Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

  “No! What happened?” Faith asks, leaning forward, her red hair dangling in her face.

  “Like I said, it was crazy. Some chicks that were waiting for their rides busted out with Destiny’s Child’s ‘Say My Name.’ ” Everyone in this group cracks up at that and Ash’s hand is now on my leg again. I giggle, too, and start singing the song.

  Getting caught up in your game

  When you cannot say my name

  And then I turn to Ash. “So, why are you calling me baby lately?”

  He blinks several times, clearly taken off guard. “What?”

  “I just want to know.” Around me I can feel the mood shift. A new kind of curiosity, an eager anticipation of a train wreck.

  “What are you going on about?” Ash says with a forced laugh.

  “Is it because you’re afraid you’ll accidentally call me Mindy?”

  Olivia lets out an excited little gasp as the rest of the room grows quiet, quieter than you would think a bunch of cokeheads could manage.

  “Mercy,” Ash says, pronouncing my name slowly, but before the word is completely out of his mouth I’ve slapped him across the face, hard. He grabs my wrist roughly, but I manage to pull it away as I stand up.

  “It’s okay,” I assure the others, who are now all gaping at me as I turn to walk out. “I’ve been told I’m worth the pain.”

  CHAPTER 29

  I LET ASH GIVE me a ride home. I’m tired of finding my own way back after storming out on the people who brought me. I even let him walk me to the door. But when he asks to come in I simply sit on the front steps of my building, indicating that if there’s anything he wants to say, he can say it here.

  “It was a ‘locationship,’ ” he explains as he takes a seat by my side. I give him a funny look and he continues, talking a little too fast, his fingers tapping out an uneven beat on his knee. “That’s what they call it when you hook up with someone on the cast or crew during a location shoot. You know, we’re all away from our loved ones, thrown into this really intense shoot schedule, things get crazy, and people, they . . . they bond over the experience and sometimes it goes a little too far. But locationships get their name because everybody knows that things have to end when the shoot is over. They’re not meant to last. They . . . they don’t mean anything.”

  “Of course they mean something,” I say wearily. “Everything means something.”

  “No, but what I mean is . . .” He hesitates, glancing back at the door to my building. “Come on, bab—Mercy. It’s getting cold. Just let me in for ten minutes and if you don’t like what I have to say—”

  “No,” I say simply without even a hint of anger or irritation. And perhaps it’s the evenness of my voice that makes him immediately back down. There’s no emotion for him to play on.

  He rubs his hands up and down his jeans a few times, staring down at the cracks in the concrete. “What I’m trying to say is that I have no interest in continuing things with Mindy. And I know I screwed up. God, I know it because I . . . I can’t lose you, Mercy. You’re the one I want. It’s Mindy that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “I believe . . .” I begin, then pause before adding, “. . . that you don’t want to continue things with Mindy.”

  “Well, that’s a start,” he says with a sigh.

  “You had an impulse and you gave in to it,” I say, gazing up at the overcast sky. “I get it. After all, it’s what you and I do. We are slaves to our impulses.”

  He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “Hey, that’s not such a bad thing, right? Or . . . what I’m saying is the affair was bad, but our being driven by emotions, that we live in the moment or . . . or that you’re teaching me to live in the moment—”

  I start giggling. And when Ash looks confused the giggles morph into a laugh. “Ash,” I finally manage, “you were living in the moment way before I came around. I didn’t teach you a damn thing. I can’t because you know everything I know and you don’t know the very things I don’t know . . . and what we don’t know? It’s so much!”

  “No, you’ve got it mixed up,” he insists. “I’m always too focused on the future.”

  “Only because you think the future and the present are the same thing!” I throw up my hands. “You think you’re going to be famous, so you live like you’re famous. You think you’re going to make a lot of money, so you spend it like you have it now and you don’t. You tell people that the place you want to live in is the place you’re actually living in. For you the future is now and you see the world the way you want to see it.” I pause a moment before adding in a slightly more conciliatory tone, “Maybe we all do that. But . . . I don’t know, Ash, maybe it’s time to stop pretending and start seeing things for the way they actually are.”

  He nudges me playfully with his elbow as he pushes his lips into a little half smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I press my lips together and let my eyes follow the cars as they pass my building.

  “Come on, Mercy, you have to forgive me for this,” he pleads, changing tack again. “You and I, we’re fated to be together. We’re connected. You feel that, right? Don’t throw it all away over one fuckup.”

  “We are connected,” I admit. “But not by fate. We’re connected by life . . . and by death.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  I inhale, deeply. The air is so crisp tonight, so unlike the polluted air I’ve become accustomed to. “That night in Seattle, the night that we met . . . I thought that night was one of the most beautiful nights of my life.”

  “It was the most beautiful night of mine,” he says without a moment’s hesitation.

  “You were supposed to call,” I say, unable to keep the pain out of my voice. “You promised! If you had called, you could have helped me. You could have helped us.”

  “Okay, I’m totally lost here—”

  “I got pregnant that night, Ash.”

  He looks at me, his eyes wide, his posture suddenly stiff.

  “We made a life,” I whisper, “you and me . . . but then it was just . . . gone. I miscarried our little girl in the fourth month.”

  “I . . .” He shakes his head, finding himself at a complete loss for words.

  I fall silent as I wait for the news to sink in. The concrete is uncomfortable and cold to sit on, but I won’t let him inside. We’ll finish this here. Ash is sitting stock-still, but I can tell that his mind is moving at a hundred miles an hour. I can almost see his thoughts, see the images and memories of the night our daughter was conceived. I can see his imaginings of what he would have done if he had known. I can see them because I’ve imagined them myself. “A girl . . . and she made it to the fourth month,” he says slowly. “You were going to keep it.”

  I give a curt nod. I don’t want to cry, not now.

  “That’s what I would have wanted . . . to keep it,” he whispers, almost more to himself than to me. “I would have wanted her . . . I . . . would have stayed with you, Melody. We would have raised her.”

  I smile even as I continue to struggle to hold back the tears. It’s the first time he’s called me Melody since our last fight, but for once I’m not mad at that. “You know, I think I knew that,” I say. “I’ve always told myself that if you had called, if you knew, you would have stood by me and our baby.” He moves a little closer, his expression serious, his own eyes a little watery as he gently puts his hand on my back, making small caressing circles right below my neck. “You know what else, Ash?”

  “What?” he whispers.

  “We would have been horrible parents.”

  He drops his hand. “What are you talking about? We would have loved the shit out of that kid.”

  I laugh and the tears finally make their escape, charting little rivers down my cheeks. “God,” I gasp, “we are so clueless.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Ash says irritably.

  “You’re thinking just the way I was when I found out,” I say, sobering up a bit. �
��I thought that all I had to do was want her in a way my parents never seemed to want me, and somehow that would be enough.”

  “Love is always enough,” Ash retorts.

  “No,” I insist. “Children need more than that. We all need more than that. And to say we’re not ready to raise a kid is the understatement of the century.”

  “No one’s ever ready for a child, Mel, you just . . . learn as you go along.”

  “Ash,” I say, now exasperated. “We haven’t even learned how to live our own lives. In so many ways we’re not even walking yet, we’re . . . we’re stumbling and we’re crawling and . . . and we’re lost.” I whisper the last word into the wind. “We’re lost.”

  He stares at me for a long time and then turns away. I wonder if he’s crying, and yet even if he is it won’t change a thing.

  “I would have loved our child,” he says in a voice so low it doesn’t even sound like him. “And I do love you. I’m in love with you and I know you’re in love with me.” He nods as if making a decision. “Our love is enough. I know that.”

  I’m quiet for a minute, maybe two as I keep my eyes on the pavement.

  “Melody? Are you hearing me?” Ash asks, turning back to me, strands of his hair clinging to the part of his face where the tears he was hiding are not yet dry. “I just told you that I’m in love with you!”

  “I know you are,” I whisper, “and the feeling’s mutual. But it’s the wrong kind of love.” A plane hums above us as it makes its descent and I pull my knees in tightly to my chest. “It’s not the kind of love that heals.” I take a deep breath and force myself to look him in the eye. “It’s the kind that kills.”

  “What? What are you saying?” I can hear a note of desperation in Ash’s voice. It’s the desperation of an addict.

  “I’m saying we’re connected and that we have love. But there’s nothing about us that’s fated.” I swallow hard and press my hands into my knees. “I’m saying it’s over.”

  He stares at me for a long time, completely baffled, hurt, and a little teary.

  And then I see his eyes narrow. Color rises to his cheeks and his hands slowly curl into fists. “Are you fucking kidding me with this bullshit?” he hisses.

  “Ash, please don’t—”

  “You fucking bitch!” he continues, cutting me off. “You pathetic little cunt! You think you’re going to do better than me?” he asks, his volume now rising to a yell. “I’m going to be a goddamned celebrity!” He leaps to his feet and glowers down at me. “Everybody wants me! I’m a star! And you’re nothing! You’ll never even get a song on the radio! Even your parents know you’re a loser! You will never do better than me!”

  I turn my gaze to the pavement for a moment. “I don’t think that’s you talking,” I say as I slowly take the earrings out of each ear. “I think it’s the cocaine.” I get to my feet and brush off my jeans. “But either way, you’ve made my point.” And here, while his jaw is tight and his hands are curled into fists, I lean over, kiss him on the cheek, and place the earrings in his coat pocket. “Good-bye, Ash,” I whisper. “Thank you for opening my eyes.”

  I let myself into the building, quickly closing and locking the door behind me. After all, Ash is a lot like me, and that means that he’s dangerous and unpredictable. It means he’s capable of hurting me.

  As I climb the stairs I hear him cussing me out from below. I think about what I said to Brad on that night when I watched his daughter: Those of us who are self-destructive will always love the ones who hurt us most.

  But what if I don’t want to be self-destructive anymore? What if I want to have higher expectations for myself?

  I go to my kitchen and find that one shard of glass that I’ve inexplicably kept. I stare at it for a very long time. Thoughts about hurt and loss cross my mind. I think about whether or not I deserve the things I want. Do I even deserve to live?

  “Yes, I deserve more,” I whisper to myself as I lift the glass to a different angle so I can see my reflection in it. “Yes, I do deserve to live. I just don’t know how to do it.”

  And with that I drop the glass into the trash, fall to my knees on the hard kitchen floor, and cry.

  CHAPTER 30

  IT HAS BEEN a long time since I’ve felt like this, like I can’t get out of bed, like answering the phone or opening the mail presents a challenge similar to climbing Mount Everest. I take a vacation from phone sex. I call in sick to Envy, which is a risk, since I can so easily be replaced. But of course that thought just makes my urge to stay in bed even stronger. I am so very replaceable. Any middle-aged, hawk-nosed illiterate can make their living from phone sex. Anyone with a decent body and a sense of rhythm can dance in the cage at Envy. And the dog walking? I don’t have any dogs to walk this week, or the next, which isn’t surprising, because for every dog living in LA, there are probably four of us dog walkers. I’m simply not needed.

  And every day I think about calling Ash. I could apologize, beg his forgiveness, accept whatever affection he’s willing to offer me. Really, who cares if he sleeps with other girls? As long as I can be his number one. As long as I can be someone’s number one. How awesome would it be to feel special again, if only intermittently? Intermittently would be better than never.

  Of course I’m acutely aware that the self-pity I’m languishing in is disgusting and pathetic. But that doesn’t mean I’m able to dismiss it.

  And then I think of Brad. Brad who took me to the LACMA and the tar pits and trusted me enough to watch his daughter. Brad who listened to me. Brad who seemed to have been growing to really care about me and who has in turn awoken feelings in me that are both more intense and more comforting than anything I’ve ever experienced.

  But I’ve burned that bridge, assuming of course there was ever a bridge to burn. And really, how could I ever let Brad, of all people, see me like this? I just can’t.

  And there’s one more thing that keeps me from calling him. It’s the unsettling and inescapable knowledge that while reaching out to Brad might help me, it would not be in the least bit helpful to him. I have nothing good to offer that man. So instead of reaching out to him, I reach out to his surrogate, Mr. Cuddly Bubbles, who accepts me unconditionally as I nuzzle up to him in bed.

  And I let the days pass, wrapped in my sheets, my unwashed hair greasy and matted, the mail piling up on the floor. The room smells musty due to my unwillingness to open a window. Maybe if I had money they’d call me an eccentric. I could be, like, the punked-out female version of Howard Hughes.

  But I don’t have the money to buy the kindness of euphemisms. What I have is a whole lotta nothin’. And as I lie here it’s almost as if I can see that nothingness filling up the room. Like I can feel the pressure of it against my chest making each breath a chore.

  Three days go by like this, then four, then a week. Each day I find the motivation to heat up some Top Ramen and pick at it for a few minutes before pushing it aside. When you’re not moving you don’t need much food. By the time my phone rings on the morning of the ninth day I’m considering staying like this forever, maybe going out just long enough to adopt a few cats so I can fully realize the stereotype. The ringing phone is only jarring enough to get me to pull my worn sheet over my head, let the machine pick up, and listen to a happier version of me chirp out a recorded greeting.

  “Hey, it’s Mercy. Throw a little love to the machine and give it your message.”

  The beep jabs at the stillness of the room and then . . .

  . . . then that gorgeous baritone rumbles through the speakers.

  “Hi, Mercy, it’s Brad.”

  I pull the sheet down enough to reveal one eye, which I use to peek out at the machine.

  “I . . . look . . . I know you don’t want to talk to me,” the voice continues. “I didn’t want to talk to you, either, for a while. The things you said to me . . . you pissed me off, but I shouldn’t be shocked that a woman who is different from anyone else I’ve ever met said things to me that no
one else has ever said. What is surprising is that I . . .” He takes a moment, clears his throat. “What’s surprising is that I needed to hear it. It’s funny, but you’ve helped me in ways only you could. I don’t think I owe you an apology, but I . . . I know I owe you a thank-you. Please give me a call back so I can give it to you, all right?” There’s a long pause and then a heavy sigh through the line. “Okay, I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  There’s the click of the hang-up and then the answering machine falls silent. I uncover the other eye and stare at the phone for a long minute. Then, slowly, I push back all the covers, sit up, cross the short distance to the machine, and play the message again.

  “Hi Mercy, it’s Brad. I . . . look . . .”

  I listen to the whole thing and then press rewind and listen to the message again.

  And then again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I listen to it ten times. Then I stare at the machine for several more minutes and replay the message in my head, turning over each word and examining them from every possible angle.

  “You’ve helped me in ways only you could.”

  Has anyone ever said anything like that to me before? No, not possible.

  “. . . a woman who is different from anyone else I’ve ever met said things to me that no one else has ever said . . . What’s surprising is that I needed to hear it.”

  It’s like he’s suggesting that I’ve done something right just by being me . . . Is that what he’s suggesting? If so, no one has ever said anything like that before. Never, ever, ever.

  “You’ve helped me in ways only you could.”

  Huh.

  I finally turn away from the machine and take in the state of my studio, seeing it with a slightly different perspective than I’ve had in some time.