Little White Lies

by Lizzie Shane

  “What is this?” he asked. “Did something happen in DC?”

  For a second he thought she might actually answer, but then her expression closed down like a bear trap snapping shut. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

  She twisted out of his grip, the move skilled and practiced, pulling against the weakest point of his hold, but he barely noticed, didn’t try to hang onto her. Too shocked to cling. “Did you tell your parents about us?” he asked, trying to make sense of this.

  Things had been good before she left. Not perfect, but he’d felt like they were moving toward something. Something solid and real.

  She shook her head once, sharply. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me!” He hadn’t meant to shout, but she was walking away from him again, toward the garage and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Candy, pulling me in, pushing me away—this isn’t just mixed signals and you know it. That isn’t how you treat people.”

  She’d outpaced him, inside the garage, the outer door rising, one hand already on the door of her car. “I’m sorry, Ren.”

  “That isn’t good enough.”

  But she was already gone. Inside the car. Pulling away.

  Along with everything he’d thought was good in his life.

  *

  Present day…

  Candy woke up the next morning with the sense that something was horribly wrong, but only the vaguest memories penetrating the throbbing in her skull. She must’ve sustained a major head wound the night before. With a concussion.

  That would explain the nausea churning in her stomach.

  Though so would the trickle of disjointed memories that were starting to creep back about drinking until she fell over last night.

  She groaned and rolled over, reaching blindly for Ren—but his side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold. Hadn’t he come back? She remembered him coming back. The car in the driveway. The frown on his face.

  Those ominous words echoing in her brain. I’m done, Candy.

  Panic spiked and her stomach dropped. She half-rolled, half-fell out of bed, stumbling toward the bathroom, hoping she made it and didn’t empty her stomach all over the floor—

  Then she heard the water running.

  Relief buckled her knees—and her stomach miraculously settled as she sank to the floor. He was here. He hadn’t taken off in the night. He was just in the shower.

  Thank God.

  She heard the water shut off and pulled herself up off the floor, making it over to one of the chairs before the door opened and he appeared—fully clothed, but with water droplets still clinging to his black hair. Looking like salvation in slacks and a button down.

  He stopped moving as soon as he spotted her in the chair. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” she murmured cautiously. The light in the room felt too bright, like it was exposing all her cracks and vulnerabilities.

  But Ren didn’t seem to notice that she’d been stripped raw, her inner parts hanging out for him to examine. He nodded toward the side table where she saw a collection of cups. “I wasn’t sure what you would want so I grabbed coffee, Advil, coconut water, and the hair of the dog.”

  “Thank you.”

  He indicated the hangover remedy to one side of the tray. “Aiden said your poison of choice was whiskey last night.”

  “You saw Aiden?”

  “We were both raiding the hangover supplies at the same time. Sounds like some party.”

  “Some party,” she echoed weakly, cringing as more memories trickled back. She stood, balancing to keep her head from falling off, and crept over to the table. Ren moved out of her way, giving her a wide berth—and she tried not to read too much into it. He probably just wanted to stay out of the line of fire just in case her stomach decided to rebel again.

  A vague memory of puking in the bushes surfaced.

  The scent of the coffee rose to her nose and she shuddered on another wave of nausea. “I think I’m going to grab a shower and see if I can wash off last night.”

  “Good idea.”

  She didn’t want to think about what she must smell like as she closed herself in the bathroom. She stripped off the shirt she’d slept in—one of his she had no memory of how she got into—and found she was still wearing the bra and underwear from last night underneath. She removed them, her movements gingerly to accommodate the unfamiliar ache in every inch of her body, like her muscles had been turned to rusty metal overnight.

  The water was still hot from his shower and she stepped under the spray, cringing initially at the needle-like feel of the water pressure hitting her, but within seconds her muscles had begun to loosen and the warmth spread over her chilly, clammy skin. Maybe she’d just stay in here forever. Never have to face the real world.

  Never have to face Ren.

  He’d been very thorough with that collection of hangover first aid. But then he always was. He took care of her. He always had. And she’d always punished him for it. She couldn’t seem to stop, even when she wanted to. He got too close and something locked down inside her, forcing him out.

  She was broken. She had been a long time ago. And she didn’t know how to put herself back together, even when she wanted to.

  She didn’t remember all of last night. The words blurred together. Alicia and Tug, she remembered with disturbing clarity. Talking to Aiden. Talking to her father. But the conversation with Ren, the one that seemed the most ominous somehow, of that she remembered only bits and pieces. Something about Hank the Hammer. Ren being angry. Candy shutting down. That flash of fear when he pushed her for more, always pushing her to let him in—and then the horrible, closed off expression on his face when he said he was done. And the certainty, deep down in her gut, that this time he meant it. This time she’d lost him.

  She shut off the shower abruptly, suddenly afraid he was leaving as she lingered under the spray. She grabbed a towel, hurriedly drying off, careless of her sensitive skin, and whipped it around her, yanking open the door.

  And there he was. Sitting on one of the armchairs. Reading something on his phone. A small frown of concentration puckering his brow. God, he was handsome. The sight of him hit her in the gut and for a moment she froze in the doorway—until he looked up and she jerked into motion, caught mooning over him.

  She moved to the tray of hangover cures, feeling like she was walking on eggshells—though that might have been the hangover as much as her nerves. She poured herself a cup of coffee, using it to take two of the Advil and hoping her stomach could withstand the combination because right now she needed that first cup.

  “Rough night last night?” he asked.

  She flushed, turning toward him, embarrassed by what must have been an awful display—but at least he was talking to her. And he hadn’t fled while she was in the shower. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it? Little victories. Maybe she could still patch things up after the mess she’d made last night. Maybe he understood that she’d been a hot mess and all was already forgiven.

  “I had a few too many,” she admitted.

  “A few?” he echoed, tugging at his cuff where one button was missing.

  Okay, a dozen. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was commiserating with Aiden over his dating woes—just having one scotch to take the edge off—and the next I was blitzed beyond recognition, stumbling around the party, talking to Charlotte and walking in on Alicia and Tug screwing in my grandfather’s study.”

  “Whoa.”

  Candy cringed, perching on the edge of the bed and huddling over her coffee. “I know. It’s going to kill Charlotte when she finds out.”

  “She wasn’t with you?”

  “When I walked in on Tug bending Alicia over my grandfather’s desk? I don’t think so. The whole evening is pretty blurry, but I remember looking for Charlotte after that and not being able to find her.” She closed her eyes on a groan. “Which means I have to tell her. After dragging
you here so the scandal of my non-marriage wouldn’t ruin her big day, it turns out I’m going to ruin her wedding after all.”

  “Should I be packing? Are you going to want to make a quick getaway in case she decides to kill the messenger?”

  Candy grimaced. “Tempting, but our flight isn’t until tomorrow. Where would we go?”

  He shrugged. “There are earlier flights.”

  Her stomach knotted—either from the words or the acidity of the coffee. She couldn’t be sure which. Had he already looked at flights? Had he been thinking of leaving early without her? Yesterday when he’d left…

  More of last night came back. Ren admitting to being stopped by the cops for making a phone call—which made her chest ache. Their argument about Hank. His final words.

  She sipped her coffee, studying him for some sign that he was still holding the hard line he’d established the night before. He wasn’t exactly acting lovey-dovey, but he hadn’t stormed out either. There was distance between them, but it wasn’t cold. Things were almost normal. Only his ready smile seemed to be missing.

  She swallowed more coffee and tested the waters. “Did you talk to Javi?”

  “I did,” he admitted, standing and moving toward the bathroom. “But we didn’t talk about the foundation.”

  Candy frowned over her cup. “How could you not talk about it?”

  He shrugged. “It didn’t come up.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Ren. He committed a crime. He’s stealing.”

  He emerged, carrying his toiletry bag and Candy’s heart clutched at the sight. Was he packing?

  “It’s my business,” he said, digging inside the bag for a safety pin and calmly pinning the place where a button was missing on his cuff. “And he’s the only thing I have left of them.” He looked up from his cuff then, his eyes boring into hers. “Let it go.”

  Fear made her nod. Fear that if she didn’t he would walk out and never come back. “I should go talk to Charlotte,” she murmured—though she didn’t stand or move to put down her coffee cup.

  “Do you need back-up? Want me to come along for moral support?”

  “No. I think this should be a private conversation between me and my sister.”

  And hopefully Charlotte wouldn’t kill the messenger.

  *

  The terrace looked like a Red Cross tent after some natural disaster. Her family members huddled around the tables, rehydrating for all they were worth, while her mother buzzed around with brutal efficiency and the happy glow she got from running everyone’s lives.

  “Candice!” her mother called when she came into sight, loud enough to make Scott and her father both cringe. “Does Ren play the violin?”

  She frowned, lost. “I don’t think so?”

  Her mother sighed as if his lack of skills were a personal affront. “Weddings are such a trial. You think you’ve hired the best wedding planner in the business. You think you have every I dotted and T crossed, but then one violinist gets chicken pox and everything falls apart.”

  “How is the wedding planner responsible for the violinist’s chicken pox?”

  “She should have put a guarantee in the string quartet’s contract so at least they are responsible for finding us a replacement if they cancel for such a silly reason at the last minute. Or at least require them to pay us some kind of penalty for forfeiting the contract. Now I’m left scrambling. You can be certain I won’t be recommending her to my friends at the club.”

  Candy would have sympathized, but her mother seemed more triumphant that the wedding planner had proved inefficient and high on the buzz of troubleshooting the wedding than she seemed truly put out by the violinist drama. “Have you seen Charlotte?”

  Her mother flicked a careless hand toward an umbrella that had been set up at the far side of the terrace, casting shade over a pair of lounge chairs. “Try not to mention how old the hangover makes her skin look. Thank God the wedding isn’t until four and she has time to recover before the make-up artists arrive.”

  Her mother charged off in search of a string quartet hiding in the bushes, and Candy crossed the terrace toward her sister. Charlotte stretched out on a lounger with an off-center tiara on her head and cucumber slices over her eyes.

  And with her maid of honor occupying the lounge chair at her side.

  Crap.

  “Hi, Candice.” Alicia kept her smile blithely in place—doubtless for Charlotte’s benefit, though the bride couldn’t see it with cucumber slices blocking her view.

  “Alicia. I was hoping to have a private word with my sister.”

  She was braced for an argument, but Alicia sat up, asking Charlotte, “Would you like me to go check on the bouquets?”

  Candy frowned at the maid of honor. She had to know what Candy was going to tell Charlotte. Was she daring her to tell? Banking on Ren’s secret being as big as hers? She looked calm—and completely poised. In fact, of everyone on the terrace, Alicia showed the least evidence of being hung over. Candy tried to remember, but couldn’t recall if Alicia had even been drinking last night.

  When she’d woken up, she’d assumed—almost hoped—that what she’d witnessed with Tug in the study was a drunken mistake, but had Alicia been sober? What made her think it was okay to sleep with her best friend’s groom? Who did that? Did she think Candy wouldn’t tell?

  It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have, but she didn’t feel like she had a choice. Her sister needed to know what had happened before she walked down that aisle.

  “No. I’ll check on them myself.” Charlotte heaved a put-upon sigh and plucked the cucumber slices off her eyes. “You can come along,” she informed Candy. She stood and began walking toward the house. Candy fell into step beside her.

  Charlotte wore white yoga pants and a pink velvet hoodie with BRIDE in cursive across the back. Her blonde hair was in a messy topknot with a tiny plastic tiara in front. Queen for the day, though she moved like an arthritic octogenarian, thanks to her hangover.

  “Was something wrong with the bouquets?” Candy asked to fill the silence.

  “The roses were pink,” Charlotte explained, as if her favorite color were suddenly a fate worse than death. “We asked for crimson and they gave us fuchsia. It would have thrown off the whole color scheme, but Mother spoke with them and they’ve promised to make it right. What did you want to talk to me about? Is this about last night?”

  “It is,” Candy admitted—though it felt wrong somehow to tell her sister while she was trailing her through the house. “Could we sit down?”

  Charlotte flicked away her request with one negligent hand. “It isn’t a big deal, Candy. We all get drunk and say things we shouldn’t sometimes.”

  Her memories were foggy enough of the night before that it was tempting to ask what Charlotte thought Candy had said that she shouldn’t, but she stayed focused—one catastrophe at a time. “That isn’t what this is about. Please, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte heaved another martyred sigh and veered toward the sofas in the living room, flopping down onto one of them. “Happy?”

  Not in the least. Because now she had to say it. Now she had to crush her sister’s world.

  She and Charlotte had never been besties, but she did love her sister—even on the days when she wanted to strangle her—and Charlotte didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this.

  Candy sank onto the chair opposite, forcing herself to meet Charlotte’s eyes. “There’s no good way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.” She swallowed hard, hoping she wasn’t about to ruin the already tenuous relationship she had with Charlotte. “I walked in on Tug having sex with Alicia last night.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Seven months ago…

  Pretty Boy thumped her to the mat—so damned gently she elbowed him in the side. “Will you knock it off?”

  “What?” he asked, pinning her arm to the mat so she couldn’t jab him again, his expression carefully neutral.

  “S
ince when did you decide I was fragile?” she snapped, thrusting up her hips in a hard, fast move that rolled them both until she was on top.

  He locked his jaw and tapped out, immediately yielding, and she wanted to scream. It had been like this ever since she’d broken up with him—so careful, so reserved, all of his emotions locked behind a blank façade.

  “I know you’re pissed at me. Yell at me. Grapple with me. Let it out already.” She shook his shoulders, settling her weight back onto her hips—which pressed her against a suspicious hardness. At least something wasn’t repressed.

  Ren’s face heated and he flipped her off him. “Leave it alone, Candy.”

  He was on his feet before she could react, striding quickly toward the locker room. “Where are you going?”

  “To take a cold shower,” he snapped over his shoulder without slowing.

  “Pretty Boy.” He didn’t slow. “Ren!”

  By the time she made it to the locker room he’d already stripped his shirt over his head. Her mouth went dry at the sight of his bare back, the muscles there. He was mostly turned away from her, but she could still see where his erection tented the front of his workout pants.

  “Ren…”

  It would be so easy to slide back into what they’d been before. What was the harm, after all? Hadn’t they been happy? Yes, she’d felt like she was leading him on, living a lie, sliding down into an abyss from which there was no return… but at least he hadn’t looked at her with that horrible careful blankness.

  “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing,” she murmured. “I liked what we were before. Maybe I was too hasty, cutting things off like that—”

  “I don’t think we should train together anymore.”

  He hadn’t turned. Hadn’t swung a fist, but the words were a blow. Candy sucked in a breath. “Okay.” Right. Yes. They shouldn’t train. He shouldn’t put his hands on her. It was killing them both. The right thing to do wasn’t to go back to what they’d been before, it was to move forward. Into whatever they would be when there wasn’t a “them” anymore. “That’s probably for the best.”