The Lies I Tell(36)

What a heartbreaking thing to have to live with, if it’s true. “In what way?” I ask.

“We lost our house,” she says. I notice how her hands grip the steering wheel, white knuckles visible beneath the skin. “We ended up with nothing.” She gives me a quick glance. “We lived in our car for a while.”

Scott had warned me Meg would do this—make herself vulnerable by telling me something that would elicit sympathy, and I work hard to step around it. Her admission explains why I couldn’t find them, but her words don’t match what happened. They didn’t lose their house; her mother signed a quitclaim deed over to Ron Ashton.

“Enough about my sad story,” Meg says, gesturing to the engagement ring on my finger. “Do you have a date set?”

I glance down at the one-carat solitaire on a platinum band that took us six months to pay off, and twist it on my finger. “Not yet.”

“What’s his name? How did you meet?”

“His name is Scott and he used to work with me at the bank,” I tell her.

“How long have you been together?” she asks. “Does he get a say in what you buy?”

It’s so easy to take the truth and turn it a few degrees, shifting things just enough to rewrite our struggling finances. Paying rent on our credit cards turns into an inheritance from an aunt. An engagement that’s been dragging on for two years is suddenly new and exciting. “We’ve been together five years, and no, he insists this is my money, my decision.”

“He sounds like a keeper.”

It’s been a rough road, with a couple setbacks and one relapse at the beginning, but Scott and I are on the other side of it now. “He’s the best,” I say, fighting harder than I want to fit inside the words.

“Let’s get lunch when we’re done,” Meg suggests. “My treat.”

***

We find a restaurant on Sawtelle, a Japanese fusion place with an outdoor patio in the back, crisscrossed with vines and twinkle lights. It’s nearing two o’clock, and we have our pick of tables. Meg leads me to one in the far corner, orders a half bottle of white wine, and we study our menus while we wait for it to be delivered.

“So how do you know Ron?” Meg asks.

I answer carefully, mindful that I can’t give her something Ron might refute. “I met him at a fundraising dinner, not too long ago. In the Hollywood Hills. It was pretty spectacular.”

She gives me a quick look. “You’re kidding. I was there too.”

I study her thoughtfully, as if trying to place her. “I thought you looked familiar. Don’t be too impressed with me though. Scott’s parents bought the tickets months ago, but his dad got sick so we went instead. I doubt Ron would even remember me; I only spoke to him for about five minutes. Long enough to tell him I was in the market for a property, and he gave me your name. Sorry if you thought I had a more official connection…” I trail off.

Meg reaches across the table and squeezes my arm. Her hand is warm and soft. “Not at all. I was only there to support my friend, Veronica, whose husband is his campaign manager.”

Our server arrives with our wine and takes our order.

“What did you think of Ron?” I ask when she’s gone again.

She shrugs. “I’m hoping to pick him up as a client. Like you, we only spoke for a few minutes.” She looks away, her gaze landing on a muted television mounted on the wall, showing a women’s march. Fists in the air, they silently shout, their #metoo posters bumping up and down as the crowd moves forward. “Men will always show you who they are.” Her voice is quiet, and she gestures toward the television screen. “Doesn’t it ever just exhaust you?”

A lot of things exhaust me. Paying down a gambling debt that shouldn’t be my responsibility. A job that sucks my soul dry. The shadow of what happened to me, always nibbling at my periphery, because even ten years out—well past the daily panic attacks and night terrors—I still wake up sometimes, flooded with shame. Not that I let it happen, but that, in not reporting it, I’ve let it continue. I’ve let it happen to other people, the way Meg let it happen to me.

Meg’s voice is quiet. “Don’t you wish you could take some of that power back?”

I look at her, wondering what she’s really trying to say. “What would you do with it?” I ask.

“Hold them accountable.”

Back in the car, she turns to me and says, “I got the feeling you didn’t love any of the properties we saw today.”

“I didn’t,” I admit. “It’s all so expensive.” I’m wondering how long I can carry on the charade of me looking for a house to buy.

“That’s Los Angeles for you,” she says. “I’ll see if I can find anything cheaper, though you might have to push out to Culver City or down into Westchester.”

“I’m okay with that,” I say. Anything to stay next to her, to keep her talking.

***

Over dinner that night, I bring up the topic of real estate fraud.

“Is this about Meg?” Scott asks.

I think about what I know. From Mrs. Nelson, overhearing Rosie’s accusation—You lied to me. And Meg’s own confession—We had to live in our car. “I don’t have anything more than a gut feeling, but too many pieces are overlapping with Ron Ashton to ignore. Right now, I’m thinking it might be some kind of real estate scam.”