Fat Cat Liar

“No, I can’t, and I’m not. After a few days of pondering on ways to get my revenge, I concluded there is no real way. The best revenge would be to watch you move on and leave him in the past. He’d live every day knowing he’d screwed up the best thing in his life. That’s why I went to visit him. But that didn’t go as planned.”

“What do you mean?” I’m not sure I want to know the answer, but I find myself asking anyway.

“I had to see for myself the kind of man you fell for. Instead of feeling immense satisfaction at his misery, there was a certain level of sympathy. The wrath and hatred I had inside slipped when I walked into his world. The recognizable traits were all there. I didn’t get to where I am today by always playing by the rules and not crossing some boundaries. I have my share of enemies. The wake of my devastation and hard-core decisions span decades on Lawson. But what stuck out the most was his tenacity when it comes to you. He’s a fighter with unstoppable determination, and he’s hell-bent on proving how much he loves you.”

“How can I trust that? After all I know now?”

“I can’t make your decision for you, honey, but I can say he’s not giving up.”

“He’ll move on eventually.”

“Hmmm, you can tell yourself that. But I tend to disagree.”

I’m about to question him further when our housekeeper walks in carrying a huge box from a local florist. “Package for you, Miss Greer.”

I take it from her, my stomach flipping when I spot the familiar penmanship on the address label.

“How did he…?” My voice trails off when I catch Dad’s lips twitching. “Did you tell him we were here?”

He shrugs nonchalantly.

I shake my head, mumbling under my breath as I lift the lid off the box. The rumbling dies on my tongue, turning into a wheeze when I see the oversized wreath lying on a bed of rose petals. I study it closely, more tears threatening to fall when I catch the small picture frames entwined within the greenery.

The city skyline taken from our building terrace.

My favorite garden spot.

The cabin in Connecticut.

A shrunken photo of a weekly calendar with Sunday circled in bright red.

A snapshot of us at the last trivia night.

My eyes then roam to a few that are not familiar.

A younger Lawson in cap and gown with his arms around a beautiful woman.

Lawson and Clay standing with a man that has to be their dad.

Lawson as a boy, standing in a hard hat, with a hammer in one hand and drawing in the other.

“Smooth.” Dad’s comment almost sounds like a praise.

“Is he staying in town?”

My question is met with silence.

I follow his gaze out the window, watching the heavy snow fall and squeal. “He’s camping?!?”

“Last I heard, he made it to the campground.”

“Last you heard?” Then I remember the text from earlier. “You set this up, didn’t you?”

“I planted the seed is all. The rest is out of my hands.”

“But it’s freezing. He’s going to get sick out there. Or worse.”

“He’ll be fine.” He stands, taking the box from my lap and placing it on the ottoman. “Now, are we going to decorate this tree or what?”