Page 91 of Threaded Lies

I pause, knowing my lie isn’t going to suffice but say it anyway. “I’m working on it.”

And then once my excuse is out of my mouth, I wonder if it really is a lie. Am I really working on not marrying Chad? Or have I resigned myself to the fact that this is what needs to happen to get my inheritance?

The thought is nauseating at best.

I riffle through a few more pages and place them in the appropriate piles. A receipt from the grocery store. A flyer for a baby shower from years ago. A tax return dated ten years ago. A canceled paper check made out to a charity.

“I suggest you work a little harder at it because I’m pretty damn sick of being jealous of a relationship that technically doesn’t exist.”

If he only knew the irony that statement holds.

“I know. I am. I promise.”

THIRTY-TWO

Holden

The bar is dim, the music is low and bluesy, the scotch in my glass is neat, and at least four patrons sitting in various parts of this bar on the east side of Fairmont are no doubt figuring if I’m worth jumping when I walk out to my car or not.

“You good, man?” the bartender asks, to which I nod and lift up my freshly poured drink as a thank-you.

Good?

That’s debatable.

“You looking for a fight?” the guy next to me asks. His baseball hat is pulled down low over his eyes, and his hair in need of a cut hangs out from beneath the back. He’s definitely a barfly. The bartender doesn’t ask what he wants and when a new one slides across the top, no money is exchanged because it’s on a tab.

“Nah. Just needing to be reminded of where I came from.”

“Here?” His laugh sounds like he smokes six packs a day as he looks me up and down. “No shit.”

“No shit,” I murmur.

“Why would you want to be reminded of this shithole?” he asks.

Because I have plans. I have things to accomplish. And … fuck. What would have happened if I’d met Rowan under different circumstances?

Would I have allowed myself to entertain the opportunity of having more with her?

“Ah. It’s a woman,” he says before I can respond.

“It would never work,” I state. It can’t. It couldn’t.

“No? Why not?”

My knee-jerk reaction is to tell him to mind his own business but I find myself answering him. “Because it wouldn’t.”

“Families hate each other? She’s the wrong religion? She’s your boss?” he asks.

“Hmm.”

“That bad, huh?”

I shrug and take another sip of my whiskey.

“Just because it would never work doesn’t mean you can’t still want it. Doesn’t even mean you can’t enjoy it for a little bit.”

Those words stick with me.