Page 25 of Alonzo

We’re both silent for a while. She lies back on the floor, mostly out of view. And I’m still in bed, looking up at the ceiling. Trying to figure out how I can turn this fantasy into reality.

Would she pack up her life and move down to Key West with me?

Why would she do that? She has a job, and friends, and an apartment.

God, this whole thing is hopeless.

“Lonnie? Are you there?”

I pick up the phone and aim it at my face. “I’m here.”

She smiles as she climbs back into bed and gets under the covers. “That was fun.”

“So fun, babe.”

“Are you tired now?”

“Little bit.”

“I’m tired.” Her eyes are closed. She looks exhausted. And for a moment I want to ask her why. It’s not the sex. Sex makes you look a different kind of tired. A satiated kind of tired.

She looks… beat.

“I lied about something, Lonnie.”

“Yeah?” I almost laugh. I almost blurt out, I’ve been lying about everything, Tara. But I don’t. Still, I’m curious about her lie. Maybe even hopeful. I wish she was lying to me. It would be a lot easier to justify mine if that were the case.

But she’s not. I’ve done the background checks. She’s real.

I’m the only fake thing in this relationship.

“What did you lie about?”

“The marble.” She mumbles it, the words nearly incoherent. “It’s black. Not white.” Then she opens her eyes. Smiles at me. “Good night, Lonnie.”

And presses end.

I click off the light and lie there in the dark for a long time after that. Just staring up at the emptiness above me.

Desperate to find a way out of my lies.

Desperate to find a way around my secrets.

Desperate for her.

CHAPTER SIX - TARA

I’m standing in front of my closet the next morning looking at my clothes and glancing over my shoulder at my bedroom. I’m having a slight come-to-Jesus moment about two things I never really thought about before, but now that I’ve noticed these things, I can no longer pretend they’re not meaningful.

One. I own a lot of freaking pencil skirts. I have them in all colors, all lengths, all fabrics, some very sexy and some very serious. I didn’t even know what a pencil skirt was before I moved here to Fort Collins. I mean, I’d seen them in like… old movies. So I knew such a thing existed. I just never had a desire to actually own one. A pencil skirt means business. That business could be sex symbol, powerful CEO, or, as in my case, wannabe librarian. But make no mistake. When a pencil skirt walks into a room, everyone takes notice.

Two. My apartment is the pencil-skirt version of décor. I have a lot of classic things in this place. A beige chesterfield sofa dotted with tufted buttons. A dark oak coffee table with corners so sharp, a mother with small children wouldn’t be able to walk past that thing without imagining her offspring falling eyeball-first into the edge. Vintage end tables with those straight tapered legs that make you think of your cool great-grandma. My bed matches the couch, my nightstands match the end tables, and my Formica dinette set is in a class all its own.

I do not hate either of these observations. I’m rather fond of my pencil skirts and I love my child-unfriendly coffee table. At the very least, this is the first time in my life when I was actually able to pick things out from a store that fit a theme.

My new theme is retro, smart, sexy.

Before I was relocated to Fort Collins, I had a place of my own. I had furniture in it. I had a closet filled with clothes. But these things were not shopped for. They were acquired.