Listen for the Lie(65)

Interview and stay? Is that like the podcaster version of Netflix and chill?

Maybe.

I have to write for a few hours. I can come later.

Okay. Does Nina know you know?

Not unless Matt told her.

Do me a favor and don’t say anything yet.

I should be more protective of my high school best friend, but I know exactly why Nina was dropping by to see Matt in the middle of the night, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

No problem.



* * *



Ben greets me at his hotel room door with a smile. He’s barefoot, in jeans and a faded T-shirt. It’s cute in a way I both hate and love.

“Let’s do this,” he says, walking to the small table in the corner where the mics are set up. “Then I thought we could order some food?”

I nod. He turns on the microphones.

“You saw Matt recently?” he prompts.

“Yeah, he showed up at my house last night. He wanted to talk about…” I trail off, deliberately. “He just wanted to talk. And I wanted to know who he was fighting with that night after getting home, so I went out to talk to him. I’d been trying to get in touch with him for days, but he’s been ignoring me.”

“Did he tell you?”

“Yeah. He said it was Nina Garcia.”

“I told you she was a bitch,” Savvy says. I try my best to ignore her.

“Did he say why she was dropping by in the middle of the night? And why he lied about it?”

“He sure didn’t. But … well, you’ve heard what people have been saying about our marriage. I doubt she was coming over so they could go play checkers together.”

Ben’s mouth twists like he’s trying not to laugh. He makes me recount the whole conversation, which means I have to carefully navigate around our discussion of Julia and that moment when I let him kiss me.

Not how innocent people act.

“Okay, it’s off,” Ben says, switching the mic off when we finish. “I guess we know now why Nina doesn’t like me.”

“Or it’s just your personality.”

He winks at me.



* * *



I wake up in his bed, alone. The clock on the nightstand says 3:38, and I roll over to see the bathroom door open, the room dark. Light filters in under the door from the living room.

I slide out of bed, find my underwear and tank top on the floor, and pull them on. I push open the door and peek out.

Ben sits on the ground next to the sliding glass door, wearing a T-shirt and boxer briefs. It’s cracked open, and he’s smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out the door. A half-finished drink is on the floor next to him.

He turns when I step outside the bedroom. “Hey.”

“Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head and then holds the joint out, offering it to me.

“No, thanks.” I walk across the room and sit down across from him.

“Matt texted you.” He points to my phone, which is on the coffee table.

I reach over and grab it. “You’re not even going to pretend that you didn’t look at my phone?”

“Nope.” One side of his mouth lifts. “In my defense, it flashed on the screen like half an hour ago and I just happened to see his name.”

I unlock my phone and read the message. Sent at three in the morning. He must be drunk.

I’m sorry. Can we talk?

“He wants to talk.” I put the phone back on the table.

“Are you going to?”

“No. He’s just drunk.”

He takes a hit off the joint and peers at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“My drunk ex-husband?”

“Everything … involving your drunk ex-husband.”

“No.”

“Is there a reason you never want to talk about him?”

“I talk about— Wait, off the record?”

“Yes. We’re in our underwear.”

“Being in just your underwear means you’re off the record?”

“I mean, I think it should.”

I stretch my legs out, crossing one ankle over the other. Ben puts a hand on my calf. “I talk about him. But I’m not interested in recounting my sad marriage story for your podcast listeners.”

“Your sad marriage story is probably relevant.”

He has no idea how relevant. I shrug.

Ben slowly blows out smoke. “Was he that big of a dick when you married him?”

I give him an amused look. “No. Or, yes. I don’t know. He was a more lovable dick. Or I was more tolerant of assholes then. Probably a combination of the two.”

“I don’t really recognize the version of you that people talk about.” Ben finishes the joint and reaches up to drop it in an empty glass on the end table. “The twenty-two-year-old Lucy who married him sounds like a completely different person, the way they talk about you.”

“I was, in a way. I was Plumpton Lucy. Same girl I was in high school.” I reach for his drink and take a sip. It’s straight whiskey, and it burns as it goes down. “I always admired that about Savvy. She was so different than she was in high school. She wasn’t afraid to…”

“I thought it would be more upsetting, being covered in blood,” she whispers in my ear.