The Absolutely True Story of Us (3 page)

"It's from a movie," says Dean helpfully. "
American Psycho
."

"Oh," my mom intones. "What's that about?"

"A successful businessman who's also a serial killer," I tell her.
 

"Oh no! That's terrible." She tsks, taking another suspicious look at her fish. "Why would anyone make a movie about that?"

My dad sighs. "It's not a true story, Bea. Just a horror movie. You don't have to act so shocked."

"It's a comedy, actually," Dean puts in.

I kick his shin under the table. Not hard, but enough to make a point.

"What's so funny about killing people?" My mom knits her eyebrows, shaking her head at me. "I swear, I never understood your sense of humor."

"Anyway, the joke is that Felicity has no idea
what
I do," Dean says, patting my hand. "Just that I'm in 'business.' And really, that's good enough. The details are boring. I don't even like talking about it."

"Oh, busy businessman!" My mom's already gone through most of the bottle of wine, and she hasn't even started on her entrée yet. Probably because it's slightly more exotic than unflavored oatmeal, and she hasn't quite decided what to make of it. "Good for you. Felicity was always so artsy, I figured she'd end up with somebody like her."

Artsy. It's her nice way of saying scatterbrained. Which is true, fair enough - I spent about twenty minutes looking for a matching pair of earrings this morning before I gave up and went without. But that doesn't make me any less of a functional human being, most of the time. I'm not sure why my mother thinks it would be more virtuous to fight my space-cadet nature and go into some field with lots of math, where I'd probably end up accidentally killing people - but it was a major point of contention in my childhood. She wasn't too happy about my brothers going into mechanical trades, but at least it was something practical.
 

Thankfully, my oldest sister took the pressure off all of us by showing the proper amount of interest in medicine from a young age. While I drew epic cartoon stories and my brothers tried to take apart the lawn mower, my sister played "hospital" with all her dolls lined up in makeshift toilet paper bandages. Predictably, she loved biology in high school, and before long she was accepted into a prestigious medical school and well on her way to the only career path my parents truly understand.

For me, "become a doctor" was only a slightly less realistic goal than "build a homestead on Mars." I was simply missing whatever gene Tabby has, the one that's gratified by studying diseases and muscle groups and the names of all the tiny bones in your ear.
 

I love my family. I do. But after a lifetime of being the inexplicable middle child, the one my parents always mentioned last when they caught up with friends and extended family -
"oh, Felicity, she's just...she's still showing a lot of interest in telling stories, so we're hoping she'll take up journalism or technical writing, you know? But the most important thing is that she's happy..."
 

I'm just over it.

They're proud of me, of course. But I still always feel like I'm on the other side of the glass at the zoo, and while they gawk and appreciate, they'll never understand.

"It's so romantic, the story of how you two got together," my mother says, a little dreamily. When my father gives her a sharp look, she rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't bring up anything embarrassing. I skimmed over those parts anyway."

"It's not
all
based on fact," I point out, suddenly feeling a hot blush creeping up the back of my neck. I've managed to avoid thinking about my mother reading sex scenes I wrote, but the look on her face tells me that she might not be completely truthful about the "skimming" thing.

"Stop it," my dad mutters. "You're embarrassing her."

It's tempting to face-plant into my lasagna, but somehow, I resist the urge.

We're finally home, after the longest two hours of my life.
 

By which I mean, of course, that
I'm
home. I didn't even live here when I was with Dean, but it's all too easy to fall into old mindsets all the same.

"I don't think I can handle another dinner with your mom wondering if my penis is shaped like the guy in the book," he mutters, raking his hands through his hair.

"I'm
sure
she was not doing that," I insist. "Probably."

Dean groans, flopping back on the sofa. "I'm really starting to regret saying I would do this. Can't we invent some kind of emergency that sends me out of town?"

Glaring at him, I sprawl on the lounge chair across the room. "Are you really giving me a hard time? This is the least you can do."

"Fuck's sake, Lissy." He scrubs his hands across his face. "Don't start this again. I'm happy to be here. Really. I'm happy to help you out. I know what you think about me these days, but..."

He drifts off, gazing at the floor, seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say.

"But?" I prompt him, tone softening slightly.

"But I still care about you," he says, glancing at me. "You were the most important person in my life for five years, I can't just throw that away."

And now I'm not the most important person in anybody's life.
 

The thought comes, unwelcome, and I can't seem to push it aside.

Sighing, I curl up, drawing my knees into my chest. "Well, that's nice." I'm honestly not quite sure if I'm being sarcastic.
 

"And I know you care about me, too," he prompts. "Because otherwise you would've just hired a gigolo."

A burst of laughter escapes before I can stop it. "Shit. I could've written that off as research, probably."

"Sure. Tell the IRS you're hiring hookers. What could go wrong?" Dean shrugs, and it all comes back in a rush. The sadness, the regret. I remember now why I loved him so much. We had that rapport. We just got along so well - like two people who were meant to be together.

Too bad he turned out to be a liar and a cheater and a general, all-purpose scumbag.

I still can't reconcile what I
know
about Dean with the man sitting in front of me. It's never made sense to me. I've never quite accepted it, never been able to wrap my head all the way around his betrayal.
 

It's not like him.

I'm letting his unasked question -
do
I still care about him? - linger in the air. I don't know the answer, and I don't want to. Of course I still care about him as a human being, more or less. I'd drag him out of a burning building just as readily as I'd drag anyone else. Maybe because I'm too compassionate, or maybe, just maybe...

No. I can't let myself have doubts. Not now. The past is the past, and if he was innocent, then why did he leave? Innocent people don't walk away from relationships like that. He had "guilty conscience" written all over him.

Goddamn it. I want to forget. After all this time, there's still a part of me that wants to just crawl over to the sofa and curl up in his arms. Pretend that I've forgotten everything that's come between us. I just want to feel him breathing, hear his heartbeat.

I want to make love. Maybe it wasn't always the best sex in the world, but at least it felt like it meant something. Even if that was a lie, I didn't know back then. It seemed real. It seemed
right
.

Warden, don't do this now.

Get yourself together.

Any day now.

***

After Dean goes to bed, I finally feel brave enough to check my phone again. I know M's going to be mad, that's a given. The only question is why I care so much.

It's just a silly game. That's all. It's fun, it's an escape, and it's completely harmless. I can stop anytime I want to.

Right.

He only sent me two messages after I started ignoring him earlier.
 

M: Lana?

And then:

M: ?

Two messages in four hours, that means he's pissed for sure. I should just ignore it. I should delete this damn anonymous messaging app, block him on every social media profile I have, and move on with my life. Instead, I text him back.

I had to go to dinner.

It takes me a few tries to delete the "sorry" from the beginning of the message. He doesn't need an apology. I haven't done anything wrong. But I still feel like I ought to apologize, and I don't know why.

M: Really?

What?

M: You know how I feel about being ignored.

I told you. I was busy.

M: You're always busy. That shouldn't get in the way of our arrangement. How long have we been doing this, Lana?

I don't know.

M: Four months, Lana. Every day, for four months now, I've spent at least a little bit of my time thinking about how to shock you. Surprise you. Pleasure you. And this is the thanks I get.

You know my situation.

M: You always made plenty of time for me before.

I want to say something else, to make up more excuses, but my stomach's already in knots over it. You see, M thinks my book is a true story. Like everyone else, he thinks me and "Damien" are actually a couple. He thinks I'm in love, committed, deeply attached to another man. And yet he's happy to do this with me.

Scumbag.

It's amazing how much I don't care, when he says just the right thing to turn me on. It's amazing how little it matters, when it's just about sex. But it's starting to feel like more than that.
 

Keep it together, Warden.

I'm so starved for a meaningful emotional attachment with another human being, I'm actually starting to...

I can't. It's
M
. For fuck's sake.

I finally respond.

I'm not making any more excuses. Take it or leave it.

M: Doesn't work like that.

What the hell does
that
mean?
 

I think it works however I want it to work.

M: Wrong. That's not why you're doing this.

Oh, really? Why don't you tell me more about my private thoughts and motivations. I'm fascinated.

M: You have to play the competent entrepreneur in your real life, and you do it well, but it scares you. It's all new. It's nothing you were ever prepared for. What if you fuck up? All the responsibility is on your head. You need a place to go and rid yourself of all that responsibility. A place where someone tells you to jump, and all you have to do is ask how high. You need a release. And you think I'm the man to give it to you.

I blink at the screen a few times.

You're nuts.

M: Search your feelings, you know it to be true.

I love it when you talk nerdy to me.

M: Take off your panties.

Why should I?

M: Because you want to. But you need someone to give you permission.
 

God, I hate him.

You don't know anything about what I want.

M: If only that were true. You think I enjoy dealing with you and your bratty attitude? It's basically charity work. I'm compelled to help you like the good Samaritan I am. That man of yours certainly isn't scratching that itch.

This is the first time he's directly referenced Damien. There's a sour taste in my mouth, but I'm still throbbing between my legs.

Because he's right. I want it. I want all of it. I don't even know
what
I want, and that's the point. He knows, so I don't have to. How does he have that power over me?

Obviously it's just my mind playing tricks on me. What I
really
want is to follow orders, and he's just exceptionally good at giving them. He's inside my head, convincing me of my own desires so seamlessly that my libido can't even tell the difference.

I feel a little bit lightheaded. As I unbutton my jeans, another message comes in.

M: Don't touch yourself.

Damn it.

Not only has he anticipated my next move, he's aware that I'm already following his orders without having to be told again. I hate being a foregone conclusion. I hate how well he knows me, better than I know myself.

How is that even possible?

More importantly: How am I going to function with another human being up in my space? Dean is sleeping just a few feet away, through a way-too-thin wall. I keep reminding myself that I just need to get through my parents' visit, but those two weeks are going to feel like an eternity. M's influence over my life has grown so gradually, weaving itself into every moment, every breath, that I didn't realize how insidious it was until now.
 

I step out of my panties and shove them into the hamper before shimmying back into my jeans. The fabric rasping against my sensitive flesh is uncomfortable, but in a really nice way. I glance at myself in the mirror - my face flushed, eyes so dilated they look black. My heart races, and I feel like I'm balanced on a razor's edge.

Almost like I could...

I tap out a message to M.

I need to know if I have your permission.

M: Are you that close?

I think so.

M: You have my permission to come, so long as you don't use your hands. Or anything else. Just squeeze those gorgeous thighs together and rock into the feeling.
 

I sit down on the edge of the bed. Now that I know I'm allowed to, a rush of arousal leaves me weak-kneed and quivering. I close my eyes and follow his instructions, slowly rocking back and forth so that the stiff seam of the fabric rubs where I need it most.

My phone buzzes and I force my eyes open again.
 

M: You'll never come again without thinking of me.

When the pleasure explodes, low in my belly, I curse softly. I'm cursing at him even though he can't hear me.
 

I'm determined to prove him wrong, though a part of me fears he's not.