Listen for the Lie(52)

I still need to decide what “all” will be.

I’m not actually interested in sharing my sob story with the podcast universe. I was never all that interested in telling anyone except Savvy.

She understood that. She didn’t take my hand and gently suggest we march down to the police station. She didn’t ask, “Why don’t you just leave?”

She said, “That’s usually when men kill the woman. When they try to leave.”

And I said, “I actually don’t think Matt would do that.”

“Is that really a risk you want to take?” she’d asked.

No. It wasn’t.

And she knew. Right away, she knew that I didn’t want to just leave.

I wanted fucking revenge.

“Let’s Thelma and Louise this shit,” she’d said, and I’d laughed.

I can’t very well tell my abused-wife sob story to everyone when I once laughed about killing my husband. That’s not cool.

My laptop dings with a message from Ben.

Want to grab a drink tonight?

And do the interview?

No. Interview tomorrow, maybe?

I sigh and start to type, Can we just get this over with already? I quickly delete it. That’s not something an innocent person would say.

Downstairs, I hear Mom laugh loudly, as if she’s inside my head.

Ben saves me from having to type anything at all. Meet me in an hour at Bluebonnet Tavern?

I can feel that this is a bad idea by the way I glance over at my closet to see which dress I should wear. I’m relieved that I have an hour, so I have time to do my hair and put on makeup. There’s danger here, and I should say no. No, Ben, I’ll see you for the interview. Text me then. That’s what I should send.

Sure, see you in an hour, is what I actually send.



* * *



I’m at Bluebonnet an hour later. I chose the purple dress, which I rationalized by telling myself that he’d already seen me in it. I’d been wearing it the day we met, at the diner. It’s cotton, casual. Not a date dress. It’s a “too fucking hot for pants” dress.

Bluebonnet is big and bright, the large windows at the front letting in plenty of the early evening sunlight. The floors and walls are wood, the latter covered in Texas decor so we won’t forget which state we’re in. There’s a Texas flag, a Don’t Mess with Texas sign, and a bulletin board advertising various Hill Country wine tours. A bright Real Ale sign flickers as I walk by it.

Ben is already sitting at the bar, wearing a blue button-up shirt with sleeves pushed to his elbows. It’s a date shirt, I note. One that’s too warm for this weather. I try not to read too much into it.

He smiles when he spots me. I slide onto the stool next to him.

“Hey. Thanks for coming.”

I glance at his drink, which is pink. “Is that a cosmo?”

“Why do you say it like that? Cosmos are delicious. And they’re the happy hour special.”

“I didn’t say it like anything.”

The bartender, a pretty woman with dark hair cut into an angled bob, approaches and looks at me expectantly.

“I’ll have one too.” I point to his drink. I don’t drink hard liquor often, and I ignore the voice in the back of my head that says I should take this purple dress home.

“You got it.” She walks away to make the drink.

Savvy is on the other side of the bar in her place suddenly. I want to look away, but she looks so real. I have to remind myself that she’s a product of my twisted, damaged brain.

She leans closer to me. Even in my hallucination, she smells a little like smoke. She only smoked when she drank, but, well, she drank a lot.

“You know what I would do,” she says with a grin.

I shift on my barstool.

“I’d let him fuck me in the bathroom.” She has a wistful look in her eye. “And then probably out back behind the bar too. Remember that time you found me in the parking lot of the Charles? That guy had me bent over the hood of his car, my naked ass in the air, and you rushed over because you thought he was raping me? And I had to be like, oh no, honey, this was my idea.”

Ben takes a sip of his drink. “Why do people judge men for ordering pink drinks? It’s weird to gender drinks.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not wearing a bra under that dress, are you?” Savvy asks. “I approve.” She winks at me and disappears. I let out a long breath.

“Men are lying when they say they don’t like fruity drinks. That guy over there with a beer wishes he had my cosmo.”

I laugh, which makes his face brighten. The bartender returns with my drink and I take a sip. It’s strong, thank god.

A burst of laughter explodes from behind me, and I look to see a group of women at a corner booth, many empty margarita glasses in front of them. A waiter is putting new ones down.

A dark-haired woman on the end of the booth is draining the last of her margarita, and she barely takes a breath before she grabs the new one and takes a long sip. It’s Nina.

She chugs half the margarita down in two gulps, and the other women explode into giggles again.

“You better go ahead and bring another one,” she says to the waiter. He laughs and nods.

For someone who said she doesn’t drink much, she sure is putting away those margaritas.