Page 8 of Beautiful Lies
“Was your first thought … I need to get high to make it through this day?”
“Not my first thought.” But it was always there, that little voice in the back of my head telling me it knew a sure-fire way to take me away from it all, make me forget the world. It promised me euphoria, and sweet relief, however fleeting.
“There you go,” Tate said. “Progress.”
I chuckled. “Yeah. I’m in a great place.”
“A hell of a lot better than last year. Just take it one step at a time. Keep doing the work, and the big shit will sort itself out.”
“Right.”
After a beat, he said, “Keeping shit like that inside eats away at a person. He deserves the truth.”
Tate hadn’t brought this up in months, and I’d been grateful for it, but I guess he felt that it deserved a mention on the one-year anniversary.
“That’s all I’m gonna say about that. Call if you need me.”
“Thanks.”
I cut the call and pocketed my phone. Maybe Killian had a right to know, but the truth was ugly. How could divulging it help?
Would Killian believe that I withheld the truth to protect him? I warred with myself daily. I didn’t know what Ronan Shaughnessy was fully capable of. He’d been the puppeteer pulling all the strings, and he’d made me dance for him. If I told Killian, I doubted that he’d just let it go. That wasn’t his style. He’d storm the castle, trying to play the white knight, but he’d fail just like I had. She didn’t want to be rescued. She’d chosen her second family over her first and left me and Killian behind without a backward glance. I envisioned Keira Shaughnessy, the sister Killian knew nothing about, the sister who had no clue we were related. Attempting to get close to her had been my downfall.
There was no easy way out. But then, had there ever been?
I lit a cigarette and took a drag, wishing all the bad shit didn’t taste so damn good. I briefly entertained the idea of calling Claudia and taking her up on her offer. Or hitting up a bar, ordering a club soda and lime, and finding the first hot girl willing to have sex. It wouldn’t be that difficult, and maybe that sounded cocky, but girls were attracted to my physical appearance. Pretty on the outside, something entirely different on the inside.
Ava once called me an onion.
“You make people cry. And you have so many different layers … you never know what the next one will reveal.”
An onion. Jesus Christ.
2
Ava
“Zeke, honey, would you like more cake?” my mom called through the screen door.
“No thank you.”
“How about more of the baked ziti and meatballs? Or the wedding soup? You loved that.” My mom comes from a big Italian family, and in her world, food is love. She wouldn’t rest until she stuffed Zeke like a Christmas turkey.
“I loved it all,” he said, flashing her a big white smile. Zeke looked like he stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad, with his blond hair and sun-kissed skin. Not only was he easy on the eyes, he wasn’t an asshole. “But I can’t eat another thing.”
“I’ll pack a doggy bag for later.”
“I won’t say no to that,” he said with an easy smile.
“Suck up,” I teased. Zeke winked at me. He knew how to play the game, a whole lot better than I did. Zeke was raised in Greenwich in a sprawling house with a swimming pool and tennis courts. Yet here he was in the backyard of my parents’ rowhouse, talking to my grandparents, aunts, and uncles who all talked over each other, my sister Lana, and her husband Joe, and winning them over. He could charm the birds out of the tree, and within five minutes of walking in the door, he’d charmed my entire family. Two hours later and he was still doing it.
“Help me in the kitchen,” my mom said, summoning me. I knew what was coming and sighed as I crossed the backyard and yanked open the screen door.
“I like that boy,” she said, donning yellow rubber gloves to protect her manicure. She plunged the dirty dishes into the soapy water. Scrubbed, rinsed, and handed me a plate to dry and stow in the cabinet.
“When are you guys going to get a dishwasher?” I asked, aiming for a diversion.
“I offered to buy her one,” my dad said from his spot at the kitchen table. He flipped the page of his newspaper, which he preferred to hanging out with my mom’s family. Or anyone. Unlike my mom who loved to surround herself with people, my dad liked peace and quiet.
