99 Percent Mine(35)

“And why’s that?” A little voice inside my head whispers, Oh no.

“Because of this.” He gestures around the room, his eyes catching on my mouth. I lick my lip and think about the syrup I drank. He’s not walking out of here alive.

Then he brings me back to reality, in the sweetest, kindest Tom way possible.

“I thought it would be safer if I didn’t tell you until the house was done. I thought this might happen.” As if he can’t help himself, he reflexively looks at my bedroom door. “And it won’t happen.” His chest rises and falls.

His eyes are profoundly disturbed. He won’t be getting in my bed, because he doesn’t think about me like that. At all. And I’ve just showed my entire poker hand to him. This is like my asking to buy Loretta’s ring from Jamie in the parking lot, one minute after he inherited it. Why don’t I ever try to strategize? Everything just erupts out of my volcano mouth.

He says, “I thought it would be safer to lie.”

Hot red blood is filling my body, rising up my torso, my neck, to the roots of my hair. Humiliation is dissolving my skeleton. “Safer.” My voice sounds very far away to me. “Safer?”

My parents would probably understand the reason for his sweet white lie; Jamie definitely does.

“I need to focus on the house,” he says, very reasonably. “I’ve never run a business before single-handed.” He’s got a sweat sheen on his skin and he’s still struggling to catch his breath. “I’ve known you since you were melting Barbies with a lighter. You’re Jamie’s sister. I promised your parents that I’d look after you.”

And just like that, I understand. Life’s all about finding buffers.

Megan was a buffer because it’s been clear for years that the moment she was gone, I’d pounce. Christ, I didn’t last one minute. I have no game. For a habitual liar, I seem to slip up at the crucial moments.

He has his first job for his own company and doesn’t want me smooching around like Pepé Le Pew. I’m the client. I’m his best friend’s sister. I’m Mr. and Mrs. Barrett’s weak-hearted daughter. I’m the liability he swore to take care of.

I’m a kitchen-trashing psychopath who is going to tear his clothes off his body and kiss him down to his bones. And I need to get a grip.

I make myself laugh and nod. “Okay. Fair enough. That’s probably smart, actually.”

I somehow walk to the front door on my trembling legs and the cool evening air floods in. I will find the nearest ocean and walk in, all the way down to Atlantis, and inquire about real estate. “Next time I see you, you can’t make me feel shitty about this. Pretend it didn’t happen. But you know what? I thought you had more guts.”

*

I GO TO a liquor store, buy something cheapy sticky sweet, and then go to Truly’s house. She opens the door and blinks owlishly out into the night.

“I need to lie on your couch for a bit,” I tell her, toeing off my boots. “I just did something unforgivable.”

“Okay,” she says without hesitation, like the excellent friend she is. We’ve been lying on each other’s couches since high school. I will lie on her couch until the day I die.

Except lying on her couch is not an option, as it turns out. It’s stacked with underwear. Truly seems to have hardly registered my arrival; she goes back to her sewing machine, illuminated by a bright overhead lamp, and the whirring resumes.

Truly Nicholson is the queen of a cult indie underwear label called Underswears, and no, her name is not a nickname. Well, it was initially. She was called Truly in utero when she finally made her appearance on an ultrasound screen. That little baby was truly a miracle.

I assess her bent-over back. “Finish up now. I think you’ve done enough.” I doubt she’s eaten anything in hours—possibly days—worrying about grease on her fingers. Crumbs, stains, and drips are her mortal enemies. “Truly, I need to tell you about a totally insane thing I just did.”

Wheeeee. The sewing machine rolls about two inches of tiny stitches. There’s clicking, and then, wheeee.

Robotically, Truly lifts the machine foot, repositions, depresses the foot, and then, wheee. Her eyes are completely blank. I’m pretty sure she’s already forgotten I’m here. When I see she’s finished sewing the current pair, I turn the lamp off from above her.

The terrible enchantment is broken. She slumps down onto her forearms while I find some chocolate-flavored milk that hasn’t expired. I pull piles of laundry off a little-used armchair, deposit her on it, and hold the straw up to her mouth.

“A little dramatic,” she whispers, hoarse, and her pale green eyes roll over to focus on me as she drains the entire glass. Her hands are useless to her by now.

Her strawberry-blond hair seems to have dulled out to the color of straw, and her dimpled cheeks are pale. She calls herself plush-sized. She has a spectacular bust line and a bottom like a heart. Her every line connected to a joint is curved, like she’s been drawn with a pinkish calligraphy pen. I wish things were different, so I could marry her. I will hate whoever she chooses.

Except no one would marry me. I’m insane.

I look at the completed underwear. Ten in a stack. I begin counting. There have to be three hundred pairs done, easy. Probably more. “How long have you been doing this?”