The Lies I Told(48)

“I was with Jack. We were high.” Richards knew the truth, and he wouldn’t be shy about telling anyone if it got him his arrest. Sooner or later I’d have to also tell Brit.

“Jack?” He cocked a brow. “Weed, coke, or pills?”

The lemon floated in my club soda. “Pills.”

“You were having trouble with drugs then, weren’t you?” he asked.

“I didn’t think so, but yes.”

He sipped his drink. “Is there any reason to keep churning up Clare’s case? Some problems don’t have a fix. I know that better than anyone.”

“I think I’ll always keep trying,” I said. “I owe that to her.”

“Why don’t we get out of here?” Kurt asked.

“And?”

“Go back to your place. For new times’ sake. Weird on your birthday, I get it. But we really could be good for each other.”

The drinking Marisa likely would have said yes. But sober, I was different, or at least wanted to be. “We tried that the other night.”

“No one likes a quitter.” He winked.

I glimpsed the high school boy who’d once had the world by the tail. I half expected to hear Clare pipe in her two cents, but she was quiet. “Don’t think so.”

He drank. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I don’t,” I said. “But our ship isn’t meant to sail.”

Suddenly, the bar was too loud and the room too full. Had it changed that quickly since I’d arrived? “I’ve got to go.”

“I thought you came in for dinner?”

“I’m not hungry anymore, and I think what I really wanted was fresh air.” I kissed him quickly on the lips. “Take care.”

Shrugging on my coat, I left the bar. Outside I took one step and glanced back through the window. Kurt rose from his chair and walked to the bar. He took a seat next to a blonde, smiled at her.

The past was lightning in a bottle, as Kurt had said. Impossible to recapture.





26


HIM

THEN

Wednesday, December 5, 2008

9:00 a.m.

I’d thought we had a real connection. Two souls meeting. But you’d not responded to any of my texts or phone calls for two weeks. I’d been furious after the third unanswered text, and then I became worried. What if something had happened to you? Maybe you’d fallen or been attacked outside your home. When I parked outside your place, I waited nearly an hour before you appeared, juggling an overloaded, worn backpack.

I was relieved to see you and then just as quickly annoyed. You’d been busy. But how much effort did it take to return a text?

I followed you and kept a safe distance, trailing you along the interstate into the city, and finally to Main Street Station. The historic building still remained an active train station, with a collection of people dragging suitcases for the Amtrak slowly pulling into the station from the south. Were you leaving town? Running away? What could you be doing here?

Out of the car, I turned up my collar and trailed behind you, mingling into everyone hustling to catch the train as it slowed.

I found you on the second floor, kneeling by a small table where you had set down your backpack. You frowned slightly, just as you had when I’d entered you. Concentration, pleasure, and maybe some pain all blended together.

I held back, watching as you raised a camera to your face, checked the lighting (I assumed), and then walked to the long glass-paneled room called the Shed. You didn’t wait for the passengers to leave but started snapping as they hugged, stood alone checking tickets, and walked to their train car.

Was this your artist’s way? You were a bit of a voyeur, like me.

There’d been no distance between us when we’d been in bed. You’d enjoyed our lovemaking. I knew when a woman was having fun and when she was not. And you’d come. I’d felt the orgasm ripple through your body as you’d clung to me.

After it was over, we’d both dozed. I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom about 2:00 a.m., but when I returned, I discovered you’d left. Had you been pretending to sleep when I’d kissed you on the cheek? Were you just waiting for your chance to escape?

Frustration simmered. You owed me some kind of explanation. You don’t just fall into a man’s bed, make him feel things he’d not felt in too long, and leave. It wasn’t right. Cruel even.

You kept shooting pictures for another half hour, catching the light as the clouds outside parted and the sun shone through the open glass.

I could confront you here. Seeing me face-to-face would make it impossible for you to dismiss me. But that felt too public. Too dangerous. There had to be a way to get you alone. We needed privacy so I could prove to you how much I loved you.





27


MARISA

Tuesday, March 15, 2022

9:15 p.m.

When I arrived back at my apartment, I paused by the door and tried the knob. It was locked. Good. Because I knew damn well that I had thrown the dead bolt when I’d left. I twisted the key, and inside the apartment I switched on the light. As I lingered in the entryway, an odd sense that something was wrong washed over me. Everything was as I’d left it. The half pot of coffee rested on a cold burner. My computer screen was off. Dishes stacked in the sink. Shit, not again.