Page 23 of Tell Me the Truth

OK, what do I need to do to switch into thinking mode and figure out what to do next?I am trying to process this overload of emotions, thoughts, ideas, and the knowledge that decisions and choices need to be made about Seth BioTech.

Starting over begins tomorrow. For both me and my company.

When I get into my car, I feel the urge to slam the door closed, but I put my rage in check and close it slowly instead. It feels like everything in me is hanging on by a thin thread.

I grip the steering wheel, tightening, until my hands start to hurt. That thin thread I thought was there has already ripped, and I don’t know what I’m hanging onto. My eyes are filled, my face wet with tears.

Heaviness. My bones weigh me down into the seat of my car. Then, a realization.

In this moment, it doesn’t matter to me whether I believe him. I want to see him. To sit and talk with him. Maybe I’ll be able to tell if he is lying or telling the truth.

If it’s true that he’s fallen for me. I could use that to my advantage.

I am just wasting time thinking about whether to contact him. If I spend too much time thinking, I am pretty sure I’ll eventually convince myself against it. So, I pick up my cell phone and just call him.

Ellis picks up my call before I hear the second ring. The second I hear his voice, I know that I want to believe that he had no part in sabotaging my lab. As we talk, I start to realize that hearing him over the phone isn’tgoing to beenough. Even just hearing his apologies, I can feel myself thinking that he is telling the truth.

I can’t just easily fall for his lies again.

I think that I need to see him. Face-to-face. That way I will be able to look him in his eyes and read his body language. That will tell me more than the flowery, apologetic, sad-sounding words I am listening to come through the cell phone.

Plus, even if he wasn’t the one behind the fire, it still doesn’t mean he didn’t know about plans to destroy my lab, I remind myself.

“I need to see you. Let’s talk this out face-to-face so that you can explain everything to me.” I do hope that I sound generous in my allowing him to see me, but also firm and guarded.

His voice, though, sounds relieved and grateful. As if he sees this as an opportunity to convince me of his lies and instantly forgive him. “Thank you, Alexandra. Yes. I want to see you too. Please let me explain and tell youeverything I can. I’m so sorry for lying to you and I want to make this up to you. IhopeI can make this up to you.”

Actually, no. That’s not what I want. I don’t want to hear his excuses and what I’ll just hear as being made-up explanations.I’m not meeting up with him so that he can attempt to pry his way into my heart.

“Let’s be clear, Ellis, this is not the first stop on your apology tour.” I need to set expectations right away so that there is no confusion about why I am agreeing to meet him. “I’m only giving you the chance to explain what you feel you need to. That’s all. Nothing more.”

We agree to meet at a quiet dive bar that he knows of in a sleepy town, on the backroads, southeast of Sacramento. It is out of the way for me, but it is definitely the kind of place where no one would recognize us.

The entire drive to the bar, I am going over questions in my mind for what I feel I need to know from him. There are too many questions, though, where I am starting to feel my emotions heighten.

Like, ‘If you knew that you wanted to stop your company from buying into mine, why didn’t you just ghost me after the coffee shop?’

Instead of setting up our date at Notre Terre, he could have just allowed me to leave the coffee shop and let me go on with my day. After stopping his company’s interest in mine, he could have reached out later and found me again if he was still interested.

Or, ‘Even if he did intend to stop the buyout, why wasn’t one of his options to let me know when we were at the diner?’I know he would have had to tell me everything, but if he really cared about me then letting me in on his plans could have been an option. I think about this some more.

Whatwouldhave been my reaction to him telling me his real name? That he istheEllis Brent, CEO at Brent-Sigma. I admit to myself that if he’d told me anytime during the first day that we met, I would have signed him off. That would have been the last time I would have spent time alone with him again.At least until the threat from Brent-Sigma was gone.

I already understood why he didn’t tell me the truth on that first day. And the more I thought about it, I could see why he wouldn’t have offered the truth since it meant I’d walk away. Especially if I didn’t know who he was and if he really was interested in me right away (the way he said he was).

The thought that this proved he really fell for me the first moment he met me releases butterflies in my gut.Wow Alexandra. And if you really think that, then you are pathetic. He lied to me because he liked me so much. Not a top character quality I usually look for in a partner.

OK, what if he would have told me the truth the next day, what would my reaction have been?While I do know that my initial reaction would have been to freak and lash out, I wonder if I would have calmed down, eventually.He should have come clean when we were at the diner.

I am still driving to meet Ellis and I continue to process the questions I have for him. I’m taking mental notes, putting into two columns those questions that are just for informational purposes and those that make me feel extra emotions. When I drive up to the dive bar, I waste no time and walk right in.

Whoever designed the interior of the bar really liked wood. Oak, to be exact. Wood floors, wood paneling on the walls, wood doors and window frames, and a long wood bar that spans the entire length of one side of the room. Four sets of tables and chairs, all wood, sit opposite the bar. Just a jukebox with a frame of neon lighting is set apart from everything else at the far end of the bar. The smell of wood, alcohol, and mop water permeates the single room.

I drop off my sweatshirt at a table with three chairs at the end of the room, closest to the jukebox. There really isn’t a better choice. All the windows are by the bar entrance, and from the jukebox area I can see anyone who comes in through the door. People can pass by this table when they want to use the restroom or choose songs on the jukebox. But seeing as there are only three other people in the bar, I don’t worry much about feeling crowded.

I walk up to the bar and the bartender comes over, asking, “What can I get ya?”

Just a handful of options on the shelves behind the bartender makes my choice easy. “Rye. Neat. With a glass of ice.”

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