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Tension coils around my heart on the walk back to the apartment and with each step, the bands squeeze tighter.
My secret has turned into a monster that’s awakened from a fourteen-year slumber and is devouring me from the inside out. Sharing the truth with Logan is the only way to take control of it. It’s time for me to explain to him what I suspect is behind these threatening texts.
Logan’s attentiveness tonight feels precious, and I hug it to myself. He helps me remove my jacket and I lean slightly into him. I crave his touch even if it’s only a brush of his fingers against my arm. He hangs our coats up on the hooks in the hallway and I drift toward the living room.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a lovely dinner date and I don’t want it to end. At least not the way it’s bound to once he knows I’ve lied about who I am. I’m screwed either way, whether I continue the way I have or I tell the truth.
The truth is the right thing to do. Even if I’m sure it will break these fragile, gossamer thin, tendrils of affection weaving between us and forming a stronger fabric of friendship, or maybe something else.
I feel him standing behind me. “You seem very quiet. Are there more messages?” I’ve just checked my cell again, like I’ve been doing obsessively all day and throughout dinner. Logan has noticed but this is the first time he’s asked.
“No.” I turn to face him. “Sorry, I just can’t stop thinking about the threats.”
He steps closer and I reach my arms around his waist like I did last night when we stood in this same spot. His arms wrap around me, and I immediately feel safe and warm.
I lift my head reluctantly from his chest but don’t look up at him. Instead, I focus my gaze on the V of skin showing between the lapels of the collar of his dark linen shirt.
“Logan. I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.” His response is somber and filled with caution.
My arms drop from his waist, his doing the same. I feel the loss instantly, but I need to do this sitting down. I walk over to the sofa. Only his eyes follow me.
I look back at him. “Will you sit with me?” I gesture to the cushion beside me.
He nods and takes a seat. I fold my hands on my lap, pretending a calm I’m far from feeling.
I wait for him to settle beside me, close but not touching, and only then do I begin.
“I think I know what these text messages are about.”
He leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands clasped in between them. “Go on.”
I draw a deep breath in, then say in a clear emotionless voice, “I’ve been living a lie.”
It’s a simple sentence aimed at shattering the walls that have held my secret. Logan’s focus is unwavering. And now that the dam has been cracked, words tumble out.
“I grew up as a privileged little rich girl living in California. From the outside looking in it was the perfect American dream. I had every luxury that money could buy, everything I wanted. That’s how my parents loved me, with presents not their hearts. My mother spent her days shopping or lunching at the best restaurants. My father spent his days as a financial advisor to the stars. Hollywood actors, producers, and studio executives frequently visited our palatial mansion in the Hollywood Hills.”
Logan’s staring at me like I’m a stranger. I don’t blame him because until now, I’ve never mentioned my parents. Back in school they all assumed they lived overseas like a lot of the other boarders, but that was just part of the background story.
I draw in a shuddering breath, then continue. It’s too late to stop now. “My parents liked to host extravagant parties; no expense spared. Not that I was ever able to attend any of them. But I could hear them sometimes from my balcony upstairs.”
Logan’s frown has me adding, “My family were wealthy like yours, but that’s where the comparison ends. In every other way they were completely different. My parents were the worst kind of social climbers, willing to crush anyone who got in their way.”
Another deep breath does little to slow my racing heartbeat. I need to get this out and deal with the questions, furrowing Logan’s brow, when they come. “One morning in June, it all imploded. FBI agents showed up at dawn, breaking down our door. They dragged my father away in handcuffs.”
Nightmares of that horrible morning haunted me through my teens. But then I managed somehow to completely block them out by believing the life that was created for me was how it had always been. Until now.
I choke on a sob and Logan shuffles closer on the sofa, putting his arm around my shoulders. I want to lean on him, but I don’t. However, it gives me the strength to continue.
“It turned out the life I knew was a big lie. My father had been stealing for years from all his famous so-called friends and even worse, pension money from regular people.”
I squeeze my hands tighter. My fingers interlocked, my palms pressed together to stop them from shaking. Briefly, I close my eyes, unable to bear the look of confusion on Logan’s face.
“I remember my mother screaming, crying uncontrollably, completely losing it. We were bundled into a patrol car and taken to my grandparents’ house.”
Mentioning the grandparents I adored, sticks in my throat like lumps of rock. I’ve never been able to figure out how two loving, kind people could have a child, like my mother, who was so cold and indifferent.
