The Lies I Told(72)
“You don’t have to do that with me.”
“What?”
“Hide what’s bothering you. I knew you were upset when you entered the room.”
“How could you know?”
“You purse your lips.” He puckered.
I laughed and sipped my wine again. I’d not known David in college, but since the day he’d walked into my life, he’d always been easy to be around. “My expression wasn’t that bad.”
“Maybe not for everyone else, but I’m getting to know you pretty well.”
Yes, he was. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
“Tell me,” he said.
“The usual. Fight with the sister.”
“Marisa?” He leaned in a fraction, concern deepening his frown lines. “What happened?”
“She won’t let Clare go. She won’t just accept that some problems, no matter how terrible, just don’t have fixes. The best anyone can do is manage their feelings and keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
“That’s worked for you.”
“It can work for anyone.” The wine was delicious, but the bottle Marisa had either drunk or poured down the sink was better.
“But not for Marisa.”
“I don’t want to talk about her,” I said carefully. “I want to talk about you. How did your day go?”
“Sold millions of dollars’ worth of stocks and bonds.” It was his standard line when I asked him about work. He rarely said much about his days, and when I pressed him for stock tips, he laughed and said, “Buy low, sell high.”
“Really, only millions? These days, darling, if it doesn’t start with a B or T, people don’t think much of it.”
He chuckled as he reached in his pocket and set a small black box on the table. “I stand corrected.”
I set my wine down. A nervous thrill shot through my body. “What do we have here?”
“Open it and find out.”
My satisfied smile was as close to genuine as it came for me. Red manicured nails glistened in the soft light as I reached for the box, held it in the palm of my hand, and then slowly opened it.
Inside was a solitaire diamond set in white gold. It was a decent size, but the setting was plain to the point of old-fashioned. I wondered if he’d put a lot of thought into choosing the ring. Or if it had been recycled from a mother or grandmother. If he knew anything about me, he’d know I preferred yellow gold. Bigger diamonds. And nothing that any other woman had ever worn. “It’s lovely.”
“It belonged to my mother.”
Ah, a family heirloom that meant something to him. Great, more past invading the future. He took the box and removed the ring. Automatically, I held out my hand and watched as he slid it on my ring finger.
It sparkled in the light as if hoping it could dazzle me into acceptance. “And is there a question that goes along with this ring?”
He held my hand. “Brit, will you marry me?”
Of course I would. He fit nicely into my life, and even though this ring didn’t exactly suit my tastes, I could work with it. “Yes.”
He leaned forward and kissed me. “Really?”
Arching a brow, I touched his face. “Have you ever known me not to speak my mind?”
He grinned and kissed me on the lips again. “No, I’ve not.”
I rolled the words engaged and fiancé over in my mind. Neither felt right, like a new pair of shoes that pinched, but in time, the words would stretch and mold to fit.
Marisa likely wouldn’t care one way or the other about this momentous moment. I’d ask her to be my maid of honor, seeing as she was the lone surviving sister. Given a choice, I’d have chosen Clare, who’d always been my favorite. If the universe had ever really screwed up, it was taking the wrong twin.
“Those lips are pursing again.” His eyes were hawkish. “Doubts?”
“Just working through the logistics of a wedding. You know me.” I smiled. “Have to have all my ducks in a row.”
“I’m sure Marisa will help. She’s been to enough weddings to know what works and doesn’t. Who knows, she might be willing to take our engagement pictures. Of course, we couldn’t ask her to do the wedding. She’ll be in it.”
Like it or not, I was stuck with Marisa.
41
MARISA
Saturday, March 19, 2022
7:00 a.m.
Jackhammer. There was a jackhammer pounding against the sides of my skull. My mouth was dry, and my stomach lurched. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. When the heaves finally stopped, sweat soaked my body and clothes. Rising, I looked in the mirror and found bloodshot eyes staring back. My mascara had wept down my cheeks, and my jacked hair stood up.
It had been more than a year since I’d looked at my face after a binge. That face, this face, was so familiar. And now here I was, right back at square one.
I hated this face. It personified failure, weakness, and a lack of impulse control. I turned away, closed my eyes.
Immediately, I swayed and found myself back on my knees, vomiting again. This time when I rose, my body shook. I wanted to crawl back in bed and pull the covers over my head. Shut out the world until I could deal with it again. But that was what the old Marisa would’ve done. She’d have surrendered to the illness, just as she did as a child.