Black Lies (10 page)

True love makes a person reckless, makes them take risks and make sacrifices. True love tests the boundaries of our person, makes us yearn to be better and fight for the ground we stand on. I will fight for this love. Lie for it. Steal for it. It is worthy of that. On paper, we are a horrible match. I have no light; she brims with it. I am serious; she is fun. But off paper, that is where our magic occurs. I want to be more like her. I want to listen to her laugh and have had something to do with it.

I love her completely. She returns the love wildly. This love is worth the unsaid truths. The hidden lies.

I knew the moment his cell rang, it’s rattle against granite, that it brought trouble. I stepped to the island, flipped it over, and saw JILLIAN on the screen. Silencing the call, I returned to my Cheerios, and listened to the static of Brant’s shower. My bags sat by the door. Brant’s were being packed as I chewed, the task handled by two girls who seem well versed in all things travel. I needed to borrow them for the next trip. Hell, with their level of efficiency, I should just move them into the guesthouse. They’d solve half of my organizational issues in a month.

I chewed cereal, heard zippers sound and doors open, then the two women wheeled a single suitcase by, polite smiles nodding my way. I let them out, returned to my breakfast, and heard the tone of a voicemail sound against the counter.

The damn woman called back within ten minutes, at the inconvenient moment when Brant stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, an apple in hand. He stepped forward, flipping the phone over. “Hey L.”

His eyes caught mine and he pulled the phone away from his ear, pressed a button and the speakerphone came on, Jillian’s reedy voice filling the kitchen.

“…maintenance crew has it now. They might need to order a part; they’re running diagnostic tests now. But there’s no way it is flight-worthy.”

Bullshit.
My eyes flicked to Brant’s. He said nothing, rubbed his neck as he stared at the phone.

Her sigh crackled through the phone. “I’m sorry, Brant. I hate that this ruins your trip. The plane should be back in order in a few weeks. Maybe you guys can reschedule after Vision 5’s launch.”

“It’s fine. Nothing you can do about it. I’m glad you caught us before we headed to the airport.” He reached forward, took the phone off speakerphone, and ended the call with a few short words. Then he tossed the phone on the counter, glancing at me with a wry look. “Sorry babe.”

I shrugged, squatting down to unzip my bag and unpack any liquid contents in excess of three ounces. “No big deal. I’ll grab my laptop. See what flights are open.”

He frowned, squinted his eyes. “Flights?”

I straightened. “Yeah. Commercial flights.”

“I… don’t fly commercial.”

I laughed, rising to my feet and staring at him. “What do you mean you don’t fly commercial? Your body doesn’t physically have the capabilities?”

His eyes hardened. “We’ll just go another time.”

“No.” I stared him down. “You’ll push it off and we’ll never go. I’ve already set everything up for this trip. You and I have never gone away together. Something always comes up. We’re going.”

“Commercial.” He said the word like it physically tasted bad on its way out of his mouth.

“Yes. First class. Toughen up.” This was interesting. Five minutes earlier, I would have said Brant didn’t have a snobby bone in his body. Didn’t need any of the trappings of wealth and luxury that he spent all day ignoring. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he gripped all of this as tightly as I did. Maybe he’d also be lost in a world that didn’t include massages and concierges and enough money to last the rest of our lives. I opened my laptop and turned my back to Brant. Brought up flights to Belize while cursing Jillian’s hand in this. It takes a meddler to know a meddler, and I’d bet ten thousand bucks that there was nothing wrong with the BSX jet.

“This is bullshit.”

“This is normal. Welcome to life.” I stared at the back of a Hawaiian shirt, the tourist before us having misunderstood San Francisco weather when making his travel plans, anticipating a sunny climate in which sandals and short sleeves would be appropriate in April. I knew this information from his wife, a scrawny woman with sharp elbows and a voice that carried, a voice that had lectured him on his packing choices for the last twenty minutes. Twenty minutes in which we had moved approximately halfway to the point in which our first class tickets would make a difference in our security clearance wait time. Twenty more minutes behind this couple. The flare of Brant’s nostrils warned me he wasn’t gonna make it.

He wasn’t handling this well. Had balked at the long-term lot we left his Aston in, not liking the looks of the parking attendants. Had been less crazy about wheeling his bag the half-mile stretch to the terminal. Didn’t understand, upon our arrival at the Delta counter, that the line of bodies stretching through the space all belonged to people ahead of us in line.

I was sick of his bitching. Hell, maybe this was the reason Jillian didn’t expect us to last. Maybe
this
was the deep, dark secret I had anticipated for the last nine months.

Brant was a public transportation pussy.

My brain winced at the crudeness of my inner thoughts, glancing around casually to make sure my obscenity wasn’t telegraphed.

Nope, all clear. The line ahead of us shifted and we stepped one beautiful step forward. I glanced at my watch, worried about the time. Too late, I yanked my wrist down. Tried to hide the motion with an elaborate yawn.

“We late?”

Brant had become obsessed with the time. He was certain we were going to miss the flight. Had checked his watch and calculated our rate of airport progression so many times that I took away his watch. Stuffed it into one of the nine zippered compartments of my Michael Kors bag.

“Nope,” I lied. “We’re good.”

“I don’t think we are. There are 121 people between the first security checkpoint and us. They seem to be processing individuals at a rate of fifteen to twenty seconds per interaction. If you take an average of eighteen seconds per person, then we are looking at almost twenty-two hundred seconds. Thirty-six minutes. Given that I can’t see the next stage of the process, we can only guess at the duration of that wait. But our tickets indicate that boarding ends fifteen minutes before departure. So unless your clock has a time of ten twelve or later, which would allow us a tight window of twenty minutes for the next stage of the security process, we will miss the plane.” He stared at my wrist as if the power of his stare alone could force the bones in my wrist to turn. I tucked my hands in my pockets out of pure stubbornness. Why couldn’t he be normal? The type of boyfriend who glanced at a watch and stated some unfounded prediction that we might miss our plane? I didn’t need intelligent foundations for my worries. I just wanted to move obliviously toward my demise. I noticed that the chatterbox in front of us had stopped talking about clothes and had moved into our space, gawking at Brant like he was an informational display, her pokey elbows jabbing into the girth of her husband. She stepped toward Brant, her head cocked, and I stifled a laugh at the alarm that crossed his face.

“Looks like you’ll have to recalculate,” I whispered, nodding my head toward a new line that opened to the right, the action catching the attention of our entire section, heads snapping, feet scurrying, as everyone did a jerky dance where they tried to decide to embark on a new path or stay in the soon-to-be-shorter current location. “Do we move?”

He watched the traffic, his eyes bouncing, then shook his head. “No.”

I stayed in place, stepping forward as our line thinned considerably. “I’m not sure you were right,” I said shortly, watching the speedy pace of the new line.

“About what?” He seemed calmer, the clench of his jaw less noticeable.

“This line being faster.”

“It’s not.”

I looked up at him, my hands pausing in their search for a mint. “What?”

“This line’s not faster. It’s gonna take an extra five to seven minutes in this line.”

I whipped my head right, looking in exasperation at the other line, Hawaiian shirt guy and his loud wife a good eight people closer to security than us. “Then why’d you tell me to stay here?” I couldn’t help it. I looked at my watch.

“I watched her.” He pointed to the wife of Hawaii. “Then decided on the opposite course of action.” He met my glare head on. The corner of his mouth crooked a little.

I couldn’t stop the laugh; it bubbled out with enough force that I had to sit, my ass on the edge of my suitcase, every ounce of the day’s stress leaving in that one moment. And suddenly, it didn’t matter if we made the plane or not. If the weekend was a disaster, or saved. All that mattered was that I was with him. I shook my head. Tilted my head back when he leaned down, tugging a soft hand on my ponytail as he kissed me. “I really do love you,” I whispered against his mouth.

“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” he replied, taking the time for an extra kiss. Behind us, an exasperated sigh sounded, the irritated tap of a feminine shoe making our holdup of the line known. He offered me his hand and hefted me to my feet, his other hand scooping up my suitcase and moving us a few steps closer to takeoff.

I might have gone years without discovering his secret. He certainly hid it well enough, Jillian a primary aid in that deception, a large part of her world dedicated to ruse control. I wasn’t the only clueless one. It was something the media, a force that loved Brant, had no clue about. Something his company executives were unaware of. And me, someone who saw the man once or twice a week, had his hands on my skin, his mouth in my ear, his eyes on my own… it took nine months for me to discover the secret. It could have taken even longer. I look back now and see very little clues.

But the closer we grew, the more time in each other’s presence… it was only a matter of time. I now understood Jillian’s fight, her battle to keep us apart, the minor things she did to place obstacles in our way.

As it was, I discovered his secret on our first night in paradise.

There was the flap of curtains in pitch-blackness when I woke up. The crash of waves put me in my bedroom but the air was wrong. Not the icy Californian chill, but a balmy caress, warm enough to comfort, cool enough to kiss my skin. I sat up, my eyes adjusting, the white linen curtains billowing in the wind, the glow of the moon becoming visible. I relaxed back against the sheets, rolled, stretched out my arms, feeling nothing but emptiness beside me. Stilling, I listened, lifting my head when I didn’t hear anything. “Brant?”

Dead silence. No one in our suite but me. I slid off of the bed, my bare feet slapping across the floor as I made my way to the bathroom. Found my purse and pulled out my cell. Powered it on.

This resort didn’t believe in electronics; they were of the mindset that you couldn’t relax unless you ‘Got Away From It All!’ and ‘Returned To Nature!’ It was one of those concepts that seemed like a good idea until we got here. Within two hours we realized our attachment to air conditioning and Internet, our technology withdrawals peaking at the moment when we failed to find in-room electrical outlets to charge our cells. I flipped on the bathroom light and watched my Samsung go through its opening scripts, the time finally displaying. 1:22 AM.
Late
.

I called Brant’s cell, realizing, as it went to voicemail, that his cell was off, its battery-saving mission more important than my own. I stepped to his suitcase, unzipping its top and digging through it, looking for the brick of his cell. What I wasn’t looking for, when my hand shoved aside underwear and swim trunks, was the ring box.

Oh no
. My hand froze, as I stared at the black velvet box.
No. No. No
. A woman got proposed to only once, assuming she picked wisely. It should be handled perfectly, the correct amount of delighted surprise filling her eyes. This discovery, at this moment in time, might ruin my reaction. I reached forward, brushing my fingers over its surface, and fought the urge to pull it out. Flip it open. Take a little peek.