Black Lies

by Alessandra Torre

  I called Brant’s cell, realizing, as it went to voicemail, that his cell was off, its battery-saving mission more important than my own. I stepped to his suitcase, unzipping its top and digging through it, looking for the brick of his cell. What I wasn’t looking for, when my hand shoved aside underwear and swim trunks, was the ring box.

  Oh no. My hand froze, as I stared at the black velvet box. No. No. No. A woman got proposed to only once, assuming she picked wisely. It should be handled perfectly, the correct amount of delighted surprise filling her eyes. This discovery, at this moment in time, might ruin my reaction. I reached forward, brushing my fingers over its surface, and fought the urge to pull it out. Flip it open. Take a little peek.

  I didn’t. I pulled back. Zipped the suitcase closed. Stared at it. I would still be surprised. I hadn’t seen the ring. I’d just practice my shocked face. Make sure it wasn’t grotesque or too exaggerated. I saw his phone, the bulge of it sticking from a side pocket and grabbed it.

  I set both phones on the entrance table and took a chance, walking to the back balcony and stepping out. As I scanned my eyes over the beach, moonlight reflected off waves, the sand pristine, unmarred. No billionaire walked along its surface. Nothing but nature. Yeah, it was pretty. Big deal. I would have traded it all for a television with HBO.

  A ring. A proposal. This was the perfect place for it. Mrs. Layana Sharp. The name alone put goosebumps on my skin. Was it what I wanted? Absolutely. No question. My biggest complaint with our relationship was that I wanted more of it. More time with Brant. More insight into the beauty that was his mind, the pieces of him hidden behind his slight smile. I wanted a partnership, wanted children with the man, wanted to move in and fill up a home with memories. Be his wife. Grow up and have a purpose. And tomorrow, it seemed, I would have it.

  I scanned the beach one last time and turned, stepping back into the room and closing the doors, the sound of the ocean muted. I glanced back at the bed. Took a moment and contemplated a return to it.

  I was used to waking up alone. The few nights I had spent at Brant’s he often got up during the night. Headed down to the basement to work or drove to the office. It didn’t bother me; I wasn’t someone who needed a full night’s bed commitment to feel secure. But here, in this resort, with no work in sight, where was he? And why didn’t he leave a note? The questions tugged at me. Kept me from moving toward the bed. I moved to the closet instead. Tugged a robe over my silk pajamas, loosely tied the belt, and worked my feet into slippers. Grabbed both of our phones, my room key, and a handful of cash. Schooled the goofy smile on my face into a more appropriate one. Then I stepped out, tugging the door shut behind me. And went to find my future husband.

  It didn’t take long. It was a small resort—another issue that ensured the Sharp party of two would not be making a return visit. There just wasn’t enough to do here. Not for a couple who didn’t want to hike nature trails or watch sports. Especially not for a man who got his kicks off on things that beeped and lit up. Ten minutes later, I walked into the place I should have started at—the hotel bar. Even though Brant didn’t really drink, didn’t seek out social mingling or groups of people. But, at almost 2 AM, it was one of the only places open inside the gates. I walked through the doors, eyed the scant crowd, and saw him, his back to me, hand resting on the bar, in a cluster of people I didn’t recognize.

  I smiled, relief washing through me. I didn’t know what I expected, what the tight grip of my back muscles had anticipated, but the tension left when I saw him. I made my way through the bar, my pajamas out of place, a few women giving me looks that deserved a sharp word, but I continued. Fished his phone out of my pocket as I moved, powering it on. I’d give him his phone, kiss him goodnight, and then make my way back upstairs. I didn’t need to stay down there; I wanted to go back to our bed, would have my cell if he got drunk and needed help finding his way back to the room. I smiled at the absurd thought of a drunk Brant and moved closer.

  A few steps away. Bodies moved aside, gave me a better view of him.

  Closer. My slippers caught on the tile and I tripped slightly. Caught myself, my face heating.

  Heard the murmur of his voice. Reached out. Placed my hand on his shoulder and pulled gently.

  The smooth rotation of his torso, the over the shoulder glance that came full circle and looked down at me…

  In the next few minutes, everything about our relationship changed.

  I had fallen for him. Planned our future, already mentally accepted his proposal.

  It turned out I didn’t even know him.

  Chapter 19

  2 YEARS, 3 MONTHS AGO

  Brant

  I had intended to propose in Belize. Cancelled that plan when the jet was nixed. Reestablished that plan when Lana bullied us into commercial. Then our trip had a hiccup; she got sick and the moment never happened.

  Tonight. The second attempt. I shake a pill out, place it under my tongue and try to relax. Swig ice water and stare at the back wall of my office, a stainless steel surface broken by glass views of the hills.

  Everything exact. Everything perfect. She deserves nothing less. This will be the moment that solidifies our future. A story we will tell our children’s children. She is already a loose cannon, will no doubt foil tonight’s plans in some impulsive way, and everything is in place to minimize the impact. All that matters, at the end of the night, is that I have the ring and can articulate a question. The rest will sort itself out.

  She will say yes. It is a given. We love each other, crossed that hurdle months ago. The bond between us is unquestionable. My personality had needed a quantitative analysis to make my decision; she won’t need anything other than her emotions. The fire that makes her throw her arms around me and kiss my neck. The grins I watch stretch across her face. The smolder that sits in her eyes when we make contact across a crowded room. She is committed. We are in love. Marriage is the next step to forever. I pocket the ring and stand, striding out of the office, my eyes catching the clock and reaffirming that I am on schedule. Three hours to forever.

  Two hours to forever. I watch her fasten her earrings, the stance before the mirror one of casual elegance, yet sexual all the same. Slightly spread legs, her hip cocked, head tilted, all of her curves present before me. I step closer, settling in behind her, our eyes meeting in the mirror as I pull her an inch back, the press of her fitting into me perfectly.

  She is nervous. I can see a darkness in her eyes, a tremor in her hand as she pushes the diamond stud through her earlobe. Something is off—from the deep inhale of her breath to the smile she gives me. Tighter, less free. It’s not the false front she serves out to others, but it isn’t the smile I know. It is a distracted mix of the two. Something is on her mind. Something her eyes say she isn’t ready to talk about. I bend forward, inhale the rich scent of her as I place a soft kiss on her collarbone. “Would you rather stay in? We don’t have to go out.” A question whose answer can ruin tonight’s plans but I don’t want a reluctant companion. Not tonight, at the official start of our life together as one.

  Another smile that is not her smile. “No. We should go. I want to.” Her breathing is off. Quicker than usual. I suddenly want to pull her into the bedroom. Slide up her dress and connect with her. Lose both of our senses in the hard press of our bodies. Put our center back, reassure me that she is mine and she is here and she is happy.

  I don’t. Instead, I hold open her coat, let it fall over her shoulders and open the front door for my future wife. Pull it shut and pray to God that she says yes. Suddenly, everything I know seems up in the air.

  Maybe not tonight. Maybe I wait until this funk passes. Until she smiles and the light reaches her eyes. I watch her move down the steps and follow.

  One hour to forever. She doesn’t question the helicopter, or that night’s unorthodox use of the Rolls and my driver. Tucked under my arm, her head turns to the window, the lights of San Francisco tiny against the shoreline as the chopper m
oves steadily through the sky. She doesn’t ask questions. Just settles into my arm and watches the reflection of a low sun as it shines off the peaks of rocky waves.

  “I love you,” she says softly.

  My arm tightens around her, embracing the feel of her. She loves to be held, a part of her anxious for the physical confirmation of our bond. “I love you too.”

  She tilts her chin up and meets my eyes. “Forever,” she says firmly.

  “Forever,” I repeat, leaning down and pressing a kiss against her exposed forehead. The copter shifts and I tighten my grip. “Buckle up. We’re landing.”

  Forever. It had sounded ominous on her lips.

  Chapter 20

  Despite the strong wind, the helicopter sets down easily on Farallon Island. We open the door to two tuxedos, waiting with outstretched arms to help us out of the chopper and along the irregular ground. We duck and run, Lana’s bare feet nimble on the uneven surface, her heels in her hand, a true laugh spilling from her lips as she grips my arm tightly and climbs over the small hill of rocks before us, the slick surface of my dress shoes making the journey treacherous. Just what I need. I can picture the headline: COUPLE STUMBLES TO UNTIMELY DEATH JUST MOMENTS BEFORE PROPOSAL. Not that there has ever been a timely death.

  It is all worth it when her head clears the rocks and I hear the catch in her voice. Her eyes had found the table set on a flat rock, white linen, candles, and champagne present. The height elevates us on a ledge with nothing but rock and ocean and sunset on all sides, the jagged skyline of San Francisco twenty-seven miles to the east. The suit to our right holds out a floor-length coat that I help her into before shrugging into my own, the buffering wind giving the evening a chill. Sitting, we accept flutes of champagne as the setting sun paints a landscape of beauty on all sides. It is perfect. Just as I imagined, the small island a private sanctuary for this moment.

  “You went all out.” She meets my eyes over the table. Direct. Nothing else between us right now.

  “All out would have coordinated whales. Their union wouldn’t agree to demands, but I’m hoping we see some tonight.” I nod to the waves. “I was told this is the spot to see them breach.”

  A moment of silence falls over us as she wraps her coat tighter and glances out at the water. I wish for a whale, for nature to prove its support of our union with one dramatic show of grace. In my right pocket, folded and unfolded a hundred times, my speech. I don’t need the paper; I know the words. Had recited them perfectly while shaving. Tried a different take, a different tone, while driving to the office. Have changed the format ten times, the wording twenty. The weight of the paper has been comforting all day, yet suddenly seems wrong. I throw away the plan and reach for her hand. “You know I love you.”

  Her eyes move to our hands. “I know.”

  No. I need to see her eyes. To have that connection, to read her. The Layana I know doesn’t hide. I don’t understand it, yet forges onward. “You know that I will do anything for you. To make you happy.”

  She looks back up. Finally. “I know.”

  Standing, I move next to her chair and kneel, pulling out the box that holds our future. “I love you with every piece of my heart. Will spend my life making you smile. Please do me the honor of spending the rest of your life as my wife.” I crack open the box, the top opening easily, the darkening sky making the blue diamond no less impressive. I hold it out, realizing—before my arm finishes the action, my eyes glued on her—all of the things wrong with this situation.

  The flush of her face.

  Panic in her eyes.

  A bite of her cheek.

  Regret in her stare.

  Wetness on the edge of her mascara.

  She closes her eyes tightly and a lone dark tear drips down its side. I stare at that tear, and feel every piece of my carefully constructed world break.

  She doesn’t give me a reason. Doesn’t do anything but cry as I stare, examining every line of her as she covers her face. Eventually, there is a stiff shake of her head and I close the lid, putting the ring box back into my pocket, a place that has already grown cold in the last few minutes, the scrape of my knuckles against the cashmere of my coat a sickening texture. Something is wrong. Something has happened and broken the perfection of us.

  I need to find out what has happened. We are fixable. Nothing will change that.

  I will wait until the day I die for her. For me, there isn’t, and will never be, anyone else.

  Chapter 21

  Our relationship had been perfect. A gorgeous, brilliant man. One who loved me with every spare inch of his heart. Spoiled me. Listened to me. Valued me. One who I loved passionately in return. I had gone ahead and made plans for us. Big plans sucking up large parts of my heart. Plans involving a house full of children, growing old as one, a joining of our lives that would never end.

  Then, I found out his secret. And on that night, my world imploded. Every fantasy I had of happily ever after, of children and marriage: gone. I was faced with a hole of deceit and had to decide if I wanted to jump in or walk away. I could have ended everything. Broke it off and continued on—tried to find another love, a different happy ending. Instead, I stood at the rabbit hole of hell and looked down. Toed the line of indecision, even while turning down his proposal. I waffled, I moped, and I drowned my sorrows in chardonnay. And then… finally? I squared my shoulders and stayed. Didn’t let on that I knew his secret. But that day, when my fairy tale died? I lost my trust in him, in our relationship. And a few months later, I met Lee.

  Lies. A mountain of them between us.

  Chapter 22

  2 YEARS AGO

  A few months after Belize, I was in a convenience store, examining colorful lines of candy, trying to decide which one was worth my change, when he walked in. Out of my normal neighborhood, I had driven down to Palo Alto to visit Brant at work. Stopped in an area I shouldn’t be in because my Mercedes needed gas and my bladder wouldn’t shut up.

  I felt him before I saw him, a presence behind me, uncomfortably close, and I turned my head and caught his eyes. Staring right at me. Not evasive, not ashamed. Looking at me in the same way a baby does, innocent and direct, so direct you wanted to break contact but I didn’t. His stare was so unlike Brant’s that I mentally stuttered, caught in this moment in time where we both stared and then he smiled.

  Wow. Cocky. Confident. Sexual. So different from Brant’s. Brant’s fixed expression was intensity, his face still and stoic. Brant was a man who listened, then reacted, impulse not a trait in his wheelhouse. Neither was carefree, playful, or flirtatious. This man’s smile was all three, and I was drawn to it, my own smile curving in response.

  “Hard decision,” he said, nodding his chin to the shelves.

  “Yeah.” I nodded, my smile still on. Like I was a marionette doll, the goofy expression painted in place. I should turn back. Move away. Instead I kept the eye contact, my damaged relationship at the type of fragile place where decision-making abilities should be revoked.

  “I know you…” he said slowly, squinting slightly, his smile a little more guarded, recognition dawning in his eyes. Actual recognition, no ‘Don’t I know you?’ flirtation to follow.

  I stopped breathing, my smile still in place, dreading yet curious about whatever words would come next.

  An ‘aha’ moment when he made the connection. “Aren’t you Brant Sharp’s girlfriend?” He whirled away from me, his head tilting as he scanned the magazine rack behind us, his hand skimming over and grabbing a magazine. A groan slipped through my clenched jaw.

  Wired Magazine: the go-to for geeks worldwide—had just proclaimed me Tech Hottie of the Year, an honor that should have been bestowed on someone actually in the electronics industry, not just a girlfriend of this century’s brainchild. Yet there I was, on the glossy cover, covered in nothing but wires, the confident grin on my face making this their bestselling issue so far. Geeks apparently liked nudity, no matter who wore it. And there, in giant letters a
cross my midsection, my appearance’s validation: “Lucky Layana: where Brant Sharp gets his creative inspiration.”

  I stopped smiling, reached out and snatched the magazine from his hands, took four steps to the side and stuffed it behind a few issues of Martha Stewart Living.

  “Well now, that just answered my question,” he said with a smile, putting a hand on the rack and leaning in, just enough that I could smell the scent of fresh grass coming off him.

  God, that’s a good smell. I stole a discreet sniff and then stepped back. So…the gorgeous man didn’t know me. Had just recognized me from the magazine, either the Wired cover or another one. Over the last few months, Brant’s media machine had gone into overdrive, put me on seven of them, the PR campaign headlined by Jillian, a woman who had jumped fully into Team Layana. She and I had talked, the night I found out the Secret. Mended fences in our new common goal to Keep The Secret. The stiffness was still there, but with an objective now shared between us, she had moved bleachers, her energy moving onto things other than ending our union. Her most recent efforts centered on pushing me into the spotlight. I knew what she was doing. She wanted the focus off him, his privacy left intact while the vultures feasted on my flesh instead. It’d been working. I’d done five interviews that month.

  The media machine coined me Lucky Layana, due to my supposed inspiration for Brant’s last creation: the Laya. The Laya was single-handedly responsible for increasing BSX’s bottom line by an extra eight figures that quarter. A shining star. All thanks, in the media’s mind, to me. Ridiculous.