Quiet Lies

by R. L. Griffin

  “The entire back of the house is windows,” she announces unnecessarily.

  Sebastian throws my bags on the bed and looks at me expectantly.

  “You can sleep here too, y’all are grown,” my mother answers the unasked question.

  “Okay,” Sebastian says. His face registers surprise as he walks over to the couch on the wall opposite the king size bed and puts his bag down. “Thank you.”

  “I have supper waiting.” My mother gives Sebastian one more look before she turns and walks back the way we came.

  “Supper?” Sebastian’s eyebrows rise with delight.

  “Supper,” I confirm. I hold my hand out for him and he takes it, lifts it up to his lips and kisses it softly. I’ve told him I wasn’t looking forward to this trip.

  “Okay?” he asks softly.

  “Fine,” I answer. It’s a lie, he knows it’s a lie. Meeting my mom was his idea, both of his parents passed away so he wanted to meet my mom. My insides incinerated when he’d proposed driving to meet my mother. Emotions warred inside my brain on whether it was amazing he wanted to meet my mom because it meant he was serious about me or whether it was too much and would be the end of everything.

  His nose traces over my jaw and his breath tickles my ear. “I love you, it doesn’t matter where your mother lives or if you even talk to her. As a matter a fact, I would rather it just be me and you for the rest of my life.”

  I kiss him and push him onto the bed. I straddle him and fight the urge to take my shirt off in response to such a romantic statement. Sebastian was so good at making me feel loved no matter what. He showers me with flowers, I get a bouquet at least once a month. Our first real date he brought me sunflowers. Last week, it’d been lilacs. I fingered the necklace he’d bought me our first Valentine’s Day. It was a simple gold chain with a heart. I never take it off. I wear it with everything, even my choker that I made that looks like branches are tightening around my neck. Just me being able to rub this heart reminds me that he loves me.

  I need that. I crave that. He is everything I need.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Perfect Mess

  “I don’t know.” I pace the deck of our house that overlooks a lake surrounded by trees. This fall I stripped and re-stained the wood out here, its rustic gray. My bare feet are impervious to the chill in the air. I hate this time of year, its dark for over six months and it’s hard for my mood not to match the somber sky. This house is Sebastian’s goal, not mine. We’ve lived here since he received a tremendous bonus after selling a project for one employer and he made his pregnant wife move just weeks before I was due. He wanted us to live in a house worthy of “our status.” I hadn’t understood what that meant then, I still don’t. Our status in his eyes is very important, but he’s never thought about what was real. His family. We are a façade that he created just so that he looked the part of whatever the fuck he thought the part needed to be. I have been the perfect wife. The perfect mother. The perfect pawn. The perfect disaster. The perfect basket case.

  I’d been fine in our two bedroom, one bath house in the Pearl District of Portland. The decorations had been either my own artwork or things purchased from lazy days searching through thrift stores while pregnant.

  The voice on the line is getting deeper and louder at the same time, it pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts of nothing. I don’t like this tone of voice, it’s hardly ever aimed at me.

  A sigh escapes me and I can’t figure out a response he wants from me, I know he’s frustrated, but I don’t or can’t come up with what I want or need to say.

  “Rebecca,” I hear across the miles that divides us. I long to be closer.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be there,” I agree and disconnect the phone.

  I stretch my arms out as far as they will go, the phone in my right hand. My eyes drift toward the back right of our property, needles dig into my eyes forcing me to close them. I turn and jog inside. I run through the kitchen and into the garage. I slip the phone back where I hide it.

  My knees are weak and my heart hurts. I wish I could go back to college when we looked at each other the same way, or at least I convinced myself we did. Sebastian and I had an argument this morning about my stuff. I wanted to move it into a room in the new house. He wants it all gone. I call a number for a storage facility as I rub my growing belly.

  “Hi, I need a storage unit.”

  “Okay.”

  “What sizes do you have?”

  “What size you need?”

  “A need a big one,” I answer.

  “We have availability,” the woman on the other line comments. “You got a credit card to save the space?”

  “Yes,” I answer and read out the number of my credit card.

  There is silence during which time I scroll through designs I’ve mocked up.

  “Declined,” she barks.

  “What?”

  “It says declined.”

  “But I don’t understand…” I stutter.

  “Honey, your card is done. It tells me to take your card. You got cash, come by here and you can pay for the year in advance.”

  I look at the card and shock reverberates through my brain. I call Sebastian.

  “Hey babe.” His voice is jovial. He must be in front of people.

  “Hey, do you have a minute? Our credit card was just declined.”

  “Which one?” he asks casually.

  “The Visa.”

  “Oh, that’s yours,” he comments and then says something to someone else.

  “What?” I ask because it has both of our names on it and I’m confused by his response. I ask because fear trickles into my bloodstream and pin pricks spread over my skin.

  “That’s not ours, I took my name off last year.”

  This is news to me.

  “Haven’t paid the bill since then.”

  My breath becomes shallow and sweat gathers on my upper lip. “Fuck,” I whisper. He pays all of our bills.

  “Love you,” he says only because he is in front of other people. “See you at home.” As the phone disconnects I glare at it as I fight the rage that is bubbling from where it sits simmering in my gut.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Award Winning Performance

  My daily routine helps me. I’ve had the same routine since Bash started attending pre-school. For ten years, I’ve dropped him off and gone to some sort of exercise class. It’s imperative to keep myself attractive. The afternoon is for chores around the house, volunteer events or ensure I’m always aware of what or sometimes who, my husband is doing.

  The sun is making a rare appearance today and I’m sitting, bundled in my Uggs, sweats and a blanket on the balcony off of our bedroom. I squint in the early morning sun as I text with Tiffany, his latest conquest. I got her number from his phone while he was sleeping. According to his phone, he just left his apartment. The normalcy of the fact my husband has his own apartment is staggering.

  I text his latest whore.

  Hi. You don’t know me, but I’m the wife of the man that just left. Please know that he’s married and has a son who adores him. Do you want to do this?

  It takes fifteen minutes before she responds. Some don’t respond at all. Those are usually the ones who will fuck him for months with disregard to his family.

  I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, he told me he was separated.

  I smile at this lie he tells many women.

  We’re not. He lies.

  Oh God I’m so sorry.

  Can I buy you a coffee?

  Another fifteen minutes go by and I know she’s wondering if I’m crazy, if I’m going to hurt her. That’s what I’d be doing while driving frantically away from the scene of the crime.

  How about Floyd’s on Morrison? I know this isn’t your fault. I’m just looking for a few answers.

  ok

  Her response comes and I squeal with glee inside. It’s been years since I’ve been able to gain some insight into w
hat he is telling his little conquests, or that I’ve cared. The cogs in my brain start working on how I can use this to help me.

  15 minutes?

  ok

  Jogging inside, I scan our room. The only furniture in our bedroom is a California king bed with a duvet covered in six shades of gray, which matches perfectly with the paint and curtains I selected for this room. I put on jeans, a cashmere sweater and Tory Burch riding boots. My hair falls in long blonde sheets down my back and hits right below my bra, my makeup perfect. As I head downstairs I hum the song I’d just been listening to while getting ready about a werewolf and chuckle at how my life was so similar to the song.

  Grabbing my purse and my phone from the kitchen counter, I look around to make sure nothing is out of order. I walk into the garage and think about how everything in my life is an illusion. I’m leaving my million dollar home, where I live with my kid and husband who couldn’t give a shit if I’m around or not, to meet my husband’s newest flame. I get into my SUV that screams pretentiousness and head to a coffee shop to meet Tiffany. Tiffany. I wonder how young she is.

  I don’t even remember the drive. Stepping out of my SUV my armor clicks into place. I’ll need it for this meeting.

  I see Tiffany instantly because she looks like a younger, less put together, me when I was in college. My husband is sick. She’s brunette with sexy librarian glasses and her clothes are colorful. I close my eyes gathering my resolve. He’s the one that told me to dye my fucking hair, to wear beige and gray. He’s the one…

  With fake confidence I walk up to the cashier and order a skinny latte. Then I sit down across from a girl trying to enter into the adult world. Unwrapping my scarf from my neck, I mimic her blank expression. When I was her age I was pregnant and married, facing a life with a man that I wanted to love me more than anything in the world.

  “Hi, Tiffany. I’m Rebecca Pryor.”

  It’s then that her jaw drops open and it takes her a few seconds to recover. “Hi.” Her eyes fall to her phone.

  “I know this must be extremely awkward for you, but think about how this must be for me.” My voice is soft, my smile open, inviting, not anything like I feel.

  “You’re not anything like I imagined,” she whispers.

  I cock my head to the side. “What did you imagine?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugs, “an old frumpy woman.”

  “Well, I am older than you,” I comment. The clerk nods at me that my coffee is ready. Getting up, I look at her with eyes that convey that I don’t blame her, all of my hate is toward my cheating husband. There is truth in this, but not much of it, my hate is enough to cover them both. I look at her and I see my old self. I want to shake her and tell her to run as far away from Sebastian as she can. I take my oversized mug full of latte back to the table. “So you work with Sebastian.”

  It’s not a question. This is how he meets most of the women he has sex with that aren’t his wife. He works a lot, so he doesn’t have a lot of time to prowl the bars for women. What happens when it’s over and the twenty-something cannot handle the break up? The higher-ups are contacted and Sebastian is let go so the company doesn’t have to deal with a sexual harassment suit. Most of the time he gets a severance to sweep the entire incident under the rug and Sebastian is onto the next company.

  She nods. A lone tear falls down her cheek and I’m mesmerized by it. She’s crying? She’s crying…she’s the one sleeping with a married man… my husband. There is violence in me. I look away from the table. There is a reproduction of a Van Gogh quote that I read over and over. I try to think about something that will distract me from this whore in front of me. I count to ten under my breath, while my hand goes to my neck where my necklace hangs under my shirt. When I look back at her, concern is etched in my face. I’m an actress. There are trophies lining my closet of all my performances.

  “Listen, I know this is all new to you. I just have a few questions and then I’ll let you get back to your day.”

  “Okay,” her voice is breathy and comes out shaky.

  “Tell me, is this the first time?”

  She shakes her head no.

  Fury.

  “When did it start?”

  “Last week,” she answers. “He said you were separated and you hadn’t had sex in months.”

  The fabrication of the breakdown of our marriage is laughable. I’ve wanted to separate for years and he’s made that impossible. My mouth clamps down the guffaw that is forming in my throat.

  “Well, he’s a habitual liar, he doesn’t seem to be able to help himself.” My mask of disapproval is in place, but if I were to be honest I don’t care anymore or do I? I don’t know and it scares me.

  “Are you going to leave him?” she asks, almost hopeful.

  “No honey, we don’t leave each other. It’s a pretty sad thing I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

  Her eyes widen at this admission. “Why not?”

  I close my eyes for one second and the delusion of my life clicks back into place. This lie...this is the one that’s hard. The one I’ve had to tell to so many of them. The lie that wraps around my throat and squeezes the life out of me.

  “Because we love each other. We have a son. Sometimes we walk in different directions, but we always come back to each other and you’ll be no different.”

  Now she’s blinking. She wanted to believe Sebastian. She’s more like me than I want to think about. “Listen, Tiffany. You’re not the first and you certainly won’t be the last.” Her hand flies to her mouth in surprise. “Do me a favor?” I take a big gulp of my latte. “Let me know if you’re going to stay with him. I just like to keep everyone on the same page.”

  “Ask him,” she whispers.

  “You’re very young.” I chastise. “You’re sleeping with a married man. You’re a horrible judge of character or maybe your character matches him. Either way, you have much to learn about life.” I put my coffee on the table slowly and leave my hands on the table for a few seconds. Then I get up and walk out the door, letting her take in all that she’ll never have. She’ll never have the three carat ring that ties her to Sebastian because he won’t let me go.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Flawless Appearances

  For the last month I’ve kept tabs on Sebastian with his Tiffany. It’s lasting a little longer than I expected, especially since I’m sure she told him about our little meeting. He’s hardly home and I can’t scrape up enough emotion to care.

  I’m sitting on the bleachers in left field at the middle school when I see my husband stroll onto the field in a fleece he’s pulled over his shirt and suit pants. I still admire his physique, he oozes a sex appeal that hangs in the air around him and clouds my judgment. I cock my head to the side to see him roll up his sleeves on his shirt under the fleece showing his bronze forearms. I’ve always been jealous of his coloring, his skin stays the same color year round. He always looks like he’s just getting back from vacation.

  After watching him warm up with Bash, I look down at my phone trying to distract myself with anything. I play Solitaire to pass the time so I don’t have to think, it’s been a good coping mechanism for my busy brain. The March afternoon sun is melting the ice remaining from a storm a few days ago. It’s pleasant, the warming sensation. I glance up quickly to see Sebastian shedding his fleece and throwing it over the fence. His button down shirt stretches over his broad chest and shoulders in a way that should make my mouth water. His hair is dark and the sun glints off of it. I put my hand over my eyes to shield them so that I can see his expression.

  “You’re so lucky.”

  I turn to the right looking at the person who spoke, but can’t see anything except a dark outline of a figure against the glow of the sun. I smile in the direction of the figure.

  “I mean your husband is such a good dad to come out here and practice with Bash.” The female voice says and I’m very aware of how lucky it appears I am. I work on perfecting the image every day. My h
usband actually wants to be involved in something my son is doing, most dads never come to practice. It’s selfish really, he misses baseball. I believe he’d volunteer to play with the team even if Bash didn’t play.

  I teeter between believing this as truth and knowing the deception of it as I stare in the direction of the voice. I give up on seeing who the person is. I turn my head back toward the practice field.

  “They both love baseball,” I say. This is an accurate statement, but leaves out the fact that I love baseball too. I love the sound of the ball hitting glove leather. I love the ping of the bat hitting the ball. I love the smell of fresh cut grass. Sebastian played in college up until his junior year. He told me that he decided to focus on his grades, but I learned later he got kicked off. I honestly cannot even remember why now, it’s just one of those fabrications that never meant much to me.

  I love you—this one meant something to me.

  No one will ever love you like I do—this one keeps my feet planted where I am because I’m so broken now no one will love me.

  I’ll be faithful—I fell for this time and time again.

  I’m sorry—was the worst of all the lies he told, because it allowed me to have hope.

  Sebastian lifts his hand in a wave at me in the outfield. I smile and wave back. My stomach flips as he begins to jog to where I’m sitting. I hate that he still does that to me, even though I hate him. Most of the time I can’t tell the difference between anxiety and being turned on, maybe they’re interchangeable. I’m well aware now how fucked up I am. I notice he changed out of his expensive shoes into tennis shoes for practice.

  “Hey gorgeous,” he says surveying the people around us.

  I get up and walk to the fence. He cups my chin and kisses me chastely. It’s all for show. I know he’s glancing over my shoulder to see who’s watching.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” I comment as I pull away from him. If I would’ve known I wouldn’t have wasted my time sitting here waiting. I don’t say that.