Page 55 of Present Tense

LIAM

I’ve been up since five. I tried to work. I tried to jack off, but it seemed as if I was cheating on her and I couldn’t do it. I fucking hate being without her. But what I hate more is that my sister’s words are weaving their way through all memories of the conversations we’ve had. Without her last night my fucking brain wouldn’t turn off.

It’s my sister’s poison that kept me up. Her gossip is like a trumpet vine—bold, fast-growing, and killing the healthy flowers around it. I’ve distilled her venom to three main points, and they’re going to explode out of me if I’m not careful.

Does she have an end game? Did she cheat on Christopher? Who bought her house?

Lisa’s the TMZ of my personal life, gathering unsubstantiated bits of gossip and weaving them into a narrative. She tainted this. Everything she does is under the guise of either being helpful or the victim. She’s neither, never has been, yet I keep lining up to be her punching bag, thinking she might have matured.

The last couple of days before Ethan came home flew by in a tangle of laughs, limbs, and licks. The Lisa shit needs to fade or be addressed. I need it to go away. Our self-imposed deadline looms large for both of us. We’re talking around it, but what happens in a couple of days? This is not going to be her favorite breakfast.

The sun is catching the gold in her hair from the window of this diner like a halo almost. We’re around the corner from her office, and the city really is vibrant and beautiful. The frost on the windows is charming, not scary anymore. I have a habit of turning current situations into nostalgia immediately. It’s a curse to already miss things while I’m in the middle of them. I can see the romanticism of an unfavorable situation within days. Hence, I’m already missing the bitter, bracing, failed weather experiment that is a Chicago winter while I’m still here.

She sips her coffee.

“Why is there distance?” she asks.

I feel it, too. And it’s my fucking fault. I need these answers. And it will prove I’m either getting fucked over, or Lisa is as vile as I suspect. Either way, it'll be done. I lace my fingers through hers across the table. She smiles, but it’s not a good smile.

“I have to ask you something.” This Lisa pot is about to boil over.

“Anything. Wait. Are you breaking up with me?”

“No. Fuck, no. But I have three ugly questions, and I need you to be honest with me.”

She grins. She doesn’t know how ugly. “Brutal honesty, right? No matter where it leads us.”

She pulls her hand back, and I let her. She shifts in the booth and rearranges her fork. It’s now sitting directly in the remains of her runny yolks, and she paints a quick pattern with the bright yellow. We’re both staring at that fucking yolk instead of dealing with anything.

“Never mind,” I say. I’m ridiculous.

“Tell me. Clearly it’s bugging you. Shoot.” She looks up and crosses her hands into her lap.

“Who owns your house?”

She jerks her head up and purses her lips. Her eyebrows knit together, and it’s freaking adorable.

“Um. That’s not what I thought would come out of your mouth. It’s so weird. Ok. I do. I own my house.”

I inhale deeply. “Who bought it originally?”

“Say what you’re getting at, Fletch. You clearly have an agenda. Cut to it.”

“Did Christopher’s family give him the house and then you took it?”

I can see her entire face shift. It’s like she’s reallocating me into a different position in her brain.

“Are you cross-examining me? I seem to be at a disadvantage. Wasn’t aware I needed to be prepared to open all my old wounds. Proceed. What do you think you know, counselor?” She leans forward and places both hands flat on the table, her lawyer mask slipping into place. “I have no secrets, but there are things you don’t know. I’ll tell you any details of my insanely messy divorce. My battle with the Meiers of Lincoln Park and whatever else you’ve got twisted. Did you google me or research some kind of shit? Did you pull my divorce papers instead of asking me? What the fuck is this?”

Fuck, this went sideways quickly. “No Google. You’re not on trial. I didn’t pull any documents. I’m asking you now. I’m asking you directly.”

“The hell you are. You’re asking everything but what you want to know. Do it. Ask all your shit.” She crosses her arms in front of herself and leans back.

I slide my lawyer mask on as well. “Fine. Did you marry Christopher for his money? And then proceed to blackmail him with his affairs to get the house? And did he have a girlfriend when you met? Were you the other woman? Did you cheat on him?”

She says nothing. She doesn’t move and doesn’t let a single emotion slip through. She’s steel and concrete. I can read nothing. Her voice is flat, even, and terrifying.

“Anything else?”