Page 14 of Taming Liberty

My ears heat, and years’ worth of residual shame slides into my belly, making me nauseous for a moment.

“Well.” I try to swallow the shame. “I find it’s less embarrassing to say I never went to college than to have to explain why I don’t use my poli-sci degree.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “And why don’t you?”

My eyes narrow. “I’m not the one on trial here.”

“Right. I was more deceitful, I can admit that. But can you admit that you weren’t one hundred percent honest with me either?”

My lips pinch together. As much as I want to deny it, there were some parts of my life I edited.

“No?” He gives me a teasing smirk. “How about when I asked about the origin of your screen name, manhattanpeasant? You told me it was because you lived in Manhattan surrounded by a bunch of rich people, and you shared a tiny studio apartment with your husband, and later, his niece. You felt like you didn’t belong, like you were a peasant among royalty.”

“Thatishow I felt,” I say, my tone defensive.

“Sure, but your, ‘tiny apartment’ is a mansion by Manhattan standards. You painted yourself as a poor wife of an abusive husband who took all the money you made from your job as a technical writer, the only job you were allowed to have. That was far from reality.”

I look away, my face heating.

Fuck. He’s right. I wasn’t completely honest with him either. It didn’t feel like it mattered at the time. Every white lie was to avoid embarrassment, but now that I realize he knew the truth that whole time, every bit of embarrassment and shame I avoided comes barreling into me.

“You didn’t exactly paint yourself as upper class either,” I say, a sad attempt to get the focus off me.

“How could I? I told you I couldn’t afford a nurse for my wife.”

“You weren’t even married.”

“You weren’t even a technical writer.”

I force myself to meet his eyes. It’s so much easier to hide shame behind a computer screen.

He smiles in obvious amusement, causing my stomach to do somersaults. “It’s sad, but I actually believed that one. It was months before I caught you in that lie.”

The way he says it puts me slightly at ease. His tone doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of me. It sounds like he’s making fun ofus, like we’re both being clued in on a private joke.

My body relaxes, and I fight a smile. “You asked me how my article was going.”

He hums. “I remembered wrong. I thought you were a blog writer when I asked, and you went along with it.”

I surrender to the pull of my lips, a smile stretching across my face. “I thought maybe that’s what I’d told you. I didn’t remember I’d said technical writer until you brought it up a few minutes ago.”

“I figured.” He laughs. “Last time I asked about your job, you were writing a piece on the dangers of preservatives.”

“Last time I asked aboutyours, you were designing houses for an up-and-coming neighborhood an hour from where you lived.”

He tilts his head and looks up at the newly lit sky while he appears to contemplate it. “I did have some houses built around that time. I wasn’t the architect, but it’s closer to the truth than your bullshit.”

I roll my eyes with mock annoyance. “Elsie had just said she didn’t like my store-bought spaghetti sauce because it was processed.”

“Oh, so you did become an expert on preservatives. I see.” He gives me a wink. “By the way, I’ve never tried store-bought spaghetti sauce, but I agree with Elsie. Gross.”

“It’sfine.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Fucking rich people.”

“Not a rich thing.” He shrugs. “I’m Spanish. We take pride in our food.”

I blink and remember he isn’t from Massachusetts. I know that. He has a clear Spanish accent, and he’s told me where he’s from, but for a moment, it was like I was talking to saltyshells. Like we picked up where we’d left off.

Maybe he is that guy after all. I mean, with all the lies I told, I was stillmethe whole time. Of course,Ididn’t encourage his wife to sell him as a slave.

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