The Lies I Told(22)

“Good question.”

“Well, don’t stress about it too much. Go to bed. It’ll be brighter tomorrow.”

I said my goodbyes, and when I hung up, I drained the last of my seltzer, feeling vaguely disappointed that it didn’t have more kick. A few beers would be nice right now. The craving, jacked up by distress, was always there, the proverbial beast lurking in the shadows. I’d gotten better about chasing it away, but tonight, it reached out from the gloom, beckoning me. Just one. Just one.

I grabbed my purse, car keys with the dealer’s fresh label still dangling from the ring, and left my apartment, locking the door behind me. There was always a meeting to attend, and though I didn’t like them, there was some strength in numbers, and right now I felt too alone.





11


HIM

THEN

Monday, November 19, 2008

3:00 p.m.

I couldn’t say what it was about you—the long red hair; the narrow waist; the full, rounded breasts. All the parts and whole of you are perfect. You’re a bolt of lightning and a bomb explosion rolled into one. I can’t get you out of my mind. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just you and me.

From the flyer, I found out where you planned to be today, so I rose early and drove into town. Now, as I parked on the city side street, I watched you duck into the warehouse space where there was an art exhibit. I hunkered down in my car and waited for a half hour.

Finally, you emerged with a bag and hurried toward the Jeep. So carefree. So perfect. I actually had butterflies in my gut, and the little bastards were gnawing away.

As I got out of my car, your phone rang, and balancing an artist’s portfolio case, you fished it from the side pocket of a black leather purse. “Hello? Oh yeah, that’s me.” You sounded upbeat, but a little distant. “I won’t be late. I’ll be there in an hour.”

When the call ended and you reached for the Jeep’s door handle, I sensed it was a now-or-never moment. Sink or swim. “Excuse me.” You turned, a smile on your face. There was no hint of suspicion or worry, which was a little troubling to me. A girl can’t be too careful in this world. “I’m hoping you can give me directions.”

Wide blue eyes brightened. “I’ll try.”

I could smell your perfume, see the small hoop earrings dangling, and hear your shallow breathing. The only senses missing were touch and taste, but it was too soon for that.

“I’m trying to get to Cary Street,” I said. “You’ll think I’m a fool because we both know it’s directly across the river.”

“Of course not! Straight up the street, take the first left and then a right. Follow the road across the bridge, and you’ll see the street sign. At that point you can only take a right.”

I trailed your line of sight, but as your head was turned, my gaze dropped to the slender line of your neck. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

“You an artist?” It was such an obvious question it bordered on stupid, but I just needed a few more seconds with you. We’d made a connection, and in this world that was a rare thing.

“That’s the dream,” you said. “But saying and becoming are two different things.”

“I bet you’re pretty talented.”

You chuckled. It was delightful, self-effacing. “Maybe one day.”

“You’re showing your work?”

“Not yet.”

Talking about your art relaxed you. I’d found a sweet spot. “What kind of art?”

“Photography.”

“I bet one day I’ll see your name up in bright lights.”

You laughed, blushed a little. So darn cute. “We shall see. Look, I’ve got to go. Been good talking to you.”

As you got in the car and drove off, I drew in a deep breath that expanded the tightening muscles in my ribs and chest. I wasn’t sure I’d taken a breath since I’d seen you last night.

Obsession wasn’t good for me, according to my doctor. He said I took things too far. Crossed boundaries. Maybe I had once or twice, but I’d learned my lesson, and I wouldn’t do bad things anymore.

This time nothing bad was going to happen.





12


MARISA

Sunday, March 13, 2022

1:15 a.m.

After sitting in a group meeting for two hours, absorbing stories, excuses, and promises to improve, I made my way home. Still too restless to sleep, I worked for four more hours on editing the photos I’d taken at the courthouse wedding. Normally, I didn’t return edited photos for a couple of weeks, but I’d finally caught up on processing the pictures I’d taken before my accident. Though it had been a grueling few weeks on the computer as I’d played catch-up, I couldn’t let this time go to waste—I didn’t want to box myself in like that ever again. New memo to self: Don’t procrastinate. Sincerely, Marisa-Tomorrow.

When I finally switched off the computer, it was after one. I grabbed a seltzer from the refrigerator and walked to the large window overlooking the glittering lights of the city. It was a peaceful time of night. Quiet. I’d always been a night owl, savoring the stillness, until the night my car slammed into that utility pole just south of Church Hill two months ago.

After impact, a thick darkness had swallowed me, seeping into my eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. I’d struggled to scream, breathe, and open my eyes, but the weight of the inky shadows had been too heavy.