Love Me With Lies 03 Thief (22 page)

“What’s the matter with you?”

She rubbed her hand down my chest. I caught it before it reached the top of my pants.

“Jet lag,” I said, standing up.

Olivia.

She puckered her mouth sympathetically.

I’d been lying on the hotel bed for about ten minutes while Leah spoke to her mother on the phone. Now that her phone call was over, she was making her intentions known. I wandered over to the window so I could be out of her reach.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I said. Before she could ask if I wanted company, I closed the bathroom door and locked it behind me. I needed to run to clear my head, but how could I explain a midnight run in a foreign country to my suicidal, overly emotional wife? God, if I started running, I might never come back. I stepped into the shower and stood under the scalding hot water, letting it fill my nose and my eyes and my mouth. I wanted to let it drown me. How was I supposed to do life after what just happened? Leah knocked on the door. I heard her say something, but her voice was muffled. I couldn’t look at her right now. I couldn’t look at myself.
How did I just do that?
Walked away from the only thing that made sense. I almost had her and I just gave up. I used ‘had her’ loosely, because you can never really have Olivia. She floated around like a vapor, causing friction and then running away. But, I’d always wanted to play the game. I wanted the friction.

You had to do it,
I tell myself. It was a
you-made-the-bed
situation. And I was taking responsibility for my actions. Counseling, the endless marriage counseling. The guilt. The need to fix things. The confusion about whether or not I’m doing the right thing. The faking of my amnesia was my one rogue moment, when I stepped away from myself and did what I wanted to do without thought to consequences. I was a coward. I was raised to do what was socially acceptable.

I stood under the water until it turned cold, then I dried myself off and stepped out of the bathroom. My wife — thank God — had fallen asleep on top of the covers. I felt instant relief. I wouldn’t have to act tonight. Her red hair was spread out around her like a fiery halo. I tossed a blanket over her, grabbed my bottle of wine and retreated to the balcony to get drunk. It was still raining when I sat in one of the chairs and propped my feet up on the railing. I never had to “act” with Olivia. We just fit — our moods, our thoughts … even our hands.

Once, during her senior year, she bought a gardenia bush to put outside her apartment. She fawned over that thing like it was a dog, Googled ways to take care of it and then made notes in one of those spiral notebooks. She even named it.
Patricia
, I think. Every day she’d squat on her haunches outside her front door and examine Patricia to see if a flower had bloomed. I watched her face when she came back inside — she always wore this look of hopeful determination.
Not yet
, she’d say to me, as if all of her hope for life was tied into that gardenia plant blooming a flower. That’s what I loved about her, that grim determination to survive even though the odds seemed to always be against her. Despite all of Olivia’s plant nurturing, Patricia slowly started to fade away, her leaves curling at the tips and turning brown. Olivia would stare at that plant, a crease forming between her eyebrows and her little mouth puckered in a frown worth kissing. Florida had an especially cold winter that year. One morning when I got to her apartment, Patricia was clearly dead. I jumped into my car and sped off to Home Depot where I’d seen them selling the same bushes. Before my little love cracked her eyes open, I replaced her dead plant with a healthy one, repotting it over the grass in front of her building. I threw the old one in the dumpster and washed my hands in the pool before knocking on her door. She checked on it when she opened the door for me that morning, and her eyes lit up when she saw the healthy green leaves. I don’t know if she ever suspected what I’d done, she never said anything. I took care of it without her knowing, sticking plant food into the pot before I knocked on her door. My mother always put used tea bags in the soil around her rose bushes. I did that a couple times too. Right before we broke up, that damn plant bloomed a flower. I’d never seen her so excited. The look on her face was the same as when I’d missed the shot for her.

If she came back and stood in that same spot beneath my hotel room, I’d probably jump right off the balcony to get to her.
It’s not too late,
I told myself.
You can find out where she’s staying. Go to her.

I loved Olivia. I loved her with every fiber of my being, but I was married to Leah. I’d made a commitment to Leah — no matter how stupid that was. I was in. For better or worse. I had a brief moment when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore, but that was in the past. Before she’d gotten pregnant with my baby and swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills.

Right?

Right.

I shook the bottle of wine. I was halfway through.

When a woman carried your baby in her body, you started seeing everything a little differently. The impossible became slightly less fucked. The ugly picked up a pretty glow. The unforgivable woman looked a little less stained. Kind of like when you’d been drinking. I finished the bottle and set it on its side on the floor. It rolled away and hit the balcony railing with a
ting
. I was in a baby coma. And I needed to wake the fuck up.

I closed my eyes and I saw her face. I opened my eyes and saw her face. I stood up, tried to focus on the rain, the city lights, the fucking Spanish Steps — and I saw her face. I had to stop seeing her face so I could be a good husband to Leah. She deserved that.

Right?

Right.

We flew out four days later. We barely had time to recover from the jet lag before it was time to leave again. It’s not like I could focus on the trip with my ex floating somewhere around the city. I looked for Olivia at the airport, in restaurants, in cabs that splashed water on my ankles as they drove past. She was everywhere and nowhere. What were the chances that she’d be on our flight? If she was, I’d…

She wasn’t on our flight. But, I thought about her for the nine hours it took to fly across the Atlantic. My favorite memories — the tree, Jaxson’s, the orange grove, the cake fight. Then I thought about the bad ones — mostly things she made me feel, the constant thought that she was going to leave me, the blatant way she refused to admit that she loved me. It was all so childish and tragic. I glanced at my wife. She was reading magazines and drinking cheap airplane wine. She took a sip and grimaced when she swallowed.

“Why do you order it if you don’t like it?”

“It’s better than nothing, I suppose,” she said, looking out the window.
Telling,
I thought. I opened the book I brought with me and stared at the ink. For nine gracious hours, Leah left me alone. I’d never been so grateful for cheap wine. When we landed in Miami, she dashed to the bathroom to reapply her makeup while I waited in line for Starbucks. By the time we made it to baggage claim, I was in one of the worst moods of my life.

“What’s wrong with you now?” she said. “You’ve been distracted this whole trip. It’s really annoying.”

I glared at her from behind my sunglasses and grabbed one of her bags off the belt. I flung it down so hard; it wobbled on its fancy fucking rotating wheels. Who traveled with two large suitcases when they went away for five days?

“You’re supposed to be working on this with me. You’re not even mentally with me right now.”

She was right.

“Let’s go home,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “I want to sleep for twelve hours straight and eat three meals in bed.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the mouth. It took effort to kiss her back so she wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. When she keened into my mouth, I knew I was every bit as good at lying to her as I was at lying to myself.

My car tires kick up gravel as I speed out of the parking lot. How could she? I run my hand through my hair. Why wouldn’t either of them have told me? They are such vicious, catty women; you’d think they would have come running with the information. All I can think, as I speed on the 95 toward Leah, is of the little girl that still bears my name. The one she told me I was not a parent to. Was that a lie? If Leah lied about Estella’s parentage, I would kill her myself.

Estella, with her beautiful red curls and her blue eyes — but she had my nose. I’d been so sure of it until Leah told me that she was someone else’s. Then her nose had shifted. I thought that I was seeing things because I wanted so badly for her to be mine.

My mouth feels dry as I pull into her driveway. A million years ago it had been
my
driveway.
My
wife had been in that house. I broke it all apart because of the love I had for a ghost — a married ghost.

God.
I think of Olivia now and a peace settles over me. She might not be mine, but I’m hers. It’s no use even fighting it anymore. I just keep falling flat on my face and then rolling toward her. If I can’t have Olivia Kaspen, then I’ll be alone. She is a disease I have. After ten years, I am finally realizing that I can’t cure it with other women.

I push the door to the car open and step out. Leah’s SUV is parked in her usual spot. I walk past it and up the stairs to the front door. It’s open. Walking into the foyer, I close the door behind me. Glancing around, I see that the living room is a mess of toys — a Cabbage Patch doll lays on its head next to a pile of naked Barbies. I step over a tricycle, heading toward the kitchen. I hear my name.

“Caleb?”

Leah stands in the doorway to the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hand. I blink a few times. I’ve never seen Leah hold anything but a martini glass. She dries her hands with the towel and tosses it on the counter, walking toward me.

“Are you okay? What are you doing here?”

My chest heaves with everything that wants to come out. I grind my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crumble beneath the pressure. Leah notices what I’m doing and raises her eyebrows.

“Oh,” she says. She beckons me to the kitchen. I follow her and watch as she pulls a bottle of tequila from the cabinet. She pours two shots, takes one of them, and refills the glass.

“We fight better with tequila,” she says, handing one to me.

I don’t want to drink the liquor. Adding it to the fire that is already coursing through me can only mean danger. I look at the clear liquid and bring it to my lips. If Leah wants fire, I’m going to give it to her.

“Where’s Estella?”

“Asleep.”

I set my glass on the counter.

Good.

I walk toward my ex-wife. She backs up, her nostrils flaring.

“Tell me what you did.”

“I’ve done a lot of things,” she shrugs, trying to play it cool, “you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Olivia.”

Her name pings between us, ripping open old wounds and spraying blood across the room. Leah is furious.

“Don’t say that name in my house.”