Dirty Red (Love Me With Lies) (30 page)

What I want for myself is the family I put together through blood, sweat and toil. I want it all to mean something. I won, fair and square. The bitch had him between her f
ist, and I took him back. Why is my fucking prize trying to divorce me? I collect myself, all the shredded angry pieces, and I rope them back together so I can take control. Vicious doesn’t work with Caleb. You can reason with him. He has stout British honor and American practicality.

“I want what you swore to give me. You said you’d never hurt me! You said you’d love me for better or worse!”

“I did. I didn’t know…” He covers his face with his hands. I’m not sure if I want him to go on. His accent, his goddamn accent.

“You didn’t know what, Caleb? That you were still hung up on your first love?”

His head comes up. I’ve caught his attention.

“I found the ring. After you had the accident. Why did you buy me a ring if you still loved her?”

His face is ashen. I keep going.

“It’s not real. Those feelings that you have are for someone and something that no longer exist. I am real. Estella is real. Be with us.”

Still he says nothing.  

I
take a minute to sob. Where does he come off thinking that he has the answer to happiness? I thought I had the answer, and look where it got me. Caleb once told me that love was a desire and desire was an emptiness. I remind him of this. He looks shocked, like he can’t believe I was capable of even understanding those words. Maybe I’ve played stupid with him long enough.  

“It’s not that simple, Leah.”

“You do the best you can, with what you have. You can’t leave us. We are your truth.” I slam my fist into my palm.

He swears, laces his hands behind his neck and looks at the sky. I don’t feel bad for using the guilt card. The guilt card is solid. It always pays out with interest. When he looks back at me
, he’s not wearing the contrite face I was hoping for.

“You and I don’t know how to play the truth game.” He blows air through his nose.

I would have let that comment slip by in abeyance, but I can sense an underlying meaning beneath his words, and I am compelled to dig.

“What are you talking about?”

Caleb’s eyes park on my face. I squirm. “Why did you do those things? Blackmailing Olivia
… trashing her apartment? ”

I don’t hesitate. “Because I love you.”

He nods, seeming to accept it. I feel hopeful. Maybe he will see what I did as a fight for love.

“You and I are not so different.” He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the tile and smiles like he’s just swallowed a mouthful of grapefruit. His eyes are clear and wide when he looks up at me: maple syrup without the sweetness.

 “Leah…” he sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. I brace myself for what he’s about to say, but nothing can prepare me for what comes out of his mouth.

“That ring was hers, Leah.”

I feel the shock move through me, as if it is a physical thing like blood. It rushes and pulls and tears. Then, he says the words that change everything.

“I faked the amnesia.”

I hear each word separately. I have to mentally latch on to each one and put them back together so I can understand. But, I don’t understand. Why would he do that?

“Why? Your family
… me … why would you do that to us?”

“Olivia,” is all he says.

It’s all he needs to say for me to put all of the pieces together. I decide that I hate the color of maple syrup. I’d rather choke and die on a mouthful of dry pancakes, than ever eat maple syrup again.  

“Fuck you,” I say. Then, I say it again. And again. And again. I say it until I am in a fetal position on the ground, and all I can think about is throwing every bottle of fucking maple syrup out of my fridge and out of my life forever.

My head spins. I’ve never felt anything so painful. My heart heaves and contracts. It feels heavy and then it feels like it’s not there at all — like he stuck his hand through my ribcage and squeezed until it burst. It feels like I have a thousand ton elephant sitting on my chest. I weakly try to hold on to my reserve, but I feel it being torn away from me. Something inside of me uncoils. With an awkward jerk of my head, I glare up at him with all the hatred I am feeling. 

He stands with his back to me until I am done crying, and when I stand up
, he faces me.

“I know that to merely say
sorry
would be an insult. I am more than sorry for what I’ve done. I married you when all along I belonged to someone else. I have been lying to everyone. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

I am emotionally inebriated. I don’t know whether to make him watch me slit my wrists or slit his and put an end to my misery. My face has become a swamp of tears and mascara and nose leakage. I want to hurt him.

“You think you can leave us and be happy? She’s gone, Caleb,” I sneer. “Wedded … bedded — “ I see him flinch, and my rage climbs higher.

I lick my lips and taste wine. I’ve had too much of it, and my tongue is ready to curl around every ugly secret I own and spit them at him, one by one, until he’s asphyxiated from the incredible weight of them. I want to take away his breath, crush his windpipe, and with what I know, I surely can.

Where to start? I contemplate telling him that I’ve met Noah and that he’s fucking sexy Ghandi — that I understand why Olivia was able to move on.

I shake my head, tears burn like lemon juice in my eyes. I need to know it all. What he did during those weeks that I thought she was taking advantage of him.

“Did you sleep with her — during your pretend fucking amnesia?”

There is an uncomfortably long pause, which I consider answer enough.

“Yes.” His voice is suddenly raspy.

“Have you ever been in love with me?”

He dips his head as he thinks.

“I love you,” he says, “b
ut, not in the right way.”

My heart plummets as realization sets in. He loves me
— he’s never been
in
-love with me.

“You don’t love me the same way you love Olivia.”

He flinches like I’ve hit him. For a moment, his guard is down, and I see so much hurt on his face that I am taken aback. He covers it quickly.

He looks sorry, he really does
— or maybe it’s just my vision that is blurred because of my tears. I collapse in a heap again and pull my knees up to my chest.

I hear him slide down next to me. For a long time, neither of us says anything. I am mentally replaying the year he spent pretending to have amnesia, revisiting the conversations and doctor’s visits. I cannot find a single crack in his story. I fight through the memories, trying to find at least a moment in that year where I sensed he was being untruthful, but there is nothing. I feel like such a fool. So used. How could I be so in love with a man that was so willing to deceive me? I feel like a piece of trash, disposable and unwanted. I know that I am a mess; my tears have caught strands of my hair and plastered them to my face
— a face that always gets blotchy and red when I cry. I have never let him see me like this, not even when my father died.

There are so many questions, so many things that I need to know, but my tongue stubbornly stays glued to the roof of my mouth. Caleb tried to get Olivi
a back. Not once, but twice — first when he faked the amnesia, and the second time when he hired her to be my attorney. If he wanted her so badly, why hadn’t he left me when he had the chance? It wasn’t in his nature to drag his feet.

I shake at his honesty. The stinging truth of how I had pressured him into proposing to me after I chased Olivia out of tow
n echoes in my head. No. This is not my fault. He didn’t have to marry me. I may have played fiercely to keep him, but I thought that he loved me, that he wanted to spend his life with me. He never showed me otherwise. Then I realize something else: Caleb is not as good as I have always thought him to be. His integrity, his honesty, the pure and selfless way he takes care of the people he loves … it all evaporates in light of this new, deceitful Caleb. My God — he did everything in his power to get to her, and I did everything in my power to keep her away.

Have
I always known in the back of my mind that I am second choice? Lots of people have first loves that they never really get over, but how could I have grasped the degree of his obsession with Olivia? What kind of woman am I if I knowingly married a man that didn’t love me? He is a thief. He stole my life; he stole hers. Goddamn, why am I even thinking about her life?

My first clear thought is that I want to make him pay. I flash to an irrational thought, where I picture myself hogtying Olivia and dumping her in the Everglades for the gators to deal with. Of course I would never do that
— I would hire someone to do it for me. I file through all of the other emotional bombs I can drop on him. I have told so many lies that I have an entire buffet of shadiness to choose from. I pluck out the worst one and rub my chin on my shoulder. This one will hurt him, probably deeper than anything that I could do or say about Olivia. Ready … set …

“Estella isn’t yours.”

Epilogue

Hate is such a prodigious feeling. It’s hot and oppressive like fire. It starts by burning through your God-given reason until there is nothing left of it but a mound of ash. It moves on to your humanity next, hot tongues flicking across the few
remaining threads of innocence until they melt into each other and morph into something ugly. Then, in the rubble of what you were, hate plants a seed of bitterness. The seed grows to a vine and the vine chokes what it touches. That’s where I am; the vine wrapped so tightly around my neck I can barely breathe. One hand is on that vine, the other is pressed against my chest to keep everything from falling out.

He told me he loved me. He was supposed to protect me from hurt, not inflict it in the cruelest of ways. He betrayed me. I’m dying. I’m dead. Why am I still breathing? God, I don’t know how to make the hurt stop.

I still have backbone. I’ve been crippled in other ways, but I still have a backbone. His arms were warm. Now, the only warmth I feel is from the blood still pounding through my veins. That’s how I know I’m alive. I’ve faked orgasms. I’ve faked smiles. I’ve faked happiness. Caleb faked amnesia and then he faked an entire relationship. I took a hammer to his shins for it. He thought Olivia could hurt him, I’ll hurt him worse. I’ll keep hurting him. And if he goes after her again, I’ll rise up and do everything in my power to keep them apart. Some people never change. I guess I’m one of them.  

I’m defiant by nature. My defiance evoked the Opportunist
. My defiance pressed the self-publishing button on Amazon. But, no matter how spunky I think I am, it took a hell of a lot of people to push me through this process.  I’d like to thank some of them. 

Mom, for telling me beautiful lies and nurturing the writer in me. Your stories and ‘only child’ indulgences fueled what I am today.
 

Dad, for thinking I’m the greatest thing ever. It’s important for your dad to think you’re the greatest thing ever.
 

Rhonda and Mark Reynolds
, for believing in me and sacrificing for my story. 

Jeff
Capshaw, for giving me that initial shove to publish, and for the constant stream of books and music suggestions that fuel my creativity. (Rainer Maria Rilke rocks!)

Tosha
Khoury, for possibly being the biggest Opportunist fan and supporter. Thank you for loving me and for sharing Snow White.  

Melissa Brown, Kerry Ann Ramey,
Calia Read and Rebecca Espinoza for being the first eyes to see this book. Thank you for your thoughts and encouragement. Maria Gowin, for your sharp eyes and willingness to help clean up my text.

To all of the readers! Cheers to you! Your enthusiasm and red hot anger, kept me writing.

Luisa Hansen, one of the best moments of 2012 was when I found out someone created a fan site for me. A damn fan site! The Pressed Penny rocks! So do the Passionate Little Nutcase shirts. 

Sarah Hansen (not related to Luisa)
, thank you for your beautiful cover. You are a giving and talented wench. I love your angry eyebrows. 

Tricia
Tulchin Boozer, so glad you are the face of my villain. You are beautiful and funny and honest.

My intense and hands on agent, Andrea Barzvi. Thank you for your expertise and your questions about the story, which made it better. I feel lucky to be in your capable hands. Most of all, I appreciate your willingness to love a villain. 

James, not a day since I met you have you doubted that I would sell books. Thank you for pushing me out the door every night so I could go write. Thank you for believing I could do this, more than I believed it .

And finally, Lori Sabin and Jonathan Rodriguez, my two closest friends. You both allow me inside your respective brains, where I pillage and steal all of your good ideas. Your grey matter makes me a better writer and a better person. Thanks for saving my story and my sanity and everything else in between. I hate you for your sheer artistic brilliance. I love you for your kindness. I bow.