The Absolutely True Story of Us

by Melanie Marchande

  When was the last time he looked at me that way?

  As they share some private joke, they draw even closer. Pretty soon, he'll see me.

  What am I going to say to him?

  What am I going to do?

  He runs past.

  He runs past, looking at the girl beside him, and he doesn't see me.

  It's like I don't even exist.

  I could scream, I could run after him, but I don't. I just sit there for a moment, frozen in space, my heart pounding so hard I feel like it's shaking my entire body.

  I go home, because I don't know what else to do. I think about calling him, telling him to come back here immediately, but I don't. I want to see how long he'll be gone. I need to know, even though every passing minute feels like walking on shards of glass.

  I realize I still have the drunken noodles in my hand, and I put them into the fridge, carefully. It's tempting to throw them away, but they deserve more respect than that. No need to get them caught up in this mess.

  At one point, I actually manage to eat a few mouthfuls. My stomach is growling in spite of myself, because I don't feel hungry, but I know I need food. My head starts racing, heart leaping with all the possibilities I'd have as a single woman. I could move anywhere! Do anything!

  Of course, there's the small issue of having no money. That might be a problem.

  Despair sets in again, and then anger, and then a series of emotions that can only be described by Kelly Clarkson songs. By the time I hear Dean's key click in the lock, I've settled into a stage of icy calm that belies how fast my heart is pounding.

  He's talking almost before the door opens all the way. "I'll tell you what, if they don't do something about all the construction on the..."

  And that's when he sees my face.

  "What's wrong, Lissy?" he asks, looking concerned.

  "I stopped by your office tonight," I tell him, quietly. I watch as the words sink in, the color draining from his face. "Where were you?"

  "I don't know what you mean," he says, his voice very quiet. He's still just standing there, frozen, in the doorway. "I was...maybe I stepped out for a minute? The receptionist is new, she doesn't..."

  "Stop it!" I shout, jumping to my feet. "I saw you at the park with her. If you're not about to tell me the truth, the entire truth...then just get the fuck out."

  He sighs heavily, coming towards the sofa and sitting down. I hug my arms tighter around my torso and stare at him, waiting.

  "It's been too busy to go on my runs during lunch," he says. Slowly, deliberately, like he's measuring every word. "I was plateauing. I had to start working in longer distances somehow, but it just wasn't going to fit in. Not in the middle of the workday. So I started going after."

  And here it comes.

  "She's my running partner, Lissy," he says, finally. "Her name is Jessica. She's a friend from work. I knew you wouldn't...because of what happened with you and Andrew, I knew you wouldn't be okay with it."

  "And that's it?" I demand, jumping to my feet. "A running partner?"

  "That's..." he shakes his head. "It's not what you think, Lissy. I swear. I know how this looks."

  "I don't think you do." I'm trembling all over, but I won't back down. "I would have been fine with you having a running partner, and you know that. So why lie? Why hide it?"

  "It wasn't just that," he says, quietly. "She's a good friend. A close friend. She has been for a long time."

  I'm starting to piece it together, even through the lies. I can see it in his face. "Since before me."

  He nods, wincing a little. "After you told me about Andrew and what he did to you, I figured..." He exhales heavily. "I figured it was better if you just didn't know she existed. I didn't want you to..."

  "Hassle you?" I demanded. "Ask too many questions you didn't want to answer?"

  "Worry!" he almost shouts, standing up and pacing halfway across the room in a single breath. "I knew it would freak you out, okay? I was scared of losing you. But I didn't want to give up the best friendship of my life, either. I thought I could have both. She and I would just spend time together at work, and that would be it. That would be our time."

  The idea of him planning out this secret life, his special time with another woman while I sat at home alone - my stomach roils.

  He's starting to calm down a little and realize how it sounds, but it's too late to take the words back now. "It's not that I...it's just, she's different. You know? There's a reason why people have friends. It was never like that with us, because she's not you. But she always pushed me, and motivated me, and if it weren't for her, I probably would've just quit running." He rakes his hands through his hair. "I know I fucked up. I know. But please don't turn this into something it's not."

  "So you expect me to believe," I say, quietly, "that from the very beginning, you've been hiding a friendship you have with another woman...because...I just wouldn't get it?"

  "I know how it sounds," he says, again. He sounds tired.

  "Once again, I don't think you do." My mind is reeling. Could he possibly be telling the truth?

  No. No. Fuck no. I won't let this happen again. I learned my lesson the first time, didn't I? Of all the things I learned with Andrew, there's one that stands out as the most crucial.

  Trust your instincts.

  Trust your instincts.

  Trust your instincts.

  When Andrew brought his "friend" around, I ignored the ugly, jealous feeling in the back of my mind. I refused to let my head realize what my heart already knew. I was loving, supportive, and more than that, I trusted him. I trusted him, even when everybody else in the world told me it wasn't normal. That it wasn't right.

  She didn't have a lot of money, Andrew's girl. Neither did he, particularly, neither did any of us, but she was still in graduate school. She was always on the verge of some educational or financial disaster, and I remember coaching her through some of them, making her hot chocolate once. Mothering her, almost.

  Once she came around, Andrew stopped bothering me about when we were going to start a family. We were both so young, I just wanted to spend a little more time with him, get to know myself, save a little money. I didn't want to raise a baby in a one-bedroom apartment when I had to go down to the street to the laundromat. But this girl, this friend, she suddenly started occupying his time and energy. She was always in need of help or advice.

  Andrew's sister took one look at the two of them together, and she told me they were lovers.

  I told her she was crazy.

  Guess who's crazy now?

  After almost a year of this, being gaslighted, being made to feel like a third wheel in my own relationship, I couldn't take any more. I snooped.

  You have to understand, that's not me. I'm not that person. But when you feel your life start crumbling out from beneath your feet, you'll find you don't know what kind of person you are anymore.

  It was all laid out for me, in gory detail. They'd gone out to pick up some dinner together, and I stayed home. Yes, specifically to snoop. Yes, that's who he turned me into.

  She had been playing around on his laptop, and when I opened the screen, her accounts were still logged in. Fucking idiot. That stupid, naive little homewrecker. Thinking she was so special. Thinking he wouldn't someday up and leave her, as eagerly as he up and left me.

  And that was how it went down. When I confronted them, she ran away crying. I never saw her again. Andrew hurled accusations about what a terrible girlfriend I was, packed a bag, and disappeared.

  I told Dean all of this. The whole, devastating story. Now I know the wheels in his head must've been turning that whole time, thinking of his girl, Jessica, the woman on the side. Figuring out how difficult it would be to carry on with her, since I was so suspicious. Deciding how and when and where he would lie.

  I don't understand why men do these things. Do they get off on the secrecy? The lies? He could've just had a life with Jessica if he wanted, if they weren't both too
cowardly to pursue it. I guess it's easier to keep things casual. No question of going too far or moving too fast if at least one of you stays in another relationship. No moving in together, no dealing with broken dishwashers and sick pets - just sexy, stolen out-of-town weekends. No long-term commitments, only wishes and promises hanging on "wouldn't it be nice."

  What's not to like? It's low stakes. You never get sick of each other, always longing to be together.

  It's a honeymoon that never ends.

  I guess I do understand it. Dean, unlike Andrew, actually does try a little bit. He keeps trying to convince me that he's telling me the truth, but there's no emotion behind his words. He tells me he'll introduce me to her, as if that would help. As if that would somehow indicate that his penis has never been inside her. As if that's even what matters. Whatever they've done, he feels something for her that he tried to keep a secret from me. That means something. It means more than anything he could tell me in words.

  Over the next few weeks I watch him fade away. Everything we had between us, everything we did, the promises he made, all of it dissipates like nothing. His feelings for me aren't strong enough. Most likely, they never were. He says he's sorry but his voice is flat, emotionless, like he's already given up. The man who once said he'd fight for me, take a bullet for me - now he won't even look me in the eye.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Darts

  I've made a resolution not to sleep with Dean again.

  It's not going well so far.

  "If this is what you wanted, you should've told me," he growls in my ear. I gasp as he yanks my arms behind my back, his hands grasping so tightly around my wrists that it aches.

  It started with a conversation in the kitchen. How it ended up in the bedroom is not exactly clear, but I can't argue with the results.

  "I didn't think -"

  "You thought wrong." His teeth sink into my neck and I moan, shuddering, knees weakening, melting at his touch. It was never like this before. I never knew it could be like this. I thought it was all fantasies, in those books - but right now, I feel like I really am Lana.

  "Say it," he rumbles in my ear. "Tell me you love being my whore."

  I asked for this, by the way. That's the effect he has on me.

  "I love it," I pant, because...well.

  "I'm going to fuck you," he whispers. "Until you scream. Don't try to fake it - I'll know. I want you shattering to pieces. I want your throat so raw you won't recognize your own voice."

  What the hell's gotten into him? Who made him this way? As conflicted as I feel about it, I kind of want to find the person and kiss them on the mouth.

  Or maybe punch them in the stomach. At this point, it's not entirely clear.

  By the way - yes. I do scream.

  More than once.

  When he catches me making some special sore-throat tea afterwards, he can't stop smiling.

  ***

  Dean

  I can't believe the mess I've gotten myself into.

  Tonight, Lissy's family is split down gender lines. The girls are seeing a Broadway show, and the guys are all trying to kill each other with paintballs. I begged off, saying I had to work late. Yeah, I know. After all the trouble that got me into, you'd think I would've given up the lie. But it works so well.

  The Wardens always seem so friendly and accommodating, until you realize they have you in sheer numbers and they'll just steamroll over anyone and anything that doesn't fit their plans. But at least the Warden men appreciate a good solid work ethic, so they only called me "chicken" five or six times. I don't really dislike paintball, but I do dislike the idea of being repeatedly shot in the balls by my fake girlfriend's brothers.

  I'm at a bar instead, the kind of dive that tourists don't set foot in. Even if it was close to paintball, there's no risk of running into them here. It's been a favorite of mine for years.

  The bartender almost pulls me a lager without asking, but I get a bourbon instead, because I need something that'll hit me hard and fast. Beer takes too long. My thoughts are too sharp, and I need to dull them as quickly as possible.

  A guy slides into the stool that's two down from mine, eyes drifting over the taps like he's about to choose from a fancy-ass wine list. I kind of snicker to myself, turning back to my drink.

  "Hey, do you have the time?"

  I glance up at him, pulling my phone out of my pocket. "Uh, six-fifteen."

  "Thanks. I left my phone in a cab." He scowls a little, pulling out his wallet. "Called the company, but..."

  "Yeah, you're never getting that back." I manage to suppress another snicker. "Welcome to the Big Apple."

  "I actually live here," he says. "First time that's ever happened to me, if you can believe it."

  "Wow. Charmed life."

  "Tell me about it." He lifts his glass. I didn't pay attention to him ordering, but it's also some kind of brown liquid. Possibly the same one I'm drinking. "Cheers."

  "Cheers." I finish the last swallow and set my glass down. "I hope you're not trying to hit on me, because I don't swing that way. No offense."

  "In this place?" He grins, looking around him at the sad, abandoned pool table and sticky wood paneling. "No, me neither. Just trying to kill some time in a place that won't blow out my eardrums."

  Nodding, I pick up my second drink. "I never really got into the club scene."

  "Don't. Trust me." He shakes his head. "Not worth it. The girls are nice, don't get me wrong, and it's fun while it lasts. But eventually you wake up at three P.M. on a Saturday and you realize you're spending almost all of your leisure time rubbing up against sweaty strangers and paying five dollars for a generic bottled water. That's no way to live."

  "Could be worse," I chuckle. "At least you're doing something other than working."

  "I wish I was working," he replies ruefully. "What do you do?"

  "Marketing." I swallow another mouthful, relishing the burn.

  "No shit, Don Draper!" I'm getting a little tired of people calling me that, but I guess it could be worse. He pulls something out of his pocket and rolls it in my direction. "Sell me this pen."

  I laugh, grabbing it and shoving it into my own pocket.

  "Hey," he says, after a minute. "That's my pen."

  "Not anymore," I tell him. "How much will you give me for it?"

  He groans. "Okay, I set myself up for that. Good job. I really believe you're in marketing. Give me my pen back."

  "Sales and marketing are two different things anyway," I point out, rolling it back to him. "I sell ideas, not pens."

  "Same difference," he says. "Either way, it's just about making somebody think you care about their needs."

  That one gets a bitter laugh. "Sounds like something my ex-girlfriend would say."

  "She doesn't like sales, huh?"

  "She always found me to be a little...disingenuous." I shrug. "I mean, in her defense, I guess I'm kind of a liar."

  He shrugs. "Aren't we all?"

  "Yeah, I guess so." I look down at my drink to realize I've drained it again without even realizing. The guy at the bar hops out of his seat and wanders over to the wall, where a dusty, disused dartboard is hanging precariously from a bent nail.

  He grabs a dart and yanks it out of the board, then turns to me. "Want a game? We could bet to make things interesting."

  "Loser pays both tabs," I suggest.

  "Excellent." He proceeds to pull out the rest of the darts. "As long as you won't stab me in the back."

  "I'm a liar, not a backstabber," I insist.

  "You know, if you keep saying that, I'm going to insist on knowing what you lied about." He steps a few paces back and stares down the dartboard. "It's obviously something specific. You're feeling guilty. Absolve yourself, my child. I almost thought about becoming a priest once, so I'm well-qualified."

  I laugh at him. "How about this. If you win, I'll tell you the story."

  "That's fair. But I'll make it more interesting. For every shot I get
that's closer to the bulls-eye than yours, I get one question to narrow it down."

  He nails the bullseye. Things aren't looking good for me.

  I take my shot, and of course it goes wide.

  "Okay," he says. "So there's only three things people lie to their girlfriends about. Other women, money problems, and drug problems."

  "I don't think that's remotely true," I point out, but he keeps going.

  "Tell me which one it was."

  I sigh. "Another woman. But not like that."

  "Not like that, you say?" He nearly nails the center of the board again. "I didn't say what that was, but I'm curious now."

  "You're obviously going to win, so, fine." I shrug. "I had this friend. A close friend. She happened to be a woman."

  The guy nods, like he understands perfectly.

  "Then I met my ex," I go on. "One of the first things she told me about herself was that her last boyfriend totally crushed her, by cheating on her with a 'friend.' Even brought her around the house, basically welcomed her into the family and acted like it was all above-board. Balls of steel. So right away, I knew it was going to be a problem. I didn't want to give up either one of them, so...I lied."

  It feels strange to rehash the story, but not necessarily in a bad way. The guy folds his arms across his chest and nods slowly. "And let me guess - when she found out..."

  "Right." I sigh. "She assumed the worst, of course, like you would. I mean, who keeps a female friend secret from their girlfriend unless...? But it felt like the only option I had at the time. I knew, even if my ex said she was okay with it at the time, eventually she wouldn't be. There would always be this fear and suspicion. I wanted her to..." I laugh a little bit at myself. "I know this sounds ridiculous, but I wanted her to trust me."

  "You," the guy says, pointing his finger at me and shaking his head, "need another drink."

  I have to agree with him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A Hill of Beans

  Lissy