The Absolutely True Story of Us

by Melanie Marchande

Yes, I sent Jack on a reconnaissance mission. It's scummy, but I feel pretty scummy these days. I know Jack will get the truth out of him. He always gets to the bottom of things.

  It wasn't hard to plan. I know where his favorite dive bar is, and I already know he's got nothing against lying about "working late." I actually didn't expect my first attempt to be successful, but Jack texted me that he'd spotted him, and he was going to work. I hadn't heard anything since, and that was almost an hour ago.

  I'm home from my theater night out with the girls, during which Tabby got a little too tipsy and asked me a series of embarrassingly intimate questions about Dean that I refused to answer, and the man himself is still not home. When someone rings the buzzer, I hurry to answer, wondering if maybe he lost his key.

  But it's not Dean, it's Jack.

  Oh boy.

  "Lissy," he says when he walks through the door, unsmiling. "Might want to sit down."

  ***

  I stare at Jack, wishing a chasm would open up in the floor and swallow me whole.

  "Are you sure?" I repeat.

  He's just confirmed everything I'd simultaneously hoped and feared.

  "He had no reason to lie to me," Jack points out. "And besides, you know how I am at reading people."

  "It's a little bit scary," I admit, as my mind races for any other explanation. One that doesn't involve me being so wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.

  He's already consoled me, informed me how I shouldn't beat myself up about it, but what the hell am I supposed to do now? Things are just too fucked up between me and Dean. Even if it's really nobody's fault, I can't let go of it.

  I'm feeling panicky, like the walls are closing in. Jack is worried and he wants to make sure I'm okay, but I need to be alone. I manage to reassure him and shoo him away, and then I sit down on the bed and I think.

  I want M.

  I don't care anymore. About the anonymity, the hostility, or the fact that he's, well, M. He's the only thing in my life that actually makes some kind of twisted sense. He's right about me. My need for a release, to play at being under somebody's thumb for a while so I don't have to worry about everything.

  I don't even care if he's disappointed when he meets me. I have to take that risk. I have to meet the man who makes me feel so...

  Alive.

  It's a terrible cliché, I admit to myself, as I pack an overnight bag and leave a note for Dean. It just says I'll be back in the morning, and not to tell my family I'm gone. Not that I think he would, but you can't be too careful.

  I have no idea how long it'll take M to get to me. I'm afraid to ask. I'm on the verge of losing my nerve already, and when my taxi finally pulls up to the hotel he named, my heart's pounding in my throat.

  I get a room for the night, and I can only imagine what the hotel clerk's thinking when I hand over my ID and she sees that I'm local. The elevator ride takes forever, opening the door takes forever, and when I hear the heavy thunk behind me as it closes, I wonder what the hell I'm doing.

  I can't meet this stranger. Not here. That's not even following basic internet safety rules.

  Quickly, I text Jack. I tell him where I am and what I'm doing, and promise to text him a picture of me with the guy so he'll know he can't just murder me and get away with it.

  Romantic, Jack comments. I almost laugh, but I can't quite bring myself to manage it.

  Then I sit there, and I open up the anonymous messaging app, and I wait.

  I try to work up the nerve. My heart is pounding, my throat dry, and my fingers hover over the buttons. It's so easy. Just three little numbers. He said he'd come. I'm pretty sure he wasn't kidding.

  Unless he was, of course. Unless this is some new mindfuck game.

  I have to feel out the situation better. Bracing myself for a snarky reply, I type:

  I'm at the hotel

  He responds almost instantly.

  M: That's not a room number, darling.

  I know. I need to make sure you're serious about this.

  M: When am I ever not?

  Constantly. Like all the time. Your job is being sarcastic.

  M: Not a job. A hobby. Why are you wasting my time? Either you want to see me, or you don't.

  How long would it take you to get here?

  M: You won't need to stay more than one night.

  That's not what I asked.

  M: That's the only answer you get.

  I need to know this is real.

  Shit. Did I really just type that?

  M: That's up to you, isn't it?

  He's giving me an out. I have to take it.

  I mean, I need to know that you want it to become something else.

  Nope. That's way worse.

  M: You sound like you're in crisis mode. What's really going on?

  You actually want to talk about my problems?

  M: Anything's better than talking about our "relationship."

  Fair enough, M.

  I think I fucked up.

  M: You're going to have to be more specific.

  With Damien. Obviously.

  M: So you run to me. Of course. All right, listen. As a wise man once said, something something, hill of beans, problems of two people, blah blah blah, you'll regret it tomorrow, go back to him.

  It's not like that. He's not going to forgive me.

  What the hell am I doing? M could turn around and post this on his blog...just like all the sexting we've done...okay, so maybe, for some incomprehensible reason, he's actually taken a liking to me. Or maybe he's setting me up for a spectacular fall.

  M: What did you do?

  He thinks I don't trust him. And he's right. I don't trust anybody.

  M: You trust me.

  Oh, fuck. Do I?

  I don't trust you. That would be insane.

  M: It would be, wouldn't it? And yet, here we are.

  Indeed. Here we are.

  M: You wouldn't have let any of this happen if you didn't trust me. Trust isn't about never being afraid somebody will fuck you over, it's about deciding to sext them and tell them all the intimate details of your life anyway.

  You know if you wrote a motivational book, I would definitely buy it.

  M: For you? Free review copy.

  I love you.

  I've sent it before I can even stop and think about it. It's a joke. Obviously, it's a joke. Because you don't fall in love with snarky strangers over the internet, even if you have seen some very flattering pictures of their penis.

  It takes a while for him to answer.

  M: Of course you do. I'm very lovable.

  Thank fuck, he gave me an out. Why is my heart pounding so fast?

  I guess the problem is that I don't know how to act like I trust people, then.

  M: Once you've been fucked over enough times, you just have to go with your instincts. Probably they'll be wrong most of the time, especially yours, but what the hell else do we have to go on?

  Thanks. Great talk.

  M: Think about it. Did you start sexting me because it seemed like a good idea after a lot of careful consideration, or did you do it because I turned you on so much you couldn't help yourself?

  Well, that's really not accurate, but I take your point.

  M: Someday, Lana, and I truly believe this, someday you'll meet a man in real life who makes you just as miserable and horny as I make you. And it'll feel right. You won't be able to help yourself. You'll have to trust him, because your libido cannot be denied.

  Thanks. That's...really sweet, actually.

  And then, in the back of my mind, unbidden: but I already found you.

  I can't possibly explain the connection I've developed with M, or why it feels the way it does. Weirdly right, considering how incredibly wrong it is. I have to keep reminding myself that he's a stranger, because he's never really felt like one.

  M: I can be surprisingly sweet. Just don't let it slip through your fingers when he comes along. It has to be soon. Third time's the charm, rig
ht?

  Suddenly, my phone starts ringing. It's Dean. I want to decline the call, but he's probably just going to worry if I don't pick up.

  "What the hell's going on, Lissy?" he demands. "You can't just disappear on me like this if we're supposed to be in a relationship. I told your family you've got a dinner meeting, you know they're going to flip out if they know you're out of town."

  "I'm not out of town," I tell him. "I was just meeting a friend. I wasn't sure I'd be home tonight, but..."

  He's silent for a few minutes. "Okay," he says, finally. I refuse to explain myself any further, daring him to ask. To care. To admit that it's not just sex between us. But all I hear on the other end of the phone is calm, steady breathing.

  "Dean?" I don't know what I'm about to say, but if I don't say it now, I'm going to lose my nerve.

  "I'm here."

  "I'm sorry I was a shitty girlfriend."

  It comes out before I have a chance to rethink it. I stand up, pace the length of the room, and then sit down again on the end of the bed.

  "You weren't a shitty girlfriend," Dean says, quietly. "I'm sorry I lied."

  A very long silence stretches between us.

  "I know," I tell him, finally. "I just wish..."

  "Lissy," he says softly. "Come home."

  I do.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Third Time's the Charm

  I can hardly look at Dean, let alone talk to him. My mood swings wildly from hating him for lying to hating myself for not believing him when he told the truth. How am I supposed to wrap my head around this?

  Something's been bothering me, and I can't quite put my finger on it. I feel strange and unbalanced in the back of my mind, like I've been missing something important.

  I keep coming back to what M said to me, after his little inspirational speech, and right before Dean called.

  Third time's the charm.

  That's what he said. Third time's the charm. Because there was Andrew, and then there was Dean, and...

  But M doesn't know about any of that. I never told him about Andrew. Granted, over half of our conversations happened while I was drunk, but we didn't start talking about my personal life until Dean moved in.

  My throat starts to go dry. I pull up my phone and begin to scroll through the message history, fumbling for a search function or something in this stupid app. But how will I even find it? I wouldn't have mentioned him by name.

  You didn't mention him at all, and you know it.

  But what does that mean?

  I don't know what else to do, so I call Jack.

  It rings five times before he picks up.

  "This better be good," he warns me. "I just bought drinks for two models from Switzerland. And I'm pretty sure they're twins."

  "How can you only be pretty sure? Ugh. Never mind. Listen, is there something you need to tell me?"

  There's a moment of baffled silence on the other end, then he speaks up again, in the most exasperated tone imaginable. "Twins, Lissy."

  "Possible twins," I remind him. "Anyway, don't have a twin-threesome. It's weird. I know it's a hot fantasy, but think about what you're really doing."

  "They're probably not twins," Jack says. "Are you going to tell me why you're cockblocking me?"

  I sigh. "Look, have you been secretly texting me on an anonymous messaging app for the last few months? To mess with me?"

  There's another moment of silence, and then he bursts out laughing.

  "Ladies, excuse me for a minute," I hear him say, distantly, as if he's moved his phone away from his mouth. Then, louder: "Okay. Honey. What the fuck is going on with you right now?"

  "I knew it couldn't really be you." I'm chewing on the edge of my fingernail, a nervous habit that only comes out when I'm truly at my wit's end. "So, like, you know how you sometimes meet random people online and decide it might be a good idea to have hot, anonymous sexting with a total stranger?"

  "Sure," he says, reasonably.

  "Well, I did that. Except it wasn't quite some random stranger. It was this guy. He reviews romance novels. He's totally anonymous, he goes by the name M."

  "You're fucking James Bond's boss. Got it. So where does the drama start?"

  "Be serious for a second, Jack. He's one of those snark-reviewers. You know. He tears books apart for fun. People love it. And honestly, it's pretty damn funny until you're one of the people he's laying into."

  "Wait, wait, wait." Jack's laughing again. "Are you telling me that you're having an online affair with a guy who makes fun of your books? I knew you were a little bit of a masochist, but..." He whistles softly. "My apologies for snapping at you earlier. You do not disappoint."

  "That's not the reason why!" I insist. "He's really...he really knows how to push my buttons. In a good way."

  "Sure," Jack says. It sounds like he's chewing on his straw. "Must just be a coincidence that you find him so hot."

  Damn it. Jack's onto something, and I hate that. It's usually bad news for my sanity.

  "Anyway, that's not the point." I sigh again, more heavily this time.

  "Hold on, it gets better?" Jack is grinning, I can tell. "Mind if I put you on speaker?"

  "I will reach through this phone and murder you with my bare hands," I warn him.

  "Just kidding. It's too loud in here anyway. Go on, go on."

  "He said something that makes me think..." I'm biting my lip, really thinking about what I'm about to say. "He mentioned something about me that he shouldn't know."

  "Okay, okay." The noises of the club start to fade as he presumably steps out onto the sidewalk. "Damn, it's cold out here. All right. So your conspiracy theory is...what? That he's somebody you know in real life? Catfishing you? Why?"

  "I don't know!" I burst out. "That's why I'm pretty sure I'm losing my mind. But I know I didn't tell him some of this stuff."

  "Wait, wait, wait." Jack's probably holding up his hand. "So you're basing all of this on your memories of...I'm just guessing here...some not-quite-sober conversations you had with someone in-between sending him pictures of your thong?"

  "Okay, just glossing right past that, I know. I know. But I'm positive. We never really had any personal conversations at all until recently, and I know I'd remember it."

  "You know you'd remember it?" He sounds skeptical. "Lissy, how many times today did you think you'd lost your phone while you were holding it in your hand?"

  "Just once," I mutter. "That's not the point, though. I know I can be a little scatterbrained sometimes, but I know I didn't tell him about Andrew. And he just knew."

  "Well, that's not possible. Did he mention him by name, or are you reading too much into things, like usual?"

  "He said 'third time's a charm.'" I take a deep breath, as Jack wraps his head around this. "In the context of relationships and betrayal. He'd have no reason to say that if he didn't know what happened between me and Andrew - and between me and Dean, for that matter, because I didn't actually tell him Dean had done anything wrong. I just said I fucked up because I couldn't trust him. He had no reason to think..."

  "As much as I want to make fun of you for reading too much into everything as usual, that is a pretty weird thing to say." He snaps his fingers. "Unless, of course, you just told him and forgot about it."

  "No, no, no," I insist, my mind racing with this new realization. "I might've told him about Andrew and forgot, but there is no way I told him about Dean. He doesn't even know Dean exists. He thinks Dean is Damien and he thinks I'm still with Damien."

  "Oh my God, I can't keep up with this Soap Opera Digest bullshit. Wait. Damien's the guy from the book, right? That you based on Dean."

  "I didn't base him on Dean," I insist, starting to wonder how true that is. "But because Mergers & Acquisitions was 'based on a true story,' M and everyone else in the world thinks that I'm still with the guy it's about."

  "So M thinks he's sexting a married woman?" Jack whistles. "That doesn't seem like your bag."

&nbs
p; "Not married," I correct him. "But yes. I know. Normally, just the fact that he's willing to do it would be enough of a turn-off for me. But I guess...I guess I didn't think about it at the time. And then it just kept happening. I don't know how to say no to him."

  "You know this is how those Dateline episodes about 'couples who kill' always start," Jack points out. "This M guy, whoever he is, he's just complicating your life even more than it already is. You have to sever."

  "I know that, Jack!" I exclaim. "You think I don't know that? But he's the only thing keeping me sane right now. It's just...it's a release. It's somewhere I can go and be nobody but myself. But it's not even me. That's the beauty of it. I can be whoever I want, and I just...I feel alive."

  He doesn't say anything for a minute. "You know, you're worrying me. I mean - seriously. How much is this obsession with M affecting your life?"