The Lies I Tell(19)

“But what do you really know about her? She just appeared out of nowhere, at a coffee shop.”

Cory laughed. “With Meg, what you see is what you get,” he said. “Small-town girl, small-town sensibilities.”

I pushed the door closed quietly, flipping the bolt, and made my way back to my new computer, humming quietly to myself.

***

My English teacher in high school once brought in a novelist to talk to us about the creative process. She told us she always knew how her books were going to end, but didn’t always know how she would get there. That part of the art—and part of the fun—was figuring it out.

I enjoyed living inside that same type of ambiguity. Having the outline of a plan, waiting for opportunities to arise. I learned to pay close attention, seeing things through the lens of how to exploit them, looking and waiting for my openings. And I was good at it—the planning. Setting traps and walking away, trusting Cory would fall into them.

Not everything I tried worked. When I told Cory about a fundraiser to help a family friend rebuild after a fire, he declined. Another time, I used a wrench to crack one of the bolts on the lid of the toilet, having found a video on YouTube that would show me how to fix it for about $2. When I told Cory I’d scheduled a plumber to come, and that he should leave $200 to cover the bill, Cory fixed it himself.

But I learned something from every attempt. I learned how to see the holes in a plan, how to anticipate when an answer might be no, and then take that option away. I got better. I got smarter. The loop I’d cast around Cory was growing tighter.

***

I found the photos right after the new year. I’d been late for class, hurrying to get ready, and as I flipped the light switch in the closet, the bulb buzzed and then popped, casting everything into darkness. “Shit,” I said.

Cory kept the light bulbs in the cupboard above the fridge, but they were back farther than I could reach. I pulled over a chair and stood on it, shifting aside an old roasting pan and some cans of ginger ale. That was when I saw it, a small, white envelope tucked behind an air popper we never used. I dislodged it and turned it over, the glue on the flap just starting to yellow.

Inside were five photographs, a series of bedroom shots, taken of Kristen and Cory. Black and white, both of them in stages of undress. I lowered myself to sitting, flipping through the shots, one by one, studying them.

She looked younger than I remembered, her smile hollow and fragile. Had she realized yet how out of control things had gotten? I tried to imagine what she must have been thinking the moment the shutter clicked, perhaps worrying where these photographs would end up. Knowing that refusing was not an option for her.

I pushed down the rage tumbling around inside of me—of what this meant, of how she must have suffered. Emotion wasn’t going to be useful, but these photographs would be.

I returned them to their envelope and replaced it behind the air popper, then sat back down, imagining what I could do with them.

In my pocket, my phone buzzed with a text. When I pulled it out, I found a message from Cal.

I never see you anymore. I miss our lunches.

I still worked the early morning shift at the Y, that money going toward slowly chipping away at my mother’s funeral debt, though my schedule barely overlapped with Cal’s now that I was taking classes. But I’d also been avoiding him, unwilling to bring Cal too far into my life with Cory, for fear Cal would say something that would expose me.

Busy with classes, I typed. Let’s catch up soon.

But I knew, with a flash of clarity, that we wouldn’t. That I would continue to keep a safe distance from my only friend and would end up losing him in the process.

I think that was the first time it really hit me. In order to do what I needed to do, I would have to cut myself off from anything real. Everything true.

***

Cory insisted on paying for everything—the household bills, groceries, nights out. Every now and then I’d offer to pitch in—no more than temperature-taking, looking for cracks in his generosity. But the reality was that it was easier for him to control me if he controlled the money.

I needed to flip that narrative.

We were at yet another bar with Nate when I saw an opportunity. We’d been there for several hours when Cory signaled he was finally ready to go home. He pulled his card from his wallet and handed it to me. “Pay while I use the restroom. Sign my name and tip $10.”

The mirror behind the bar was edged with Valentine’s Day hearts. In it, I watched Nate lean closer to a woman seated to my right, reaching out to twirl a piece of her hair.

“I have a boyfriend,” she said, pulling away.

“Let me get you another drink,” he said. “Just as friends.” He signaled the bartender for another round.

As the bartender passed me, I handed him Cory’s card. “Close it out for us please?” I asked.

I stared at the doorway leading to the men’s room, silently urging the bartender to hurry. When he returned, he placed two beers in front of Nate and his friend, then handed me Cory’s card and receipt.

I signed with a flourish and fit the card in my palm, waiting.

“I’m not going to drink that,” the woman next to me said.

“I’ll bet I can change your mind,” Nate responded.

“No means no,” I muttered under my breath, leaning my forearms on the bar and positioning my elbow a few inches away from her full beer.