antacids from the container I keep in my bag. I make a mental note to remind Bethany, my assistant, to keep her trap shut about my appointments, even to—and maybe especially to—my mother. She called the office weeks ago when she couldn’t get a hold of me on my cell and Bethany promptly informed her I was out of the office to see the gastrointestinal doctor about scheduling an endoscopy—the same endoscopy I haven’t bothered to have done. I don’t have time.
I tap the screen putting my sister on speakerphone while I fire a text to Bethany directing her to get me another bottle of this heartburn stuff minus the press release about it. She’s smart enough to understand that I am aware of her indiscretion. My gut burns up to my throat. Ugh! I’ll have a dozen ulcers before Election Day finally arrives in two months. I exit the texting app and open Facebook. I pop the chalky tablets in my mouth and munch on them while pulling up Ellie’s profile to search for relevant talking points and intelligence. On my sister. I’m a terrible human.
Ever the politico.
“You killed that interview on the news last night. That one guy on the panel really thought he had you backed into a corner. Mom records all of them, you know.” I stifle a groan and change the subject, grateful for her propensity to over share the shit out of every morsel of her life on social media. I flip through post after post she has made to her profile, speed-reading things she has typed and mentally scanning the photos included.
“How was the bridal barbeque Aunt Joy hosted for you?” I ask, clicking through the pictures she posted. Bridal barbeque luncheon, reads the caption.
How very southern of Aunt Joy.
“It was great! Uncle Carl made his famous brisket, Mom made her potato salad and baked beans, and Aunt Joy made a pile… and I mean a pile of that green marshmallow stuff.”
“Watergate salad.” I smile genuinely at that bit and it feels weird. It seems like years have passed by since I’ve smiled sincerely.
It has been years, Self-Loathing, the wicked inner bitch of the west remarks.
“Yeah, that stuff. So good, and Doug can’t get enough of it. Anyway,” she carries on yammering away, but I register nothing else at all because my smile melts from my face and my eyes are glued to the picture that has just filled my screen. I swallow, feeling nausea roll like a rock tumbler in my stomach, clattering away. I grab the seltzer water on my desk and take a sip.
“Who all came?” I ask absently, my voice softer and my accent eddying to the surface just enough to make me cringe.
“Huh? Oh, just the same old crowd, really,” she says, sounding chirpy, nervous. It’s hard to believe that I can be such a seamless liar while my sister, my flesh and blood—someone who was raised in the same home by the same loving parents as me—can’t even string together two white lies without instantly giving herself away. There is only one person on this earth I can’t confidently say I can dupe. I can sell a fib to anyone, with exception to him, and considering there is something like seven or eight billion people on the planet, I think that is a damn good ratio.
“Mmm,” I hum a noncommittal noise with my eyes still fixated on the picture on my screen.
Him.
I flick the nail of my ring finger against my thumbnail, making a clicking noise. It’s an old nervous habit that I haven’t done in years, so doing it now grates on my delicate nerves. I reach for the bottle of antacids again, before I recall I just chewed up the last two I had.
Familiar dark eyes seem to stare right at me through the screen, making my gut twist and my fingers fidget faster. He used to laugh at me when I was doing it and demand I tell him what had me riled up. He’d flash that infectious grin and crinkle his knowing eyes, then he would call my bluff when I swore I was fine. He knew me. He really knew me. All the sides and edges and the little nuances uniquely mine. He was privy to the vulnerable, soft underbelly, to all the little things humans keep hidden from others out of fear and self-consciousness. He knew the geography of my teenaged body, heart and soul, and his betrayal was that much