Black Lies (34 page)

He looks down, a hard swallow moving through his throat as I watch his hands clench, his mouth tightening into a hard line. He looks up, his eyes wet, his face red with emotion, and we stare at each other.

I
do
love him. I must. Otherwise I wouldn’t be breaking right now.

He closes his eyes, drops his head. Speaks without looking at me. “Call the doc back, Lucky. Let him take me out.”

I swallow. “You’re leaving?”

He shrugged his shoulders without looking up. “According to him, I can let go. Go wander in lala-land or disappear into Brant somewhere. Dissolve into fucking nothing. I’ll let him walk me through the process. I don’t want you here for it.”

I want to hug him. I want him to wrap his strong arms around me and kiss me and give me one last moment. I want him to dig his fingers into my skin and pull me into him like he can’t get enough. I am selfish. I want it even if it breaks him. Instead, I stand. “I’ll look for you in Brant. He could use a little more Lee.”

“Yeah. Whatever, Lucky.”

Then I stand and walk to the door. Stand there for a moment and wait to see if he’ll look up, give me one last contact, but he doesn’t. He stares at the floor and I never get a final look at his eyes.

I open the door and leave a part of my heart in the room.

I wait in the lounge area of the doctor’s office for four hours. I pace. Watch TV. Inhale every mini-chocolate that is held in the receptionist’s glass dish. I have reached a new level of jittery. Feel like the time in high school, when Dianna Forge’s parents were out of town and four of us held an Uppers and Manicures party in their guesthouse. We rolled and giggled and rummaged through her parents’ bedroom until we found a dildo and their liquor cabinet. Shared sips of something bitter and expensive. It was all fun and games until everyone passed out and I was the only one awake and the uppers wore off and took me really, really low. I blinked and ground my teeth until 5AM, when the meds finally died down enough to let my body crash.

Today I’m not staring at three bleach-blonde heads, paranoid that we have taken too many pills, or that Dianna’s parents might come back from Cabo early. I’m not on a pharmaceutical mix of stupidity. I am, instead, shaking with nerves, waiting alone to see if my future husband comes back as two men or one.

I finally leave. Tell the receptionist I am headed home and to call me when it looks like they are close to wrapping up. I take Brant’s car and tear up the highway to Windere. When I arrive, I skip the shower and crawl into bed fully dressed. Pressing the button to close the blinds, the room darkens into pitch black, the hum of the fan my lullaby for sleep. I close my eyes, my legs twitchy and aching from pacing, and wrap a blanket around myself. Willing my mind to stop moving, I say a long prayer for Brant.

Somewhere during the prayer, I fall asleep.

My cell wakes me, my body jerking into consciousness, legs kicking the blanket off before my hand finds the phone. I answer it while moving off the bed, my hand groping through the dark for the light switch, my feet finding shoes before my hand finds wall. “Hello.”

“Ms. Fairmont, this is Irene from Dr. Terra’s office. He wanted me to tell you that he and Mr. Sharp are almost done.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Thanks Irene.” I hang up the cell and step out of the bedroom into the hall, my steps breaking into a jog. Soon, I will have him back. In whatever shape that comes in. I don’t even care at this point. I just want him.

When he walks out of the office, toward the idling car, the wind buffering his shirt back against his strong frame, I smile. Brant is back. The same Brant who shook my hand three years ago at the HYA Gala. The same Brant who repeatedly proposed to me despite my denials. The weight of his shoulders, the haunted look that had appeared the day I ruined his life, is gone. His confidence is back, the strong pull of his hand around my waist surprising, as is the possessive kiss he plants on my mouth.

“Everything okay?”

He studies me for a quick moment, his hand still gripped around me as if he has no plans of letting me go. Then he smiles. “We’re good. Let’s go, we can talk in the car.” He returns to my mouth without waiting for a response, my breath taken by the force of his kiss, stronger than I am used to from him, the type of kiss that guarantees a long and lengthy fuck the minute we step inside the house. He releases my mouth and my waist but pulls on my hand, heading for the car.

“What happened?” I speak the moment the car is in drive, hours of waiting and anxiety spilling out in two words.

“Dr. Terra spoke to Lee. He agreed to leave.”

I wait for more. Wait some more. “And?” I finally say.

“And he left.”

I glance at my watch. “It’s been seven hours.”

He frowns, glancing away from the road, his hands sliding effortlessly across the steering wheel as he downshifts, the smooth motion reminding me of his hands across my skin, and the fact that we haven’t been together in almost three weeks. “Seven hours?” He checks his watch. “Wow. I…” he glances at his watch again, then at the dash clock to verify. “He must have been in Lee’s head longer than I realized.”

I look away from him, out the window. “Dr. Terra didn’t tell you what was involved in Lee leaving?”
For you, I’ll do it. I’ll fucking kill myself inside of him
. Lee’s words come back to haunt me.

“No. I mean… other than the fact that Lee had to accept it. The likelihood of success is much more possible if he is a willing participant.”

“So, he’s gone? Won’t ever be back?” My words behave. Come out level and unaffected.

“I’m not cured. He’s keeping me on medication… the same drug I’ve been taking the last few weeks. My chances of reoccurrence are high, especially if my emotions or stress get out of control. And I’m to avoid alcohol. You know that; you were there when he went through those rules.”

I nod. While Brant has been in full-day therapy sessions for the last few weeks, most of my participation has been behind the glass wall, watching the sessions and getting to eavesdrop on some of the instruction. Brant’s new life involves lots of rules. Lots of structure. Opposite of the life Jillian had him leading. Brant’s subconscious had created additional personalities to take over when his mind felt overwhelmed. When he was young, it was because his brain couldn’t handle the constant assault of his intelligence, the nonstop brain functions causing a short of sorts that resulted in another personality, one that was slower and stupider and emotionally unstable. When he was older, it happened when he was under extreme stress, or in strange situations, or anxious over something. It was no coincidence he had switched the night before his initial proposal to me. Or the days before a new product release or company merger. A risk that was only increased by the medications fed to him by Jillian. With the new rules, new structure, and the fact that he now knows of his condition, we are hoping for him to live a relatively un-switching life. One that doesn’t include any outside presences, including one troublesome sex machine I already miss.

I watch the ivy-covered walls of Windere move by, the garage coming into view, the slow stop of the car final. I feel his fingers cup the back of my neck, threading through the mess of curls that spill over my shoulders. “You okay?”

I turn and look into his eyes. See the man who I fell in love with before I knew of Lee. The man who, in Belize, I was prepared to marry. “Yes,” I whisper. “I’m good.”

He puts the car in park. Unbuckles his belt and leans forward. Pulls me forward until we are close. “I will be more,” he says gruffly. “I’m going to be everything he was too.”

I close my eyes. Try to calm my heart before I open them back. Find his eyes on me as soon as they do. “You are everything I need, Brant.”

“I will be,” he says, leaning forward until our lips are a breath away. “I promise you, one day I will be.”

Then he presses his lips to me and, for a moment, I taste Lee.

I stand before a full-length mirror and do not see my mother. It is an odd thought to have on your wedding day, yet it is a happy notation. I turn, expensive hands rushing to adjust the train of my gown, the beaded edges that frame my back. I am beautiful, San Francisco’s most elite wedding planner guaranteeing that fact, every detail around me perfectly coordinated to pull off the most immaculate tiny wedding ever had.

There will be none of society’s elite here today. No fake smiles of the women I have pretended, for so many years, to like. We will be a small party of nine: Brant’s parents and my own, Anna and Christine, Brant and I, plus our flower girl. My relationship with Brant’s parents has changed. We aren’t close, Brant’s own relationship with them stilted from his years of isolation due to Jillian’s controlling hand. But the lines between them are mending, his family unit becoming less dysfunctional as time passes and trust grows. I turn, hearing the squeal of our flower girl before she arrives, a bundle of white careening around the corner and coming to a short halt before the mirror.

“Wow,” Hannah breathes, her eyes on the mirror. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks sweetheart.” I hold out a hand and an attendant helps me down the pedestal stairs, where I crouch before the little girl. “You look equally beautiful.” I pick up her small hand and widen my eyes, impressed at her cherry pink nails.

“A lady did them.” She plops down on the carpet, unmindful of the mini Dior that christens her body. Gripping a thousand dollar jeweled slipper and ripping it off, she holds up her bare foot, wiggling the toes before me. “Look! My toes match!”

“Very impressive.” I smile. “Got your petal tossing technique down?” I pass her shoe back and watch as she pulls it on, a small pink tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth in concentration.

Task complete she looks up with a smile, jumping to her feet and making exaggerated tossing gestures, complete with mini jumps. “Yep!” she beams.

“Awesome.” I hold up my fist and she bumps a mini version with it, giggling when we ‘blow it up.’

“Where’s Mister Brant?” she suddenly asks, looking around.

I shrug, rising to my feet. “Not sure. Why don’t you go track him down and escort him to the garden? We don’t want him to be late for the ceremony.”

She nods solemnly, the importance of her task taken very seriously. “I’ll find him right now,” she promises, before turning and, with a peal of laughter, taking off through the open doorway.

I turn back to the mirror, straightening the line of the dress.

“She’s an adorable little girl,” the woman behind me says, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

I nod, smiling at the memory of Hannah aboard our jet, her hands touching every surface twice before the plane even took off. “She is. Always has been. Adorable with a side of demon,” I warn her. “Keep an eye on her; she finds trouble as quickly as hugs.” A timely crash sounds from the direction of the kitchen, sending the woman before me fleeing. I laugh, stepping toward the vanity and grabbing the final piece of today, the diamond studs that Brant gave me our first Christmas together, putting them on as I stare in the mirror.