Lies She Told(30)
“Because I can’t,” he snaps. “What do you want me to do, huh? I’m needed here. My job pays our bills.” Anger is the best cover for guilt. It’s an outward feeling that pushes people away, puts others on the defensive, prevents them from demanding apologies.
“You promised.”
“Well, I have to break this one. I can’t rearrange my work schedule on such short notice. I’ll make it up to you soon. We’ll go out someplace nice. In the meantime, you should get some rest. I mean, Vicky doesn’t let you really sleep. Think of it: without her and me bothering you, you can get a good eight hours for once.”
I picture him delivering these lines, eyes flitting to the clock, trying to end the conversation with his wife so as not to be late for his lover. If only lies had substance. They would lodge in his esophagus, an indigestible wad of dirty gum. He would struggle to breathe, hands around his own throat, choking on the last of his untruths.
He keeps blathering on about my need for sleep. Really, him working tonight is doing me a favor, he says. Rest is important for mental health. It’s important for my mood. We will have a more productive conversation if I’m no longer exhausted. “I’ll be there when you wake up in the morning,” he assures me.
A scream curdles in my stomach. I hang up and hurl the phone at the wall. It lands on the floor, saved from smashing by the throw rug and the hard plastic case protecting its back. The lack of destruction frustrates me. I twist my diamond engagement ring off my finger and fling it at the wall. Then, for good measure, I take the wedding band and throw it too. Blood rushes to my head like a brain freeze. I’m going to be sick. I run to the bathroom and hang my head over the toilet. My stomach contracts. Bile and foam pour from my mouth into the bowl, staining the water a rusty orange.
After I finish, I take stock in the mirror. The woman who looks back at me has aged five years. Circles from weeks of sleep deprivation darken beneath her eyes, hollowing out her appearance. A greenish tint mars her coloring. Her dress is splattered with sick. I peel it off and stumble into the shower, turning the dial to its hottest setting. My skin reddens in the water. I scrub myself clean, wash my hair, my face. When I again look in the mirror, I have the skin of a healthy young woman, flushed pink with fury.
I grab my cosmetic bag. Makeup is war paint for women. Jake is about to be very sorry.
LIZA
David texts me good-bye Sunday. I receive the message while waiting for the ticket machine to spit out my boarding pass. “Have a good conference.” With a smoochy face. Not once did he call, despite my messages dangling the prospect of good news from Sergeant Perez and apologizing for our argument. He could have at least acknowledged my calls. Emojis don’t exist for what I’d like to write now.
I’m in the midst of penning a passive-aggressive reply when the machine’s printer starts clicking. I slip my phone back into my purse. Writing a snitty e-mail to my spouse is no reason to miss a flight.
Fortunately, few people travel so early on a Sunday. My lack of socks is a bigger issue than the line. I toss my sandals on the security conveyor belt and walk, barefoot, through a full body scanner. My feet sweat, mental images of plantar warts and fungus-stained toenails running through my head, as I wait for a hypervigilant TSA official to determine that the metal in my purse is loose change.
I slip back on my sandals while trying to snatch my exposed laptop before another shoeless traveler mistakes it for theirs. Somehow, I stuff my electronics into the front pocket of my carry-on as it careens down the conveyor belt. I hoist it back onto checkered linoleum and wheel it behind me as I weave past a sock-footed family, proud of myself for splurging on a suitcase with multidirectional casters.
When I reach the gate, I am surprised by Trevor’s profile. He sits in a chair, right leg crossed over the left, head bowed over a book. I can’t see the cover, though I can tell from the size it’s not one of mine.
“Trev?” I say his name as a question, on the off chance that some other gorgeous black man with wire-rimmed glasses is reading a massive novel while waiting for a flight to take him to the destination of the world’s largest suspense writer’s conference. Dark eyes travel to my face. He smiles wide enough to show his top teeth and nods to the empty seat beside him. Judging from all the unoccupied chairs outside our gate, the early flight appears only a third full, though it’s possible my fellow travelers are still in the bookstore or braving the line at the single open coffee shop.
I settle into the seat on Trevor’s right but move to the far side of the vinyl. Though we’re friends, his good looks require a professional distance. Incidental physical contact with a man this attractive always means more.
“I didn’t realize we were on the same flight.”
“I suppose Courtney booked the whole New York crew on the earliest plane out of here.” He laughs. “If it goes down, that will be the end of the imprint.”
We talk about what I have planned for the conference: when I’ll sign at our publisher’s booth, which panel I’m booked on, who will join me on the dais. Marketing only slotted me into one discussion group: “The First Bestseller: Unraveling the Mystery Behind a Debut Blockbuster.” I’ll need to talk about Drowned Secrets. I’m not looking forward to it.
A few minutes into a conversation about a panel that Trevor is moderating—“The Long Run: How to Create Compelling Series Characters”—the stewardess begins “inviting” passengers on the plane. He stands when they announce priority boarding for business-class ticket holders. I remain seated. My ticket is in row 22. Business-class privileges dried up with my last novel’s sales.