“I’m so sorry, Stephen.”
“I told you, don’t be. Seriously.”
“I can’t imagine that, though.”
“Dare I ask if your parents are divorced?”
She shook her head. “They’re not, but they probably should be.”
“Gotcha.”
“But unfortunately, I doubt that will ever happen.”
“So you want them to get divorced?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s your business.”
She stopped and turned to face me on the sidewalk, her expression sharp. “If I tell you this, you have to promise not to tell a soul.”
“Swear to God.” I mime sealed my lips.
“And I don’t even know why I’m telling you, because I barely know you and I literally haven’t told anyone. Anyone.”
“I can keep a secret.”
“What’s up with this weather?” She rubbed her arms through her sweater. A gust of wind swept a piece of shiny brown hair across her forehead.
“It is chilly tonight, isn’t it? I would offer you my jacket, but I don’t have one.”
“I thought Southern California was supposed to be warm, like, all the time.”
“It can get a little cool at night in the winter months,” I said. “Especially since we’re close to the mountains. Do you want to go inside somewhere? Just to talk?”
“I don’t know. It’s late.” She glanced away. “All right. Just for a few minutes.”
We walked toward my dorm. Evan spent most nights at his girlfriend’s, so I doubted he’d be home. When we got to my room Lucy sat down on the couch and I took a half-empty bottle of white wine out of the mini fridge. I was already feeling fucked up, but being around Lucy made me crave another drink. I checked my phone while I poured the wine into two mugs. No texts from Diana, even though I’d left another, even nicer bouquet of white lilies and another, even longer handwritten letter on her doorstep that morning.
“Liquid courage,” I said, handing her the wine. “Now, spill.”
I plopped down on the couch and felt thoroughly stoned, like I was sinking right into the cushions. The air in the room suddenly felt hazy and languid. Pot kind of debilitates me.
Lucy took a sip and looked at me, the lower half of her face spreading into a smile. “It’s funny, but I feel better. I haven’t even told you yet and I feel better.”
“So tell me and you’ll feel much better.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“I thought you were cold. I turned the heat on. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” I watched her peel off her goofy red sweater and toss it on the floor. I could see her nipples through her thin cotton shirt. A black bra strap was visible over the exposed part of her shoulder blade. I felt a warm judder between my legs.
“Tell me, Lucy.”
“All right,” she started, launching into a long, winding story about her mother that I did a poor job following, because her cheeks were too flushed and her nipples were too hard and I wanted to tear her flimsy cotton shirt off using just my eyes, because I was too stoned to move.
It was Lucy’s mother who was the criminal, I understood as I watched her speak, her mouth moving quickly, the anger intensifying in her voice as the story unfolded. I didn’t catch all the details but I do understand how it is to despise your own mother, so I responded with another anecdote about my psychotic wreck of a maternal figure, providing a sense of kinship that seemed to console her. I did my best to keep my eyes fixed on Lucy’s—solid eye contact gives the impression of a committed attention span. It was easy to watch Lucy, easy and torturous at once to imagine her naked body under that wispy little shirt.
“Stephen,” she was saying. “You really have to promise not to tell anyone what I just told you. No one knows this about my mother. I didn’t even tell my sister or my best friend or my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.”
“I’m the first to be let in on this secret? I’m honored. And I won’t tell. I promise.”
“I have no idea why I told you. Maybe because you’re so far removed from the situation; it’s safe.”
“Or because I lured you to my dorm room with chardonnay?”
“Ugh, I know.” Lucy gazed into her mug and frowned. “This is what CJ drinks. Chardonnay.”
“CJ?”
“That’s my mom’s name. That’s what I call her now.”
“So after this whole . . . incident, you demoted her to her first name?”
“It just sort of happened. She hates it, but I hate her.”
“Bold move. I like it. Maybe I should start referring to my mom as Nora.”
“Oh, you should.” She tipped her wineglass in my direction. “It’s very therapeutic.”
“I bet I can get my siblings on board.”
“How many siblings do you have?”
“Two. An older brother and a younger sister.”
“God. I’m so sorry about your mother, Stephen. That must be so hard for all of you. I feel like you’ve gone through worse than I have.”
I became aware of Lucy’s stance toward me softening; I could hear the concern in her voice and could see the compassionate expression forming in the contours of her face. The truth was I didn’t care much about my mother’s dysfunction—I rarely had to deal with her anymore, and when she did have an episode that involved the family, I found her behavior to be more embarrassing than emotionally draining. But it was working like a charm; Lucy was beginning to feel a bond between us, a mutual empathy that translated into a newfound affection. And she was starting to trust me. Like I knew she would.
“Which experience is worse is irrelevant,” I said slowly, taking extra care to make sense in my weed-clouded musings, especially since I was fuzzy on the specifics of Lucy’s story. “Point is, I don’t want Nora’s actions to define me. And you shouldn’t let CJ’s define you.”
“I know. You’re right.”
“And don’t keep everything bottled up inside.”
“You sound like my therapist.”
“Your therapist?”
“My parents made me see a therapist after I started calling my mom CJ.”
“Oy. My dad has tried to get me to go to a shrink so many times about my mom. I refuse.”
“It’s dumb.”
“It’s a waste of money. I’d much rather vent about my problems to friends than a random old geezer with a bullshit certification. But in your case . . . you’d rather tell no one.”
“I just couldn’t. I can’t explain why. It was like . . . if I said it out loud . . .”
“Then it would become real?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes landed on mine. “Exactly.”
“But your boyfriend, you couldn’t have even told him?”
“Ex-boyfriend. I don’t know, he wouldn’t have understood something like that. His family is so cookie-cutter. He wouldn’t have known what to do and would’ve just acted bizarre and tense.”
“I know people like that. Is that why you broke up?”
“No.” Lucy yawned and placed her empty mug on the coffee table. “We broke up because I didn’t love him.”
“Ah.” Silence hung in the air between us. God, it makes me uncomfortable when people talk about love like it’s some concrete emotion, something you can or can’t feel. The be-all and end-all of human existence. As though life without it is nothing.
“Hey, Stephen?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so tired.”
“I can walk you home.” I felt like I’d been suctioned to the couch for hours talking to Lucy, the pot brownies distorting space and time. Their effects were finally wearing off, and I forced myself to stand.
“Maybe I could stay here,” Lucy said delicately. “Just to sleep.”
“Sure.” I nodded, surprised, my mind already jumping ahead of me, my dick two steps ahead of my mind. “You want a T-shirt?”
“Thanks.”
I walk
ed over to my closet and grabbed a clean New York Giants tee. “Here you go.”
“Eli Manning. Number ten.” She grinned.
“I knew you’d like that one.”
I watched her turn away and remove her shirt and bra, exposing her long, slim back. Her skin looked as smooth as caramel, and I desperately wanted to reach out and touch her. But I restrained myself, holding my breath and forcing thoughts of Wrigley’s balls again. As she slipped the T-shirt over her bare chest, took off her jeans and climbed underneath the covers, I knew I wouldn’t have to wait much longer. After a girl willingly gets into your bed, the rest is history.
PART
TWO
11
LUCY
AUGUST 2017
“What do you think?” Bree spins around, revealing her ivory Monique Lhuillier wedding dress, the sheath style hugging her close. Tasteful lace with a V-cut back that dips low, accentuating her thin figure. Bree is a stick, always has been, but she eats whatever she wants. She’s one of those girls who’s actually not lying when she says she’s thin because of a fast metabolism. To say I’m jealous is an understatement. Surrounded by her bridal party in one of the Donovans’ guest bedrooms, Bree is trying on her dress for the final time.
“Meh.” Pippa shrugs. “You can find a better one.”
“Pippa.” Bree frowns. “The wedding is tomorrow.”
“I’m kidding, lighten up. You look insane.” Pippa flips her shiny dark hair, enviably long as always.
The other bridesmaids, Bree’s cousin and two childhood friends from Ohio, flash Pippa disapproving stares. They don’t know Pippa and they don’t know her sense of humor. Pippa is not everyone’s cup of tea.
“It’s perfect, B.” I nod. Bree does look insane. Her dress is feminine and delicate and elusive. It’s so Bree.
“It’s so you,” Jackie says, reading my mind as usual.
Lauren, the hyper wedding planner, looks like she’s on ecstasy.
“You look . . . I mean . . . just unbelievable.” Lauren’s face does something weird, and she looks like she might cry. We don’t even know Lauren. Her enthusiasm is superfluous. I don’t like her.
My phone dings in my purse, and Lauren looks at me like I’m the most disruptive person she’s ever laid eyes on.
I sneak a peek at the text.
DANE: Miss u babe. What color undies u wearin? :-)
Lauren is still peering at me. I shove my phone back into my bag and stifle a yawn.
“Luce, are you tired?” Bree asks as Pippa helps her out of her wedding dress. She puts on her outfit for the luncheon—white silk shorts and a navy silk top. Even though we were roommates for three years, I still can’t help but observe Bree’s body when it’s uncovered. Her thighs are so thin I think I could fit my whole hand around one of them.
“Kinda tired,” I say. “I should’ve slept on the train.”
“You can never sleep on trains, though.” Bree gives me a sympathetic look. “I would say nap before the lunch, but I don’t think there’s time.”
“There isn’t.” Pippa looks at her watch. “It’s almost one.”
“I’ll be fine.” I squeeze Bree’s hand. “Don’t worry.”
The bridal luncheon takes place on the Donovans’ terrace, overlooking the swimming pool and acres of lush green grass. Lauren and her crew have set up round tables underneath the pergola, each draped in a white linen tablecloth and decorated with lilac hydrangeas and matching lilac place settings. On the bottom of each napkin Bree & Evan: August 26, 2017 is printed in an identical hue of lilac.
“I’ve never seen her so fucking happy,” Pippa says, sinking down into one of the cushioned wicker chairs. “And I’ve never seen so much fucking lilac.”
“She deserves it, though.” Jackie sits next to her, twirling a piece of butter-yellow hair around her pointer finger.
“Deserves what?”
“Happiness?”
“Of course she does,” Pippa agrees. She grabs a bottle of Veuve out of the ice bucket next to the table and pops the cork, filling our flutes. Bree’s cousin shoots Pippa a disapproving look again—none of the other tables have opened their champagne yet. But I’m grateful for Pippa, because I really need a drink, and I down half the glass before she tops me off.
“I’m just surprised that out of all my best friends, Bree is the first one to lock it down.” Jackie picks at a clump of mascara stuck to one of her eyelashes. She hates wearing makeup.
“I’m not,” Pippa says. “This is what Bree wants. She came to college a virgin. She’s a good girl. Of course she’s going to settle down as soon as possible.”
“But she does love Evan,” Jackie says.
“Of course she does,” Pippa agrees. “I love Evan, too. He’s a total catch. I’m not saying she settled for him. I just think she wants to be settled. Think about it—they’ve only been dating for three years.”
“Less than three years,” I say, because I know exactly when they started dating, almost down to the minute.
“Right.” Pippa nods. “And they got engaged after only a year and a half.”
“I thought it would be you, honestly,” I tell Pippa.
“Me?”
“I thought you’d be the first of us to get married.”
“Are you kidding? I just turned twenty-six. I don’t want to get married right now.” She says it an octave too loud. Lauren looks over and frowns.
“The last guy I dated was addicted to painkillers,” Pippa continues, ignoring Lauren’s disapproving glare. “And he stole my trazodone. And he told me I was fat.”
“Derek told you that?” I ask. Pippa had recently dated a self-destructive ex-Hobart lacrosse player with a drug-slash-kleptomania problem.
“Yes, he did. Isn’t that nice? So based on the men I’ve been selecting, I’d say marriage is not on the horizon.”
Mini quiches are placed in front of us. Course one. My stomach is growling, despite the Adderall. I carve out one crusty, carb-filled bite, and it takes everything in my power to lay my fork down after that. I pour more champagne into my flute.
“Lucy, are you okay?” Jackie whispers. I can’t help but notice she’s already halfway through her quiche. I’ll never stop noticing what other people eat.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You’re barely eating.”
“I have a stomachache.”
Jackie rolls her wide blue eyes and turns to talk to one of Bree’s Ohio friends. I’ve lied to Jackie about food too many times to count, so naturally she doesn’t believe me. I’ve gotten better about eating, really—but wearing a strapless lilac bridesmaid dress in front of 250 people is a diet emergency.
Still, my lie to Jackie is only a half-lie, because I do feel sick. I’ve felt nervous-sick about this wedding for months. I chew the edge of my thumb, a habit CJ frequently reminds me is disgusting.
Bree flashes across the terrace in her white shorts. She makes eye contact with us and smiles, then sits down at the adjacent table, next to Evan’s mother. Her almost mother-in-law. I can’t help but agree with Pippa about marriage. I don’t think I could be somebody’s wife right now.
Having lived with Bree when she started dating Evan and when he proposed, I’ve seen this relationship all the way through. I watched Evan come into her life and brighten it at the same time that my own life was collapsing in my hands.
“Are you okay?” Jackie whispers again. “It’s Stephen, isn’t it?” Her ability to read my mind can get annoying.
Stephen. The sound of the name doesn’t make my skin prickle as intensely as it used to, but it holds a power over something inside of me. It still evokes the remarkably lucid image of his arm hooked in Jillian’s two months after our breakup. Bree had dragged me to Baird’s New York alumni Christmas party at the Princeton Club and there he’d been, alive and well.
I’ll tell you later, I mouth to Jackie. This is Bree’s weekend, and I promised myself I wasn’t going to ruin it by being overly dramatic about t
he past.
I glance down at the lilac napkins again. Bree & Evan. It was never supposed to be Bree and Evan. I exhale too loudly, wishing for the billionth time that I could accept that Bree getting what she got shouldn’t mirror what I didn’t get, and everything happens for a reason and blah, blah, blah.
One of the caterers clears the quiches and sets down plates of kale salad, which I’ll allow myself to eat freely. She gestures to the empty Veuve bottle.
“Would you ladies like another bottle of champagne?”
“Yes,” Pippa and I say at the same time.
* * *
The first time I slept with Stephen, I hadn’t planned on it happening. I would’ve been less shocked if CJ had stopped highlighting her hair.
It was the morning after the Ugly Christmas Sweater party at the football house, and I had spent the night in his dorm room. I had meant for it to be platonic—really. CJ had been calling me, even though I wasn’t answering, and finally she texted me that it was urgent, which sent a stab of panic into my chest, because I thought it might be something to do with my dad or Georgia or our yellow lab, Hickory. But when I slipped into the kitchen, it was only to hear CJ blabber on about a surprise trip she was planning for my dad for his fiftieth birthday. Did I think they should go to Antigua or Lyford Cay, because even though Lyford was more accessible, the Pratts and the Delanos were going to be in Antigua, so . . .
I wanted to tell her the truth, that it didn’t matter because they were either going to be drinking rum punches at the Lyford Cay Club or the Mill Reef Club, and if it wasn’t the Pratts or the Delanos they were sitting beside in cushioned chaises, it would be a fair-haired couple in golf outfits from Greenwich who looked just like them. My family took a lot of trips, but it was always to places like Lyford or Mill Reef or Bermuda or Caneel Bay—gated communities of privileged country clubbers exactly like us. I enjoyed those trips until middle school, when some part of me realized it was disturbing to travel two thousand miles to a place where everyone was wearing the same exact Roberta Freymann tunic. I found it horrifying, the idea that people can travel their whole lives without really going anywhere. It was around that time I decided I would be someone who really went places—exotic, uncultivated, uncomfortable places.
Tell Me Lies Page 8