Page 68 of With This Lie

Dani

It’s beenfour days since Lucas came to my work and told me he loved me. He hasn’t attempted to contact me again. I have read my mother’s letter twice more since then and already packed half my living room and most of my kitchen into boxes. I put in my notice at work and informed the landlord of my intention to vacate so now it’s just a matter of counting down the days.

Quinn was sad. She couldn’t believe any of it. I explained the whole situation to her and her jaw dropped in shear disbelief. I didn’t divulge such a truth to anyone else but I knew I could trust her with it. It wasn’t the sort of thing you told just anyone but part of me wanted to make it known to the world so no one would fuck with me ever again. Trust me, no one will never fuck with me again.

I’m sorting through clothes in my closet, throwing several things in a pile to donate before moving and hear a knock at the door. I peek out my bedroom to look out into the living room and see if they knock again. They do, which means they are actually serious about having me answer and not just a door-to-door religious group or salesperson of sorts. I look through the peephole and unlock the deadbolt.

A man in a delivery uniform checks the tablet in front of him. “Miss Monroe?”

I nod in confirmation and he hands me the device and stylus to sign. “What is it?” I ask, looking into the hallway.

“It’s actually several boxes, ma’am.” He looks at the tablet when I give it back to him. “According to the manifest, there are eleven to be exact.”

“Eleven boxes of what?” I ask. What on earth would be coming to me in so many boxes?

“And one envelope,” he says. “I’ll be back in a moment.” He turns to go down the stairs.

Utterly confused, I watch as he and his partner go up and down the stairs six times each to bring them all up. The boxes are all the same shape and size. The delivery men stack them up neatly in my dining room and one hands me the envelope last. I turn the envelope over in my hand and see my name printed on the front. There’s no return address. It feels too thick to be a single page. I open the envelope and unfold the pages.

Dani,

I know trying to see you again to explain all of this would be a mistake so I thought it would be best to try to write it all down. Maybe you’ll just throw it away and that will be the end of it. But hopefully, you’ll at least read the letter in its entirety so you’ll understand me a little better. So you’ll understand we are a little more alike than you realize.

Eight years ago, I was happy and in love. I was engaged to be married actually. For real. One day, I came home early and found my fiancé in bed with my bother. Yes, that’s right. That’s why we hadn’t seen each other in eight years and that’s why our relationship had been so strained. It turns out they had been seeing each other behind my back pretty much the entire time. I called off the engagement and severed all communication with Elliott.

A couple of years ago, my mother became very ill. Cancer. She fought hard but ultimately the cancer was stronger and she died with me by her side. I can’t remember what excuse Elliott had for not being there and even though she was his mother too, he never really acted like it. He and his father always treated me and her like we were beneath them for some reason. I digress. Back to the point. She died. And before she did she begged me to try to make things right with him again. She reminded me that he was my only family now really, and that despite what had happened, I should be the bigger man since I’m the older brother. I promised her I would. For a little while, I didn’t. But lately, it started to nag at me. I didn’t want to break that promise to my mother, even after her death. That’s when I started to try to find him.

Now, as for the lie. After catching them together, I went through a phase of swearing off women completely. Then I wanted something, just nothing serious. The trouble was, it was very difficult to be a single man and date casually and not eventually get a line of questions about why it couldn’t be serious. Women always seemed to want more. Or they’d begin to develop a complex about themselves and I didn’t want them doing that. Afterall, my decision was about me, not them. So I tried something. It wasn’t right and I’m not proud of it. But I put my ring on. From when I was engaged. I went out and I told this woman I was married. I told her I couldn’t invest into something serious. And she indulged me. Hell, I think she was even more into it thinking I was taken.

I’m not proud of this, Dani. But I faked being married so I could continue to have fun and never settle down. I didn’t want to. I had no interest in it. At the same time though, I faked being married for the same reasons you only ever dated married men. To protect myself from what I knew to be inevitable: Pain. I knew one day someone like you would come along and completely crush me and I just had no interest in experiencing that ever again. My fiancé had done it and that was enough heartbreak for a lifetime as far as I was concerned.

None of that is an excuse for the pain I’ve cause you. None of that is a reason or rationale. But I am trying to make you understand just a little. And I hope you do, Dani. God, I hope you do. The day we had lunch together and you told me you only dated married men, I had a choice to make. I thought about coming clean right there in that moment but I was so scared about the idea of you not even giving me a chance after that, that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had it in my mind the entire time to tell you the truth somehow, some way, and that moment just never came. I’m so sorry for that, Dani.

I know this letter can never take away the pain I’ve caused. This isn’t me trying to ask you to give me a second chance or even forgive me. It’s just a letter explaining my side.

You might be wondering what the boxes are right about now. I never got to give you your birthday present. And given what’s happened, this seems even more important now. Dani, I’ve caused you so much pain. All I can remember you telling me is how much music helped you through all the painful times in your life. How music is what healed you. So maybe I can’t heal you. I know that. But maybe what’s inside these boxes can. They belonged to my mother. Needless to say, she had an extensive collection. She loved music the way you do. She gave them to me and they’ve sat in my living room collecting dust ever since. They need a home where someone will appreciate them, where someone will listen to them. Most importantly, they need a home where they can heal someone.

So that’s all, Dani. That’s all I wanted to say. Regardless of what you may think, I do love you. I never thought I would love someone again and even though this isn’t how I would have liked it, at least I know I can do it. At least I know my heart isn’t quite as broken as I thought it was. So I want to thank you for that. Thank you for showing me what love feels like again.

Take care of yourself, Dani. It’s a strange and terrifying and beautiful world.

Love Always,

Lucas

I stand from my couch and look over at the boxes. I go to the kitchen to find the one unpacked knife I have and rinse it off. I pick the first box up from the floor and sit it on my dining room table, turning it around to face me. I carefully use the tip of the knife to slice across the top and ends. I flip open each flap of the top and remove the bubble wrap that has been tucked in.

I can’t believe my eyes. No wonder the box is so heavy. Neatly filed in the box is vinyl record after vinyl record. Some are wrapped in plastic and look nearly brand new. Some look well-worn and well played. I flip through the titles, seeing Bowie, Elton, Joplin, Prince. So many great albums in one box. I shove the box aside and open the next one. Some of these albums I’ve never even heard of. Some of the artists too. Some are newer artists, classical music, The Beatles. If you could think of it, it was in here. I flip through the third box and then the fourth. I open the fifth box and there it is. The record player itself. It’s old but has clearly been well taken care of. I pull the sides of the box away from the player and slowly lift it out of the bottom of the box.

I carry it into my bedroom, sit it on the trunk at the end of my bed, and then search frantically for the extension cord I keep in the top of my closet and plug everything in. I run out to the last box of vinyl I opened and flip through until I see the one I need. Sliding the record from the case, I return to my bedroom and lay it gently on the player and lift the needle to the edge of the record. The familiar sounds of “The Wolves (Act I & II)” by Bon Iver come through the speaker. I walk back into my closet and sit down with a thud.

I feel the familiar heat beneath my skin, the welling up. I try to fight it but I can’t stop it. I feel the tears begin to fall from my eyes and run down my cheeks and lips and chin. I begin sobbing uncontrollably. I try to inhale but can’t catch my breath and choke. I am full on ugly crying. I am a sopping ball of mess on the floor of my closet listening to a sad song from a beautiful gift from a beautiful man. I don’t deserve his love. I don’t deserve anything about him. I pat the ground around me. I pat my pockets until I find my phone. I don’t know what else to do.

Me: Come here. Please.

All I could do now was wait. Hope. I sit back in the closet, letting Bon Iver play through to the next song. And the next. I look down at my phone. No response. Maybe it was too late. Maybe I had hurt him too much. Maybe his love had limitations. That would be understandable. The next Bon Iver song comes on and I hear my front door open and shut. I hold my breath, afraid to call out to him. I hear footsteps come through the living room and hallway and into the bedroom. I see the edge of his feet. He turns toward me.

“What are you doing in there?” Lucas asks me.

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