The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (8 page)

Sam sort of smiles, but looks less charmed by us now. He nods and eventually walks over the other end of the bar to help another customer.

“What the hell was that?” I ask Marla after he far enough away that he won’t hear us.

“
That
was setting the stage, telling him how it is. I saw the way he was looking at you when we first walked in.
Thor
is hot, no doubt, but you’re marrying Lincoln Presley for God’s sake. Why give this guy false hope, even if he bears a striking resemblance to one of the hottest actors in Hollywood these days?”

“You are…you are the
strangest
girl, sometimes.”

“
Me?
Look in the mirror, sweetheart.” She does the worst James Cagney impression ever, and I eventually laugh.

“Your problem is that you’re scared,” Marla says with notable wisdom. “And when you’re scared, you have a tendency to act out and do crazy stuff like have sex with a complete stranger or some shit like that. Or, I don’t know. Break off the engagement. Or worse, call off the wedding. One of those
bad
ideas. I can practically see one of those forming in your head as we speak.”

“He’s not a complete stranger, but that’s some crazy talk you speak of,” I say softly. “Hadn’t thought about that first one until you mentioned it.” I nervously laugh because she’s so far off the mark and what I so desperately want to tell her is much more important than sleeping with the likes of Sam Wilde.

“There’s a Tally Landon special deep end of the pool of life that I am well aware of, baby. I’m just here to help you to step back from the ledge. Because your life? Your life is going to be all kinds of wonderful. It already is. Don’t blow it. Or him.” She inclines her head toward Sam.

I glance over at the handsome bartender and discover him watching the two of us with interest. I frown and look away and into the depths of my margarita glass for all the answers. The irony of that drink alone seems worth a photo. With a sudden penchant for levity as the pendulum of despair swings away from me for a few seconds, I swipe the screen of my iPhone while Marla leans in over our drinks with the mirror in the background stenciled with the word
The Promissory Note
and capture the moment on camera for Linc.

I text the photo to Linc. “Miss you. See? You “owe” me. Promissory note. Wish you were here. <3 T.”

Five minutes later, my phone buzzes.

Linc: “Can’t talk. About to pitch 3rd inn. Winning! Up by 2. L8tr. But marry me tmrw.”

I check my watch feeling guilty that I didn’t even know his game had started. It’s the second game of the playoffs, and he’s pitching at home, and I’m a loser for not remembering any of that. It’s still early in the afternoon. And I should be there, but I had the dress thing with Marla, and the truth is I didn’t want to go to his game because I was still trying to figure a few things out. Like the Nika thing. Her working for the Giants and being around Linc all the time and why Linc didn’t tell me about this turn of events sooner. And how I feel about all of that. His
‘the two of us remain friends,’
comment
really
bothers me. On a lot of levels. There’s that.

My issues surrounding trust, love, losing, falling, and failing. I thought I overcame most of these over the past few months, but Nika’s arrival on scene and even the revelation that Linc wants a son and that whole Pastor Dan conversation as well as all the negative press coverage has stirred it up all again. Trust. Love. Losing. Falling. Failing. All of these fears march through my head and burrow back into my psyche like they never left.

Marla’s right. I should never be in the deep end of the pool of thought by myself. I playfully grab her hand as I look around the bar and finally spy the Giants game on the television in the far corner right above Sam’s head. Funny that. I watch a couple of Linc’s pitches from twenty feet away and hear a few of the bar patrons' comment on how good he’s throwing.

I have rehearsal at six-thirty. Cara doesn’t need to be picked up from preschool until five, and although I am half-tempted to shirk that responsibility for once and call my mom to help out, I still hesitate. Mom’s on a good path, but there’s this nagging feeling that doesn’t have me completely trusting her with my kid in her car quite yet.

Trust issues. I have them.

My parents, well, really my mother’s drinking habits helped instill this distrust in me some time ago.

Let’s not test our willpower or lack thereof. Alcoholism is a disease. We’re all enablers.

We must live with the truth, be supportive, be aware, be un-enabling?

We must take one day at time. Not two.

We must try harder.

Be there or be square.

Follow the steps.

We must breathe.

We must support. The alcoholic. Ourselves.

Sign here and here, and press hard, there are three copies.

Voilà.
You are never cured, just free to go.

True.

Family counseling and rehab completed a little over a week ago taught us all of this.

Booze, ballet, and baseball rule my life. All of three of these, obviously.

The three B’s. The albatross of the three B’s that I figuratively wear around my neck, not so willingly today I might add.

Bride-to-be.
Bride.

That’s four.

We’re getting married tomorrow.

We’re eloping.

Tomorrow.

Tell Marla.

I want to so bad.

“What are you most of afraid of?” Marla asks quietly, pulling me back to the here and now.

I don’t hesitate when I say, “losing him.”

About the same time, I look back up and over at the television screen just as the announcer says, “Whoa, line drive. Wow! That ball just sailed right out towards Presley, folks.” A long pause and then the man’s deep sigh catches my entire attention, and I start to shake. “Let’s hope he’s all right. Nobody wants to get hit by a baseball going over ninety miles an hour.”

There is nothing but dead air now as the sports announcer stops talking apparently in search of words or consolation or both. The entire stadium and the bar crowd go deathly quiet. I helplessly watch the television screen as a mass of people rush the field toward the pitcher’s mound. Toward Linc. Fear crawls through me like one of those weeds in a bad science fiction movie taking over everything in its path and all of me.

I cannot breathe.

In slow motion, I gasp for air while at the same time I stand up and unsteadily walk behind the bar, reach up, and touch the television screen and that of the prone figure that lies on the ground. So still. I briefly get a glimpse of him, confirming it’s Linc, who is laying there on that field, when the crowd parts and makes way for the paramedics who rush to his aid.

I feel Sam when he grasps me around the shoulders to keep me upright. I hear him say, “breathe, Tally.” More than once.

Marla comes in from the other side and grabs my left hand inadvertently pressing Linc’s engagement ring hard into my flesh. The pain is distant, but I can feel it coming on, hurtling toward me like an unavoidable collision.

Crash landing.

Line drive.

I’ve been here before.

I know this feeling.

I know this pain.

I recognize this loss.

The magnitude is so great and I instantly realize that I may not survive it this time.

Here’s the thing. We have this signal we worked out. A little lift of one finger on either hand will do.

We agreed.

Our signal.

Well, it’s been Marla and my signal for years. I’d let Linc in on this little secret this past summer. We were lying in bed talking about our life and our future plans. Our fingers were laced together, and I remember telling him that since he’s so far away from me so much of the time playing baseball if he could just signal to me every once in a while, just like the comedian Carol Burnett still does to her daughter every time she makes an appearance on television by tugging on her ear and giving her the faithful sign: I love you. I remember you. I’m thinking of you. Something corny like that. That’s all I ask I told him. That way, I know you’re okay, and then I’ll be okay. Just that one little sign would indicate that everything was fine.

I wait for his signal.

I wait for some kind of sign, but he’s not moving.

The network hurriedly switches to commercial, and I start to say, “no,” over and over because we talked about line drives a long time ago.

“Just be fast,” I’d said at the time with an uneasy laugh when Linc first told me about them.

“Faster than the ball,” Linc had said grinning back at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I’ll signal to you that I’m fine.”

Line drives.

You have to watch out for those.

They can change your life.

CHAPTER SIX

Wreck of the Day -TALLY

Marla takes over. She makes the calls on the way to the hospital where Linc’s been taken by ambulance, while I talk to my dad on my cell. I beg him to go down to the ER and be with Linc and call me back when he finds out more. Meanwhile, Marla navigates the 101 like a Nascar driver and still manages to remember to call the preschool and let them know my mom will be picking up Cara. Then, she calls my mom again and relays the message.

Within five minutes, my dad is calling me back, and I take a brief moment and close my eyes tight before I answer his call. Soon enough, he’s telling me not to worry, they’re working on him right now, and Linc’s awake. Strangely, I’m cheered up at this weird piece of news, but still gasp for air all at once realizing on some level I’ve been holding my breath for quite a while now.

Breathe.
I try not to think too much beyond that one act—taking in air.

A strange rustling sound from the back seat captures my attention; I irritably glance back and discover the much-coveted bridal lingerie tote bag flapping in the wind that gusts through the half-open window.

I glare at the fancy scripted name,
Wedding Secrets,
stenciled across the front of it and dully think about French Silk Tulle and twenty-five pearl buttons and London and Catherine Deane’s beautifully-designed dress. All the while, the mostly sinister part of me silently confronts the fact that I may never get to wear it. The very center of my psyche wordlessly succumbs to that singular idea.

I may never get to wear it. Any of it. He’s not out of the woods yet. Not yet.
These thoughts press ever downward upon my soul like an insistent bell tolls in a tower. The ringing is so loud inside my head that I glance at Marla to see if she can hear it too.

She misinterprets my glazed look.

“You okay?”

“He didn’t move. He didn’t lift his finger. The signal we worked out for the two of us. Like you and I used to do.”

“I know, but your dad says he’s awake, they’re working on him. He’s going to be fine. I just
know
it.”

“How do you
know
?” My words grate across my lips like I’ve bitten down on a serrated knife and drawn blood. My mouth tastes like metal. Somewhere along the way I have actually bitten my lip and am just now noticing this. It stings and on some strange level I am consoled that I can even feel it.

Marla wisely chooses to ignore my obvious turmoil and I do my best to hide the fact that I’m beginning to fall apart. We exchange a singular look and seem to be transported back in time to when Holly died. The memory comes on just like that. Four and half years later and the recognizable pain returns in the same obliterating way as it did then and attempts to cut right through both of us like a chainsaw splits apart the base trunk of a tree. A classmate of ours from Paly died just last year and we experienced the same visceral response at hearing about Ben Donner’s tragic car accident and looked at each other the same way at hearing the news. It’s the same exact look we exchange now all over again.