The Lies We Tell - 1. Chapter 1

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EMMA

Lie (noun): an intentionally false statement. You’d know a few things about lying, wouldn’t you? I wonder how many lies you have managed to fit into the two years we spent together. I’ve counted at least 15, but I have no doubt there are many more, still waiting to be uncovered. Little white lies, perhaps, like what you ate for lunch, or which store you went to after work. They slip out of your mouth so effortlessly; I guess that’s why nobody ever questions you.

This life you have forced me into now, with all of your lies, does not suit me. Everything about it is uncomfortable and ill fitting. The downgrade to a rented one-bedroom apartment. The negative numbers in my bank account. The having to shop in thrift stores because every article of clothing I had before no longer fits me. But worst of all is the emptiness in my bed. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get accustomed to it, and I find myself reaching out for you in the middle of the night. If I could just feel the warm skin that covers your broad back, everything would be all right once again.

But when daylight comes, my bed is empty. And I’m still here stuck in limbo, unsure of what to do next. Like a scared abandoned animal, I wait to be rescued by someone. The morning nausea hits right away, and I make my way to the bathroom where I spend the next 15 minutes heaving acid into the porcelain toilet bowl. This is my life now. This is how you’ve left me.

Afterwards I pick up my discarded body off the floor and waddle to the kitchen. Plain toast does it every time, calms down the discomfort in my stomach. I pick on the bread and eat it while standing. “If you had to die for me, would you?” You asked me one time. You were never a fan of a light dinner conversation, you always had to dig deep. Make people prove their love and loyalty to you constantly with their words and actions. You’re like an empty well, where any deposited water just disappears as soon as it hits the bottom. There is no fulfilling you. “I would,” I replied without hesitation. The statement still holds true today, despite everything.

I shower, begrudgingly, then put on some makeup to look presentable to the outside world. I have to blend in today. I can’t look like a crazy lady if I’m going to do what I plan on doing. I need to be able to fly under the radar. I braid my hair and grab my purse, then make my way out the door.

I walk until I get to a large building. It has to be at least 15 floors. I sit across from it, in the little back courtyard, and read a book until lunch hour rolls around. Then I start to watch people begin to make their way out. As the crowd slows down to just a trickle, I worry that I missed him, or that he decided to skip lunch today. But just as I’m getting up to leave, he walks out with a skinny blonde woman by his side.

He is quite tall in person, taller than I expected. And good looking—exceptionally good looking. You picked well. I trail behind him into the overpriced coffee shop without any real plan of action. I suppose I just want to see him; be near him for a while. I stand a few feet behind him and his blonde female companion and look at my phone while eavesdropping on their conversation. This is the first time I hear his voice. It’s smooth as honey, with a warm and steady pitch. There’s something soothing about it. It might sound strange to say, but I wouldn’t mind it if he read me a bedtime story. Tucked me in to sleep. Maybe I’d finally get a good night’s rest.

His skinny friend orders a black coffee, while he gets vanilla cinnamon waffles and a latte. Right away, it's impossible for me to dislike him. And trust me, I've tried.

“It doesn’t have a direct elevator, but it does have a wonderful marble kitchen island,” he tells the friend, trying to contain his excitement. He makes it sound causal, no biggie, just a huge condo with a view. But I can tell he is over the moon about it. And how can I blame him? He’s talking about the fancy new penthouse. The one you bought together. I’ve looked it up on Zillow. Couldn’t stop myself. It’s 3-bedroom, 3-bathroom sun filled luxury living. You can have a romantic dinner on your private terrace while gazing at the Empire State Building. Not a bad deal for a 25-year-old.

“How can I help you?”

“A small ginger tea please,” I tell the barista while counting my last change, then follow your beautiful young Adonis to the outdoor seating. Thankfully there’s plenty of empty tables available, so I sit one row behind. I take out the book from my purse and stir a packet of sugar into my tea.

The blonde friend asks a million questions about the new digs. Did you start a Pinterest board to narrow down the vibes you want to get with the décor? Of course. Will you buy overpriced art to put on the walls? Yes. Are the closets walk-in? Duh. Are you going to cook for your handsome lover? As long as the smoke alarms are in working order. Is there a mirror on the bedroom ceiling? Naughty girl.

I used to cook for you, remember? Even though I had no business being in a kitchen. But I tried, because that’s what you wanted. “Domestic bliss,” you said. A wife who’d have dinner ready for you when you got home. A wife you could spoil and lavish beautiful gifts on. A win-win situation for both of us. Except, it wasn’t, was it?

He mentions something about a rehearsal dinner, and I make a mental note to check for the date of that in your emails. Silly you, never changing your passwords. That’s how I found out about the cheating in the first place. You stepping out on me was painful enough. You being bisexual was just a cherry on top. How exactly can I compete with someone of a different gender, Michael?

Suddenly there’s a sharp kick in my uterus. He doesn’t like the tea. I run into the bathroom, fall onto my knees and puke out a half cup of liquid. The joys of motherhood. I grab a piece of toilet paper and wipe my mouth.

“You cannot be this picky,” I plead with him and rub my belly.

I leave the café and make my way to my doctor’s appointment. I’ve been demoted to public healthcare now—thanks to you, of course—and I sit in the depressing waiting room along with a girl that looks like she’s 15 and nowhere near ready to be a parent, and another one that seems to be strung out on drugs. I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass and wince. Pale, greyish skin and dark shadows under my eyes. I feel the anger of all the indignities women are constantly subjected to, and it makes me want to scream and shout. But instead I sit quietly, and I plan ahead. I will make it up to you, whatever the cost may be. You will not leave me here, all alone. And if I have to be alone, then so do you. I will make sure of that.

Now, back to the lies you’ve told. Let’s play a fun game. Out of these three statements, which one is the lie? 1. You never really loved me. 2. I wouldn’t take you back, not even if you begged. 3. At the end of all this, two people are going to die.