Liar Liar

‘The man was ripped.’

‘So you said.’

‘And though he was very sweet, there was something a little uncivilised about him.’ Especially in the bedroom. ‘Like he’d be at home wearing a bearskin and bludgeoning his dinner to death.’

‘I’m going to refrain from asking if you swung from vines and got up to monkey business and instead ask you to explain exactly what you mean.’

‘I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.’ He was almost a perfect contradiction. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure he sent those gifts. He just didn’t seem the type.’

‘You’re saying he didn’t seem like the appreciative type? Or do you mean the thoughtful type?’

‘What’s with the tone?’ I ask, frowning down at the screen of my iPad screen.

‘I’m just confused. It sounds like you’re saying he was really hot for you but that you want him not to be grateful, or thoughtful, or just decent, maybe.’

‘That’s not fair,’ I protest. ‘And that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying we don’t know who or what he is.’

‘Yet you still brought him home like a lost puppy.’

‘He was hurt. What was I supposed to do?’

‘And the fact that he was pretty had nothing to do with you taking him home.’

I don’t answer, though I narrow my eyes at her tone.

‘Okay. Fine. You took him home because you’re a paragon of virtue. It’s not your fault it was a cold, cold night, and you got into bed next to him to share your body heat.’

Again, I don’t answer. I just deepen the stink eye.

‘And it’s absolutely not your fault that you rolled onto his dick at some point during the night—fell onto it vigorously. Multiple times!’

‘Are you done yet?’

‘You know his name,’ she says, trying a little stink eye of her own. ‘You could google him.’

‘Do you think I haven’t done that already? A search for the name Remy Durrant offered up a couple of kids on skateboards, one who lives in Toronto and the other in Calgary, plus a middle-aged accountant living in someplace called Clapham in London.’

‘You googled him?’

‘Didn’t I just say so? Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Like what?’

I open my mouth, reflecting some semblance of her expression right back at her. She looks like a guppy.

‘Ha. Funny. Is it any wonder I’m a little stunned? You’re behaving very un-Rose like.’

‘We’ve laughed and bickered and laughed some more. Sounds like the usual Sunday night call, if you ask me.’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about. You googled him? The man has totally pushed you out of your comfort zone.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You never chase after a man.’

‘A Google search is hardly chasing,’ I respond, but even I can hear how defensive I sound.

‘But it shows interest. Even if you don’t want the gifts to have come from him.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Because if the gifts didn’t come from him, then that makes him thoughtless and ungrateful and possibly broke.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Which kind of makes him perfectly your type. If he is those things, I mean.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I scoff. ‘I don’t have a type.’

‘Oh, sweetie, you do. You only date men who are easy to kick to the curb.’

‘That makes no sense.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ she says kindly. ‘Even if it means your heart doesn’t get hurt?’

Whether from her expression or her words, I’m stopped dead in my tracks. Is that me? Is that who I am? But then a thought strikes me.

‘I see a flaw in your hypothesis because even if Remy is rich and grateful, he’s not thoughtful. Or else he’d have stuck around.’

‘Which means it’s safe for you to still be crushing on him. Hence, the Google search.’

‘I think pregnancy has made you addle-brained.’

‘I think you’re probably right. But I have to say, if he sent you gifts, it means he’s thinking about you, too.’

‘Amber, you’re being ridiculous. The man was hurt, and I helped him. We both woke up kind of horny, and we had sex. The fact that he left in the morning was a blessing. He did us both that favour.’ It doesn’t make us star-crossed lovers or anything even close to that.

‘But he’s still thinking about you,’ she sort of sings.

‘And I think you’re a little bit crazy,’ I sing right back, even as my heart does a little skippity-skip. Bad heart!

‘Admit it, you liked him.’

‘So, he was cute,’ I reply, admitting no such thing. ‘And sweet, even though I couldn’t understand a word he said. ‘And he—’ I clamp my lips together, unwilling to confess he held me in his arms all night, let alone that I let him.

‘He what?’ Amber prompts.

‘Was great in bed. But while that’s all well and good,’ I say, hurrying on, ‘the only thing I’m interested in right now is keeping my head above water.’

As Amber’s expression falters, my conscience prickles. My troubles are my troubles, yet I had to go open my big fat mouth.