Liar Liar

‘It would never have come to that, even without you. The pair are not well matched, though I believe he tried. Amélie is . . . spoiled, selfish, and quite frankly, a bitch.’

‘Maybe those are admiral qualities in the wife of a billionaire.’

I guess I’ll never find out.

26

Rose

It seems liquor doesn’t agree with my stomach tonight, despite my best efforts. Ben left earlier. He might have said he felt responsible for what happened this afternoon, but not enough to ruin his whole evening.

Whatever. I don’t need his company. And at least he paid the bill.

I find myself wandering along the marina and farther to the shorefront where there are fewer tourists, and certainly no one lingering. In the early evening humid air, I sit at the base of the cliffs overlooking the water. As the waves crash against the rocks below, I pull the monogrammed scarf from my hair and contemplate letting it go fluttering out over the sea. I end up stuffing it into my purse instead; this isn’t a Hallmark movie. There will be no happy ending for me. Plus, I only have one scarf, and I still have a job. At least, so far.

I watch the setting sun touching the horizon with golden fingertips, the clouds backlit by a light that’s almost celestial. I’m still sitting there as dusk turns to dark, the evening breeze bringing with it a slight chill and making me wish I’d brought a jacket.

I can’t stay here all night, but as I leave, I stand and lean over the concrete parapet, but I can’t see the waves below. I’d read somewhere years ago that most ills could be cured by salt. Sweat. Seawater. Tears. Well, I’d taken a walk, and I’d be walking some miles back to my apartment, plus I’d spent more than an hour listening to the waves. I’d even had salt with my tequila, but I’d yet to try crying with any real depth to release the tightness in my chest.

I guess it’s time to give that a shot.

It’s gone eight when I get back to my apartment. I kick off my shoes and drop my keys to a dish not picked out by me, sitting on a table that I like, but I also didn’t choose. Bypassing the living room, I make my way to the bedroom, intending on hitting the shower for my epic cry fest. It seems as good a place as any to give it a try. One hand works a few buttons loose, the other reaching for the remote to close the automatic blinds when, in the reflection of the darkened window, a looming figure appears. I choke back a cry, my mind processing the data on slow-mo. There isn’t someone at my window, not twelve stories up, but there is someone standing behind me. I stumble deeper into the room, my hands blindly scrambling for something to hurl.

‘It’s not really my size.’ Remy stands at the doorway to my bedroom, holding the nude heeled pump I’d just thrown at him. ‘You really should let me buy you a new pair of these,’ he murmurs in that stupidly deep voice of his as he glances down at the worn heel.

‘What are you doing in here?’ I grab the matching shoe, launching it at him.

‘I have your key.’

‘That doesn’t mean you get to use it. Not after the shit you’ve pulled! Get the hell out!’ Excess adrenaline rushes through my veins as I frisbee a small, square pillow from the end of the bed at his head. Hurt and offended—fucking furious, and though I’ve used that word before, probably hundreds of times, I now know I haven’t been using it right. My head throbs with violence, my ears ringing with his untruths, my chest filled with this all-consuming rage where my heart used to exist. And to add insult to injury, that goddamned pillow just didn’t cut it. I grab a small decorative box from the dresser and an almost empty bottle of perfume I really don’t want to see wasted yet really do want to see smash him in the face. I don’t know what’s come over me. I can and will always stand up for myself, but violent tendencies aren’t really my thing.

Or they weren’t.

In an effort to avoid the perfume bottle, his head connects with the doorframe as it glances off his chin. My joy blooms and shrivels. How can I want to hurt him and regret when I do?

‘Rose, stop.’

‘You don’t get to tell me stop. You don’t get to tell me anything!’ Next, it’s a book, followed by a tub of moisturiser, each aimed at his heads, plural. The book to his head on his shoulders, the heavier tub to the baguette, which he catches with a reflexive smile. My head feels like it’s about to explode as I launch myself at him, fists flying like hammers to his chest. ‘I never want to see you again!’