that’s a little dramatic… Maybe not more than anything. But more than most things. More than Cadbury chocolate bars and all of my favorite sports teams. More than Sophia Vergara those really great popsicles they give out during chemo sessions.

  Keep your chin up. Things will get better. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even this year — but someday.

  You’ll find that great love again.

  * * *

  Until then, know that I love you.

  Jamie

  * * *

  Bash looked over at me with a film of tears in his eyes. “I miss him,” he said, his voice rough.

  I nodded. “Me too. Every day.”

  He slipped his hand into mine and squeezed lightly.

  “He wrote 100 letters.” I stared at the box. “But only 99 of them are for me.”

  Bash’s grip tightened on mine, his eyes following my free hand as I reached toward the back of the box and pulled out a bright red, sealed envelope. The script on the front was simple, two short words that held so much significance.

  For Him

  With trembling fingers, I passed the envelope to Bash and looked up to meet his eyes. “There’s no one else I would ever give this letter to,” I whispered. “I’ve never even been tempted. It felt like…” I took a deep breath. “Well, like Jamie would’ve wanted you to have it, more than anyone else.”

  Bash inhaled sharply. His fingers gripped the red envelope tightly and his gaze was riveted on my face as I continued to speak.

  “Jamie told me to wait until I was absolutely certain that I’d found the one I’m supposed to be with in this life. But I think he knew, all along, that the person I was supposed to be with was you.” I leaned in and brushed my lips against Bash’s. Pulling back slightly, I stared into his eyes. “I’ll be honest — I didn’t fall in love with you again during these last few weeks,” I told him.

  His brows rose and he opened his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.

  “Because I never fell out of love in the first place,” I whispered, reaching up to cup his jaw with one hand. “You had my heart for all these years — you still have it, Bash.”

  He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and pulled me close. “About time you admitted it,” he whispered, his smiling lips pressed against my ear.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long.” I looked into his eyes, my own smile spreading across my face. “I love you. I never stopped.”

  He kissed me then, and it was as if, for a few moments, my world ceased to turn, my heart stopped its beating, and everything just… froze. I knew it was one of those perfect moments I’d remember for the rest of my life.

  A flashbulb memory, capturing the exact point in time that the past fell away and my future with Bash began.

  When we broke apart, Bash opened Jamie’s envelope with reverence, taking extra care not to tear the paper. He pulled out a single sheet from inside, and his eyes scanned it for several minutes. I watched his face as he read the document through once, then a second time, his eyes narrowing as they poured over each line.

  As more time passed, I began to grow nervous. What had Jamie put in that letter? Some kind of brotherly threat, intended to protect me? An embarrassing story from my childhood, meant to warn off any potential suitors?

  When Bash finally lowered the letter and turned to look at me, his eyes were strange — guarded and intense — and his words were careful. “You should read this,” he said, passing me the letter before he rose to his feet and walked to the bank of windows to look out over the cityscape below. I felt my heart turn over in my chest as I watched him walk away, gripping the thin paper between my fingertips so hard I feared it might rip apart.

  I forced myself to breathe before looking down at the sheet in my hands.

  We haven’t met. We probably never will.

  But, if you’re reading this, it’s because you love my sister and, for reasons I’ll never get to know about, she loves you too. I’m going to go ahead and presume that you’re a nice guy — my sister wouldn’t settle for a jerk. I’ll even give you the benefit of the doubt by assuming that you’ve got a slew of redeemable qualities that make you “good husband material” or “good father material” or whatever bullshit standards modern women use to justify their decisions when it comes to choosing a life partner.

  You might be wondering why I wrote this letter. Contrary to what I’m sure Lux thinks, it’s not to scare you off or to tell you something mortifying about her or to threaten to haunt you from the great beyond if you mistreat her. It’s not even to tell you how great my sister is, or that she deserves to be treasured because, again, I’m going to assume that you know that already.

  Instead this letter is one I felt compelled to write because, if I know my sister as well as I think I do, she probably won’t ever tell you the things I’m about to. Not because she’s a big secret keeper — the girl is literally one of the worst liars I’ve ever met — but because it’s too painful for her to talk about. And, trust me, I wouldn’t be telling you unless I thought you needed to know, in order to better understand her — to better love her — for the rest of your life together.

  It made her who she is today. It shaped the woman you’ve fallen in love with.

  So, I’ll rip off the Band-Aid as quickly as possible: you aren’t the first man to hold my sister’s heart in his hand.

  When we were kids, little more than seventeen, she met a boy who changed her life. Their love was the kind that was evident even when they were standing on opposite sides of a room — their bodies would orient like two planets sharing the same orbit, tugged together by forces out of their control. It was there in the light touch of his hand on the small of her back as he guided her into the car. It was there in the beaming grin she unleashed whenever he came to the door. And it was there in the way he loved me, simply because I was the closest extension of her.

  I’m not sure I believe in soul mates but, if there were ever two spirits shaped solely for one another, I have to believe it was those two kids from different worlds, who loved so str
ongly in spite of the many odds stacked against them.

  You’re wondering what happened — why is she with you when, if I’m even remotely correct, she should be with someone else entirely?

  You’re also wondering why I’m telling you this — what possible point could my story serve, except to piss you off beyond measure or make your own love for my sister pale in comparison?

  Don’t worry, I’m getting to that.

  As most things eventually do, their love ended. And it shattered her.

  I’ve never seen my sister — my happy, hopeful, full-of-heart sister — so decimated as when their love fell apart. She never told me the reason — I’m sure she thinks I went to my deathbed with no knowledge of her sacrifice — but I’m not a stupid man. I put the pieces together easily enough.

  It seems ridiculous even now, so many years later, to be writing these words, but sometimes the truth really is stranger than fiction. And the truth is, my sister was blackmailed into leaving the man she loved. Someone close to him forced them apart. I guess you could say she made a deal with the devil — and she lost.

  I don’t know the exact terms of their agreement, but I’m guessing it was something like this:

  She’d agree to remove herself from the life of the boy she loved and, in exchange, I’d get to live out my days with the best treatment money could buy. Her happiness, her life, traded for mine.

  You see, we were poor. We had nothing. The house was in foreclosure and my parents couldn’t afford groceries, let alone my bone-grafts and rehabilitation costs. And then, one random Tuesday afternoon, my sister stormed into my bedroom, fresh traces of tears on her face, and said we were leaving — just the two of us. We were getting out of Jackson and never coming back, never to see our friends — or the boy she loved — again.

  That same day — miracle of miracles! — the new owner of our house told my parents they didn’t have to move out after all. Lux suddenly had funds to put a down-payment on a small apartment in the city. Within a week I was at the best medical facility in the state, receiving treatment from some of the foremost oncologists in the country, whose waiting lists are typically longer than the state of Texas. Whoever bumped me to the top of those lists had serious connections — and, I’m guessing, is the same person who forced us out of Jackson.

  At the time, I didn’t question it. Selfishly, I was glad for Lux’s sacrifice, if it meant I had a shot.

  Because of my sister, I lived.

  We never saw the boy again.

  And I never saw my sister again. At least, not whole and happy.

  She puts on a brave face because she thinks that’s what the world needs to see. But deep down, she’s been hurt, badly, by love. And the true miracle is, despite her own heartbreaks, she’s still the most giving person I’ve ever known. I’m sure you’ve realized already how much she cares for those closest to her. Once you’ve found a place in Lux’s heart, she keeps you there forever.

  So I ask you, please — for the sake of my sister, who gave up her happiness so I might live a few brief years — don’t hurt her. Don’t manipulate or lie to her. Don’t expect her to be something she’s not.

  And, if that boy should ever come back into her life, don’t hate her if she still needs him, if she still loves him.

  I won’t lie to you or tell you I didn’t try my best to get them back together — I wrote him letter after letter, all of which were “Returned to Sender” by the postal service. And you shouldn’t lie to yourself by pretending Lux is someone she isn’t.

  She’s human, just like the rest of us. She has flaws, and baggage, and memories that give her sleepless nights, and far, far more than her fair share of grief to deal with.

  I hope that if she’s found you, it means she can finally put some of that to rest. I hope you’ll not take this letter as an attack or a warning against loving her — because that would truly be your loss. I hope, more than anything, that she’s found someone who completes her again.

  Please — take care of her for me.

  Oh, and here’s a free piece of advice: if you give her a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and a bottle of Merlot, she’s far easier to deal with. Especially during “that time of the month.”

  You’re welcome.

  * * *

  Jamie

  * * *

  PS: Bash, if it’s you reading this, you should know I’m grinning down at you right now, buddy. I knew it all along — you guys were always meant to find your way back. I miss you, my friend. But I’ll rest easier knowing our girl is in good hands.

  * * *

  The tears streaking down my face blurred the page in front of me until I could no longer read the words.

  He’d known. Jamie had known all along.

  Not just about the deal I’d made, but that Sebastian and I would end up back together someday.

  Overwhelmed by the tangle of emotions in my head, I turned my wet eyes to Bash. He’d stopped his pacing by the window and was looking at me with a kind of shell-shocked tenderness I’d never seen on his face before. Approaching me slowly, he knelt before me and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks with both of his thumbs.

  “Jamie knew it. I know it. You know it.” His whispered words were intense as leaned in to touch his forehead against mine, our lips sharing the same breath. “We belong together. We always have.”

  I nodded.

  “I should’ve known,” Bash continued, his voice haunted by regret. “There was nothing you wouldn’t do for Jamie. It’s one of the things I always loved best about you. If I’d been in your shoes and someone handed me the money to save his life… I don’t know if I could’ve walked away from that deal either.”

  “It wasn’t just the money, Bash.” I pulled away so I could meet his eyes. “No amount of money could’ve made me walk away from you.”

  His brows lifted in question.

  “Wait here for a second,” I whispered, pulling out of our embrace and walking over to the closet. I retrieved the lock box, grabbed my keys from my purse, and returned to the couch where Bash was waiting. He watched me open the box with intent eyes, and his surprise was evident when I removed the stapled contract from inside and handed it to him.

  “What is this?” he asked, his eyes scanning the document.

  “It’s a nondisclosure agreement.” I swallowed roughly. “I signed it when I was eighteen.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, flipping a page and reading on. “Who gave this to you?”

  Fear of his reaction made me hesitate for a few seconds. “Your father,” I whispered eventually.

  Bash’s head lifted and his eyes flew to mine. “What?”

  I reached out and flipped past sheets of legal jargon to the last page of the contract, where a copy of the deed to my parents’ home in Georgia had been stapled. Andrew Covington’s signature was there, plain as day, registering him as the new owner of the house. Bash traced his index finger across his father’s signature, followed by the property address.

  “He bought your house and threatened to evict your family,” Bash guessed, his voice bitter. “Dear old dad was far more cunning than I thought possible, back then.”

  I grabbed Bash’s hand and entwined my fingers with his. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice hollow. “My family…”

  “Don’t apologize, Freckles.” Bash turned to me, his eyes dark but his voice soft. “None of this is your fault.”

  “He made me promise never to contact you again. Never to return to Jackson or tell anyone about our agreement. He paid for Jamie’s care, right up until the end. He still controls my parents’ property. And…” I trailed off.

  “There’s more?” Bash’s laugh was bitter.

  “This was bigger than you and me. It wasn’t just about his dreams for Princeton or your career in politics.”

  He stared at me in silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I saw something, the night of your eighteenth birthday party. Yo
u had a maid—”

  “Greta,” Bash supplied, nodding. “I remember. But she never came back after that night. My mother said she fired her because she’d messed up one of the appetizer dishes.”

  I shook my head. “She didn’t come back because I made her promise not to. I gave her all the money in my wallet and told her to get as far away from Jackson as she could.”

  “Why?” Bash’s eyes moved restlessly over my face as his mind sorted through memories, trying desperately to piece together the details of that night.

  Taking a deep breath, I forged on. “I went to say goodnight to Greta in the kitchen, but she wasn’t there. She was in the pantry.” I looked into his eyes and forced out the words. “With your father.”

  Bash pressed his eyes closed — in expectation, in disbelief, in pain. I wasn’t sure.

  “He was… he tried…” I flinched as the scene played out in my memories. “He was trying to rape her, Bash.”

  His eyes opened and he looked at me, his expression tormented as his mind filled in the gaps. “And he couldn’t let that information get out. Not when it might tarnish his perfect reputation as a southern gentleman.” Bash laughed, the sound empty and cold in the air around us. “He had to get rid of you somehow, and make sure you wouldn’t talk.”

  Both of us turned our eyes to the NDA on the table.

  “I’m sure he saw it as killing two birds with one stone,” I whispered. “I was out of his life, but I was also out of yours. A win-win.”

  “Ever practical, my father.” His voice was more bitter than I’d ever heard it.

  Bash stared down at the contract for a long time, the minutes ticking by in silence. It had taken me years to fully process what had happened — god only knew how long it might take Bash to come to terms with this. I didn’t speak, knowing that this was something he needed to work through on his own. I simply sat next to him, my hand clutched tightly in his, offering wordless support.