Page 22 of Reckless Liar

She stood and went into the kitchen, refilling our drinks as the door slammed and Xander walked into the room.

Scarlett smiled at him. “Hey, late night? Did you have a hot date?” she teased.

He glanced from me to her, his eyes staying on hers for a minute too long. “Uh, yeah, actually.”

A tightening in my chest took my breath. I had no idea he was seeing someone. He never told me. While I wanted to say that we talked about everything, this was one subject that never came up.

“And who is the lucky lady?” Scarlett teased. “And when do we get to scare her away?”

“Her name’s Sherie. She works at the chiropractor’s office in Anderlund Village. We got our coffees mixed up at the coffee shop. She grabbed mine by accident.”

“Sure, she did.” My comment came out more spiteful than I wanted it to sound. I pressed my lips together, my jaw tense. I coaxed a softer tone. “That sounds really cute, Xan.”

“I guess.” He ran a hand through his curls as he looked around the living room, nodding at the new decor. “So, you guys spent the day… uh…”

“Redecorating?” Scarlett supplied, handing my beer to me.

“Yeah, it’s um...” He scratched his nose, looking around the room. “I guess it looks kind of nice.”

“Oh, Alexander, you really know how to compliment a gal, don’t you?” Scarlett teased.

I laughed, relieved we weren’t talking about Xander’s dating life any longer. “You don’t like it?”

He frowned as he looked at the walls where we hung up a few pieces of art I bought in college. “It’s different, is all. Where did you get this stuff?”

Seeing the painting on the wall reminded me of why I bought it in the first place—the sensation that came over me when I first saw it. I recognized myself in her—the thick feathered wings, the way she’s partially submerged in the dark pool trying to bring her down, the flume before her cascading against achromatic foliage. Yet she was there, she wasn’t down yet. It reminded me that the beating of my heart was all I needed. Maybe I could let the water lick my skin, but I wouldn’t be towed under.

I pointed to the painting. “I’ve had that big one since I was at the UW. I never got around to hanging it up.” Xander inspected it for a few minutes, his hand coming up to touch the right wing. “You don’t like it?”

Xander stepped closer, looking over it. “No, I do. It’s not what I expected from you, it’s kind of...” Xander glanced at me, frowning, “Well, I don’t get it, but if you like it, I’m cool with it.”

I stood beside him, admiring the painting. The juxtaposition of Xander’s reaction to having it in our living room compared to Max when it was in our bedroom was startling. I didn’t want to take notice, but I couldn’t help it. Max was not Xander. They would never be the same person. Stepping back, I left them in the living room.

Scarlett left to go see her new girlfriend and I retreated to my room. My legs were wobbly from the craft beer. Flopping onto the bed, I turned my head to glance at the closet. Scarlett had emboldened me. I could change things—I could make this place my own. But I needed to go through Max’s things to do that. With everything else in the condo placed exactly where it should be, the boxes shoved in my closet mocked me every time I opened the door. There were a few times I tried to go through them, but opening them made me freeze, my heart beat faster, my breath came out in short blasts, and my vision turned to pinprick dots in front of me. I couldn’t do it. So, I kept putting it off. I put it off until it was almost a year since they’d been put away. Almost a year since I’d smelled him on my pillow. Since I’d felt the fabric of his shirts against my skin.

I set the pint glass down on the floor and pulled the first box to me. Opening the boxes, a rush of cologne and stale air met me. I pulled out the shirt on top and I looked at the sweater I’d gotten him for his twenty-second birthday. Holding it in front of me, I rubbed the soft fabric between my fingers. I could picture exactly how he looked wearing them. The blue in the shirt brought out the blue in his eyes and he’d push up the sleeves on the sweater.

I set them aside in the keep pile and continued sorting through the box, placing items in one of two piles—keep or give away. Opting to keep a few things holding sentimental value, I sorted out old T-shirts reminding me of our time together. The fabric of some of his shirts was so old that little holes formed along the hem. I used to hook my finger through those little holes and drag Max closer to me. I let the soft cotton glide over my hand, lacing my fingers through the little holes. I sighed and dropped it in the keep pile. With one box left, I was doing better than I thought I would.

Between his shirts, I found a large manila envelope. Stuffed inside were letters—sheet after sheet of notes. All on different paper, all with different handwriting.

Pages and pages. Different handwriting. Different women. Different girls. Some were dated, some were not.

Letters. Written to Max when we were together.

The papers fell from my hand to the floor. A strangled sob escaped me. I sank to my knees—the shag carpet not nearly soft enough to cushion the fall. Xander must have heard me cry out. He rushed in wearing athletic shorts and his hair was still wet from the shower.

“Ana, what’s the matter?” he asked fearfully.

I gathered all the papers and thrust them at him. Still sobbing, I watched as he read them, his face grew paler, his jaw tight.

“Where did you find these?”

I pointed at the box. “With his shirts.”

“What were you doing looking through his shirts, Ana?” he asked softly.

Ignoring his chastisement, I kept talking, “I found these.”

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