The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (3 page)

“Yeah, it’s beautiful.” I look out the side mirror as we drive away from the epic view of the Pacific and Pastor Dan’s beautiful little church at Half Moon Bay. I should be elated by most of what Linc just said back there, but all I feel is this extraordinary sense of loss at the overriding thought that he wants a son and I can’t give him one. There’s that.

It’s just like they say.
You’ve got your fingers in the dike preventing the dam from breaking, but it’s only a matter of time before it does. That’s how water works. That’s the strength of water. You can’t stop it.

“We could adopt.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

“We could.” Rote words. He’s said them but doesn’t really mean them. The underlying anguish with his wish for a son is unmistakable, and he won’t quite meet my gaze when I look over at him even when he says, “let’s just see what Dr. Eldon says first; huh? Maybe it’s a non-issue.”

But it is an issue. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me.

“Maybe.” I turn away from him and look in the rearview mirror just in time to get the last glimpse of the amazing view of the Pacific just before it disappears.

Beautiful things are like that, extraordinary one minute, gone the next.

CHAPTER TWO

Where I Stood -TALLY

Lincoln Davis Presley once told me how important it is to watch for the line drives. A line drive in baseball is a technical term—a pivotal moment in baseball when the batter drives the ball straight out toward the pitcher’s mound with a thwack of his bat. When this happens, the crowd generally holds its collective breath and then ultimately sighs while finding itself somewhat morbidly fascinated yet somewhat appalled at the same time, in watching the pitcher simultaneously hit the ground just in time and avoid an outright collision with the ball that just zinged its way toward the player at ninety-some odd miles an hour in an valiant attempt to snuff out his life. The line-driven baseball becomes as dangerous as a bullet, only in a different form.

Most pitchers are lucky and incredibly fast. Elvis once told me that he’s always been lucky and that he’s incredibly fast, in baseball and so many things, as he likes to remind me. And oh how I love him for these two reasons—he’s incredibly lucky and incredibly fast—and others, so many others.

A line drive in this case proves to be something entirely different. We’re being interviewed by Candy Baxstrom,
Sports Illustrated’s
up-and-coming special editions reporter. We’re a breakthrough feature story worth covering because of Linc’s incredible year in baseball this season and my own meteoric rise in San Francisco’s ballet world. We’re newsworthy, exemplifying the happy couple in both real life and the sports world. “Everyone wants to read about that,” Candy assured us when we reluctantly agreed to the interview with Linc’s publicist Kimberley Powers’ begrudging approval.

“Avoid the hardball questions,” Kimberley said. “
Lie
, if you have to.
Omit
, if you have to. Just get your photographs taken together and get the story down tight, the plausible one.”

Kimberley was distracted, on her month-long honeymoon, calling us from some undisclosed location in the Caribbean. The cell service was questionable.

I ignored the tightness in my gut at her warnings.

I shouldn’t have.

Line drives.

About those.

These come in all forms of life, besides baseball, but there’s that one too.

“So how long have you two known each other?” Candy asks, slipping this one last question in just when she seems to be wrapping up.

We’ve answered all the easy ones. I should have known we’d get back to this one. I’m reminded of Pastor Dan from weeks before.

Tricky. This one.

Linc just smiles and nods. Then, he looks over at me raising his eyebrow in my direction that only I can see. His single glance says
you take this one
.
You lie better than me.
I smile back at him.
True.

“A while,” I finally say to Candy.

“How long?” Candy’s sugary sweet persistence is pissing me off. I can feel myself caving to the pressure already.

“We met when I was still in high school. On Valentine’s Day. The day my twin sister Holly was killed. Linc saved me from the burning wreckage of my car. After the accident.” I pause telling myself to breathe. “After the accident. We met up again some time later.”

My voice is no more than a whisper. It’s been almost five years and I still can’t think or talk about it without almost having a panic attack. Anger surges through an instant later for this blond viper in asking and at Linc for not answering like we practiced.
We met about five years ago. Both busy with our careers. Me on the west coast. Tally on the east coast. But we never stopped thinking about each other even though we had our own lives.

“I don’t like to talk about it. The accident. How we first met. Is there anything else you need for your story? I think you have enough. On us.”

“I just wanted to know how you two ended up together,” she says with an innocent shrug. “It seems like a pretty straightforward question. You’re getting married soon. You’re both famous. I just wondered how it all came together and how you make it work.”

Now, I’m the one without answers. I’m not sure how it works either. I can’t quite believe it myself. I’m still trying to figure it all out and still waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop and watch it all fall apart.

Line drives.

These questions.

Our true story.

When does it all work out? Who does it work out for?

How long will it last?
That’s the real question. The one I need a guarantee for.

Linc squeezes my hand and brings me back to the present. He probably just heard my shuddering breath. I stare at the reporter somewhat unseeing. Tears threaten.

God damn it. Get it together, Tally.

And it’s like she knows she’s getting to me as I unconsciously slump further down in my chair. She smiles ever so slightly and I suddenly realize she has the dirt.
On me.
All of it. The full story. Now, I’m really angry.

“We’ve basically walked through fire to get here,” I say in a low voice. “To this moment. To this time in our lives. We’re amazingly happy. We can’t wait to get married and commit to spending the rest of our lives together.”

Oh God. Is that as sappy as it sounds?

I begin to fight the edges of a panic attack because I still get those and struggle for air. Linc strokes my hand in essence telling me everything is going to be okay. I glance over at him and attempt to keep the uncertainty from showing on my face with a shaky smile for him alone.

“We’ve been tested by fate, fame, and lies,” I say aloud for his benefit as well as mine. “Lies. Mine.” I dip my head in acknowledgment. “I’ll own those. Others. All of it...”

Get it together. Breathe.

Get it together.

I do.

“I think we’re done here.” I quickly stand up and hold out my hand to shake hers.

She stares me down at first and then looks over at Linc imploringly him to keep talking. But eventually, she stands up too, probably accepting the interview is indeed over. She gets this bitch look—the snarl of a girl who hasn’t gotten her way and isn’t quite done trying. Her lips curl up a little and I know where she’s going next, even as Linc moves in close and puts his arm around me pulling me closer subconsciously conveying that everything is okay.

No.

It’s not.

Not this time.

“I haven’t even asked about Moscow,” Candy says testily.

“There’s nothing to say about Moscow,” Linc says a little more harshly then he probably intended. “This interview is over.”

We don’t talk about Moscow. Moscow was the proverbial test of us walking through fire together. Moscow almost destroyed us. Or, the lies did. Mine. His. Ours. Theirs.

Line drives.

Moscow is one of those. We escaped, mostly unharmed, and eventually found our way back to each other, but we don’t talk about Moscow. We never do.

Candy slips on her white jacket—some smart spring line thing that my best friend Marla would love—and lifts her silky blond locks from the back of her neck at the same time in a sexy, earnest reporter slash model kind of way. Candy Baxstrom. Confident and sly. She’s got her story. Her big break.

At what appears to be a last-ditch effort to get us to tell our side of the story, she gives us the stony, imploring reporter’s look—the come-on-just-tell-me stare. “I just want the story to be complete—accurate, honest.” She looks at me again with the coolness factor of a slight smile and starts to nod. Up and down, her lovely chin goes. “Honesty is always the best way. Isn’t it, Tally?”

I try not to roll my eyes and I definitely don’t answer her. She’s going to write about us however she sees fit. She’s got the story.
The whole story.
And she wants the fame. On some weird-ass level, I admire her for it. I know that feeling of wanting the fame so badly that you forsake all others to get it. I don’t tell her it’s fleeting and ultimately destructive. No. I’ll let her figure that one out for herself. I’ll let her experience her own line drive. Because she will. We all do.

“I have what I need.”

In other words, she has other sources.

Candy nods slowly and shrugs her slim perfect shoulders in that blonde, helpless way she’s got going. “Okay, let’s go get some photographs to go with the copy. I want the money shot.” She awards us with her best, winning smile.

A line drive.

This would just be one of them.

“She’s got the story,” I say to Linc hours later as we lie next to each other taking up only half of the king-sized bed because our bodies remain intertwined at an all but intimate level. The money shot photograph session took twice as long as the interview. After another three hours, we finally told Candy we had to go. I had to pick up Cara from preschool and Linc had a late practice. We left Candy and her photographer while they were still packing up their gear. By this time, the reporter had given up on asking us any more questions. She had the money shot. She had the story. We weren’t going to like it. The unsettled feeling nagged at me, but Linc didn’t seem to care. “She’s got the story.” Apparently, my fears need repeating.