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Back One White Lie Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. DEDICATION
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. THIRTY-THREE
  37. THIRTY-FOUR
  38. THIRTY-FIVE
  39. THIRTY-SIX
  40. THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. THIRTY-NINE
  43. FORTY
  44. FORTY-ONE
  45. FORTY-TWO
  46. FORTY-THREE
  47. FORTY-FOUR
  48. FORTY-FIVE
  49. FORTY-SIX
  50. FORTY-SEVEN
  51. FORTY-EIGHT
  52. FORTY-NINE
  53. FIFTY
  54. FIFTY-ONE
  55. FIFTY-TWO
  56. FIFTY-THREE
  57. FIFTY-FOUR
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

As I grabbed the brochure, a stack of photos fell from it, five of them, glossy, ‘Catskills Photo’ printed on the back. Every picture showed the same man. All were extremely close-up, so close they almost seemed intimate, snatches of brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard catching the light. He was rugged, with deep-set eyes and a strong chin, the kind of guy who made you think, They don’t make men like this anymore.

I shoved them back into the brochure and tossed it back in the drawer. I added my bras and underwear and the scarf of my mother’s, then slammed the drawer shut. The photos were nothing, the odds and ends of a life left behind. Probably the boyfriend of the last tenant. Grabbing my notebook, I marked them down anyway. Bedroom closet: five photos in top drawer of dresser (all of one man). Then, with my phone, I took a photo of the list I’d made for each room, just in case.

Situating myself on the bed, I took a deep breath, trying to reassure myself that there was no way Davis could find me. I had a fresh SIM card, which meant a new number, my social media accounts were deleted, and my old email would only be accessed when I was logged in to the VPN, a necessary risk for work. Even my new home was like a fresh start – filled with perfectly impersonal items, things that weren’t even mine, as if here, I could become someone else altogether.

If I were Ellie, I would have been freaking out. My best friend couldn’t go even a day without posting something to Instagram. But Ellie would probably have found a way to handle all of this differently. She was always good at difficult things, a friend who’d understood so clearly how to be there for me, never bringing up my parents unless I wanted to talk, inviting me over on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day to ply me with plotless buddy comedies and wine, take my mind away from it all.

Still, I can’t say how she would have handled this. This was different from my parents; no one knew what was happening except Davis and me. Basic logic, therefore, made him my only ally. Even now, I half wanted to call him, all, Babe, isn’t this crazy? Can you actually believe this is happening to us? I wondered if he would answer or if the phone would just … ring.

I opened Instagram instead.

I typed Davis’s handle into the search bar, and he instantly popped up. His account was public, but he hadn’t added anything in three days. The thought of him, plotting ways to fuck with me, made my skin crawl. The thought of him, wasting away in our apartment, alone, did, too.