Liar Liar

‘Je ressens,’ he rasps. ‘I feel you coming so hard, and it is beautiful.’

I implode. Explode. Come harder than I ever have. His guttural words turn to breathless grunts as he buries his face in the soft skin of my neck and follows me over the edge.

7

Remy

A dark car idles on the road outside. But it can wait. Wait at my leisure.

My shoulder pressed to the doorframe of her bedroom door, my gut aches with the desire to go to her. To pull back the covers and slip in next to her, to press my nose to her silken neck and inhale her delicate scent.

I’d wrap her in my arms and show her what my words can’t convey.

Make her understand how precious these hours have been to me.

Her dark hair is splayed across the pillow, wild and tangled from the attentions of my fingers. I push my hands deep into my pockets because it takes every grain of my restraint not to give in as she nestles deeper into her pillow, pulling the covers up under her chin, bringing my attention to her soft, pouting mouth.

A mouth that is a temptation like nothing else.

When I left my hotel in the early hours of the morning, I could not have imagined an outcome such as this. I told myself that a bike ride was an expedition to clear my head. An appeal for clarity. Yet how I came to be on this street can hardly be called an accident.

Because I went looking for a girl and found trouble in her place.

I went looking for one girl and found another in her place.

One girl who could take from me. Ruin everything.

Another who did nothing but give.

When was the last time someone took care of me? Gave freely without expectation of something in return? The sad reality is I really can’t recall. Yet the woman in the bed just a few feet away took me into her home. She gave me her time and her care. She let me take comfort in her body. And she held me there. She gave, and she gave, and she asked for nothing in return.

And that’s why I have to leave.

A woman like her can only be hurt by my world.

8

Rose

MAY

‘That baby is the cutest.’

‘That baby has a name,’ calls a manly voice from somewhere out of range of the camera.

‘Yeah, and it’s Beryl,’ says Amber, kissing her newborn baby’s fluffy blonde head.

‘We’re not calling her Beryl,’ growls Australian baby daddy as he appears briefly on the screen of our weekly catch-up call, taking the pink swaddled bundle from Amber’s arms.

‘We’re not calling her Coral or Pearl, either,’ she retorts.

‘Eish. You guys, those names are bad.’

‘Byron thinks we should give her a themed name,’ she gripes. ‘You know; Amber, Pearl, Coral, Amethyst.’

‘Where the hell did Beryl come from?’

‘It’s a kind of emerald,’ she says with a dismissive wave.

‘It’s kind of ugly. A cutie like the peanut deserves better than an old lady’s name.’

‘I tell you, it’s a good thing she is cute because this waking at the crack of dawn part of parenting is already getting old.’ Amber’s answer is accompanied by a deep yawn. ‘Keep me awake. Tell me what’s new with you.’

‘Well, Sarah finally moved out.’

‘Great!’

‘And now I can’t afford the rent.’

‘Oh. Not so great.’

‘It’ll be fine.’ I shrug off her concern even as the familiar roll of anxiety washes through the pit of my stomach. ‘Remember Shaun, the shitty shift manager?’

‘I thought his name was Ted?’

‘Do you remember all the tiny details?’

‘Just the interesting ones, like how you got sacked after you spent the night with the mysterious Monsieur Baguette.’ On screen, my friend’s brows wiggle suggestively, though whether over the terrible way she purposely mispronounces monsieur—mon-sew-er—or her taunt, I’m not sure.

‘Girl talk secrets!’ I protest.

‘Relax. Byron has taken Baby Beryl downstairs.’ She waves away my concern. ‘But the manager?’

‘It looks like I’ll be dusting off my Heidi hair because he called and offered me my job back.’ It seems I’m not the worst waitress in the world, especially when the flu comes to town.

‘For a minute there, I had the most awful thought. I thought you were going to say you’d bumped into him at the coffee shop, and he’s a whole other person out of work.’

‘Urgh, no! Credit me with a little taste,’ I complain. ‘The man’s mother probably still sews tags into his clothes, tags that read asshole. In fact, if he was the last man on earth—’

‘You wouldn’t want to nibble on his baguette. Speaking of baguettes, have you gotten any more gifts from the sexy Frenchman lately?’

‘We don’t know the gifts were from him,’ I demur.

‘Mm-hmm.’ Amber’s tone and expression are both thoroughly unconvinced. ‘I say again, my translation skills aren’t as good as you thought they’d be, but I do wish I’d gotten a good look at Monsieur Baguette.’ This time, her pronunciation is flawless.