Love Hate and Other Lies We Told Read online

  Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told

  by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told

  Copyright© 2017 Deirdre Riordan Hall

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author/publisher except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Website: http://www.deirdreriordanhall

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  Dedicated to my dear friend Cheyanne who's become a bestie and has been a tremendous source of support, inspiration, motivation, and has made me smile a little more often while on this wild journey.

  “The thing about love is that we come alive in bodies not our own.”

  – Colum McCann

  People say follow your heart. They put the slogan on T-shirts, add it to sun-washed images to inspire the pursuit of dreams and desires. It's the requisite conclusion in speeches intended to move and motivate. It's the tagline of countless social media posts. For a long time I took it to be a catchphrase, a buzzword, overused and meaningless. It was so obvious and overly simple that I disregarded it. But after fighting a war, waging a battle within, and traveling unfamiliar terrain the world over, I realized I was missing something. Or rather, someone. Even if she never speaks to me again, my heart will forever and always lead me back to her for it is in our love that I know I'm alive.

  – C.K. Flynn

  Chapter 1

  Puppy Love

  I lean in closer to the glowing laptop screen, blocking out the whir of the espresso machine, the laughter at the table next to me, and the ever-present knot of uncertainty that's been getting bigger and tighter lately. I scroll down, read the details snapshot, and click. This one has a gentle smile. Athletic. Looks affectionate. A companion. Girl's best friend.

  "What are you doing?" a familiar voice asks as a fragrant cascade of hair falls over my shoulder.

  I startle, spilling tea into the saucer, and quickly close my laptop.

  A pair of long, slim legs bound in bright pink yoga pants step into view. Katya's sculpted eyebrow angles toward disapproval. "Looking at fur babies again?"

  My tea tastes like guilt.

  "It used to be that you only got puppy fever once a month. I could set a clock by it."

  "Shh," I hiss, hoping she lowers her booming voice. "Not everyone needs to know about my cycles."

  She plants her hands on the table and leans over me. "I use your bouts of puppy fever to track my own period—it always comes a week after I'd catch you with that desperate, starry-eyed look as you gazed wistfully into the middle distance, only to realize you were just browsing adoptable dogs. But the current timing—" She taps her chin, calculating.

  I swallow another sip of tepid tea. I just want to cuddle something soft, sweet, and not inclined to love me and then leave me.

  "Doesn’t it make you sad?" she asks.

  "Of course. There are so many animals in need of good homes."

  "No, I mean that you're single."

  I exhale. "Kat, so are you. And you just prefer cats to dogs."

  "They're independent, selective, and," she smooths her hand down the arm of her fuzzy jacket, "soft."

  "So are dogs."

  "They shed," she counters.

  "So do cats." I'm still picking her cat's fur off my jacket.

  "They lick."

  "I thought we were talking about men," I say, flustered.

  "We were." She winks.

  I roll my eyes. With Katya, it always comes back to sex and you can't really blame her. She's tall, gorgeous, with a mixture of Indian, Greek, Kenyan, and Russian blood in her veins, lending her silky dark hair, sun-kissed skin—unlike my tube sock pallor—, and possesses a kind of worldliness that I do not regardless of the stamps in my passport. Moreover, as a yoga teacher, she's fit and can probably pretzel her way into all kinds of positions—she probably does.

  "Are you checking me out?" she asks with a sudden, sly grin.

  "I'm admiring you."

  She traces her outline. "The genes cannot be helped."

  "You're wearing leggings," I parry, just to irritate her.

  "Ha ha. Navy, come on. Don't be like that. You're beautiful."

  "If by beautiful you mean short, curvy, a jaw line that resembles a four-sided geometric shape, and with hair that can't decide what it wants to do on the daily… Then sure, call me cute."

  "I thought we discussed we're no longer going to buy into societal beauty conventions."

  I'm not afraid to call myself a feminist, but I'm feeling low and it's not because it's that time of the month. Hormones can't take all the blame for bad moods. "You're not conventionally beautiful. Just beautiful," I sputter.

  "It's winter, everyone's hair gets frizzy. Your square face shape means you have strong will power." She makes a fist, strengthening her statement.

  "…And that I overthink things, don't like to take unnecessary risks, and prefer to be alone. I read the same article." I rub a smudge on my teacup, recalling the magazine on her coffee table.

  "You shouldn't spend so much time alone. Come to my class later. By the end you'll be all blissed out and there's this guy who's been coming…" She fans herself. "I think he's taking my yoga class for the scenery rather than the amazing benefits of asana. Not that I mind because," she lowers her voice, "the view from my mat is just as ah-mazing."

  I open my mouth, but she puts up her hand.

  "Stop. I don't want to listen to you whining and complaining; no solo pity parties. Navy, you're pretty and the sooner you see that the happier you'll be."

  I know I'm not hideous, but it's been a long, long time since I've been reminded otherwise. I don't know how to date. I'm, like, ten years out of practice. There were a few casual hookups, often at Kat's insistence back during our college days, and one awkward date when I started at my old job. Let's not talk about the last time I had sex. I don't care what people say, my vibrator doesn't count. I don't quite experience the same hit of intimacy with a plastic device as I do with, well—I only truly went to the big show, as I've come to call it, once.

  I sigh. "All I need to do is think I'm pretty? That's the solution?"

  She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. "You know what I mean. You could smile more. The last time I saw that dimple was… Hmm, it's been years."

  Four years, nine months, and seven weeks ago. I was back home, caught off guard when he showed up at our parents' club's annual clambake. It won't happen again—the run in or the smile—, at least not any time soon.

  Deep down I do think I'm pretty, but when Kat and I are together, I can't help but compare my average looks and ho-hum life to her charmed one. I'm not tall, but I'm not short. I'm not blond and not brunette either. Some say I'm smart, but certainly not a genius. I've been told I'm pretty I guess, but not beautiful. I'm a little bit quirky and on most days, I'm confident that I'm not crazy. In other words, I'm average, not awesome. Ordinary, not extraordinary. And there's nothing wrong with that. Not everyone can be Katya Kalonje.

  I'm Navy Carrington and inside me, there's a little light, a mini star burning within. I just haven't figured ou
t how to let it shine and these days I feel nothing if not dim.

  Kat somehow manages effortless, natural ease and beauty, travels regularly, and while she has a PhD, she followed her bliss to teach yoga.

  As for me chasing those big dreams? First, I need to know what they are and then I’ll see about the chasing—though running's not really my thing, so it might be more of a speed-walking pace.

  Nonetheless, if Kat sees gorgeous when she looks in the mirror, I'm about to be seeing a lot more of that when we move in together tomorrow.

  I sigh again, prop my chin on my hand, and, tilt the screen of my laptop open. "I'm going to keep looking at puppies."

  "The leasing agent said no pets."

  "What about the cat?" I ask.

  "Mew? He's part of the family."

  "Is he going to get us kicked out?"

  A sly smile twitches on Katya's lips. "Of course not. The meeting with the leasing agent went exceptionally well." She holds up two keys and passes one to me. "The apartment is fabulous and so was he."

  I lean forward, knocking my knees into the bistro table. I steady my tea so I don't spill more and take a sip of the now cold liquid. "What did you do with him?"

  She claws the air with her long, manicured nails and meows. "Everything you wouldn't."

  "Katya!" I say louder than I mean to.

  An older woman wearing her New York winter whites glances at us as she passes. A guy two tables to our left peers over his laptop curiously. If he's hoping to write America's next great novel, he's likely to hear something scandalous out of Kat's mouth in three, two, one...

  "Tall, dark, handsome. I couldn't resist." She shrugs as if it's no big deal. "But wait until you see the guy down the hall. He was taking out his trash when I went to get the key. He can take my trash out anytime."

  Have I mentioned Kat's gorgeous and a sex goddess? I roll my eyes anyway. "I have no idea what that euphemism means."

  From the café counter, a barista with a man-bun calls her name. I watch her strut through the crowded café as if she's on a runway. The exhausted moms with their babies slung around their chests make way, the lawyers, bankers, and high-powered CEOs, CFOs, and A-holes, clear a path. I've already had it with men in Manhattan, and I've never even dated any of them. The self-importance, the expectation, the need to impress and then toss you to the curb with yesterday's garbage—I'm over it.

  Katya, with her numerous one night stands, makes the rules, calls the shots, and has fun while doing it. The busboy practically throws himself into a couple so she doesn't have to see his bin of dirty dishes.

  I shake my head. The grass, red carpet, or whatever it is that she walks on must indeed be greener. I'm resigned to never setting foot on it.

  Katya leans over the counter, no doubt flirting with Man-bun. I imagine she'll have something to say about him whipping the cream on her latte later.

  I resume my search for a companion that won't screw me over. Or screw me period.

  "You have that look in your eyes," Kat says when she returns.

  "Which one?" I ask dubiously.

  "The I despise biped males one."

  Among Katya's many fabulous attributes, she's also uncommonly intelligent and clever. In her twenty-eight years she's completed her PhD, sold a wellness app—banking a million or so—, and has traveled the world as a fitness model.

  Meanwhile, I'd struggled to keep my job as a copywriter at an ad agency until a few months ago when everything blew up. The new guy—who may have enticed my former boss by employing some of the methods Kat mentioned—, was kept on. They had to cut the fat, which meant letting me go.

  I'd been there for three years, day and night, bending over backwards, (well, not actually, because I'd never do that, but still). What was I left with? Five extra pounds from the long hours and eating away my sorrows with leftover office-party birthday cakes, a box full of junk including a half dead plant, and a lukewarm recommendation about my efficiency, detail-oriented multi-tasking skills, and a propensity to spend long hours in the office.

  In this entire city, the only position I was able to get was little more than an internship, essentially serving as the coffee runner and copy maker at a publicity firm. Yay. I get to bleed ink for some jerk who thinks she's the next Nora Roberts.

  Kat's phone chimes and she busies herself, probably replying to a hot date later.

  Wondering about the comment about despising males? Just the lying, cheating ones.

  I have a theory.

  Men suck.

  No, not that kind of suck.

  Mind. Gutter. Out. Now. This isn't that kind of story.

  That's not my theory. Bear with me. I don't hate men, not in the slightest. This isn't that kind of story either.

  The thing is, I just don't trust them.

  When it comes to love, men have a tendency to suck the fire out of women: dreams, hopes, desires, passion, little by little, deception after lie after loss until we're a smoldering pile of ash. Dramatic, I know. But that's how I've felt for nearly a decade, since high school! High school. After my heart was broken, I couldn't look at men the same way again. I've all but locked that pulsing, yearning thing in my chest up and thrown away the key.

  But love, yes, this is that kind of story, love is comfort. Love is understanding. Love is forgiveness. Love is home. And when you love someone, no matter what happens between you, love can become something else, something more.

  I read about love in novels all day everrryday and night, causing tremendous book hangovers and zombie eyes the next day when I try to focus at work. Though I've only just started at Albright, Bouche, and Carlotta, a publicity firm, so it remains to be seen whether they welcome zombies in the workplace. However, they did say they're an equal opportunity employer.

  But back to love. Let's discuss Mr. Darcy and how he melted his frosty exterior for Miss Bennet. How Noah Calhoun from the Notebook makes me swoon. Severus Snape, always. Gilbert Blythe and his unwavering patience and adoration for Anne Shirley. Yes, please. Jamie Frasier from Outlander, hello! Aragorn in Lord of the Rings, uh huh, I'm going there. Don't even get me started on modern men in romance novels: Fielding, Ward, Hoover, Thorne, Blakely, Clayton, Giffin—those ladies have love dialed in.

  Let's talk about gentlemen and true love and emotional medicine. Honor, loyalty, and honesty. These aren't paper playboys; they'll walk to the ends of the earth for their loves—sometimes literally—, they wage wars and win battles. They're beasts on the streets and sweet between the sheets. They're intelligent and thoughtful, considerate and tender. They may have a few flaws (Edward Cullen watching Bella while she slept? Only slightly creepy), but they're easily overlooked because all of their other qualities outweigh these tiny details.

  These are my book boyfriends. Does that make me a book slut? Sorry/not sorry.

  Here's my theory: if we're lucky, we'll find one of the few real life men who gives us part of themselves; maybe it's a kiss, a look, a love letter, a little something that becomes a thumbnail sized ember leaving us burning for them until it gets so bright, if we don't do something about it, we'll supernova. Swoon. Black hole. Whoosh. Gone. They're our soul mates, true loves. They're supportive, loving, smell delicious, cook dinner, put their laundry in the basket instead of next to it, reliably remember birthdays and anniversaries, and will hold us tight when we need tenderness and will screw us silly when we're feeling frisky.

  Someday I will find a real life book boyfriend, pulled from the pages of fiction. Love works in contrasts, in paradox. There's someone for all of us who won't break our hearts, but the trouble is finding him among the billions of people on the planet.

  First, I have to start looking, which will require massive amounts of duct tape, tequila, and possibly a new identity. No! This isn't that kind of story either.

  The duct tape is for my broken heart. The tequila is liquid courage, and the identity, well, let's just say things haven't exactly gone to plan in the last few years. I could go on and on an
d on. I'll stop now otherwise we'll be here until Valentine's Day.

  Kat sets down her empty cup. "Wait?!" she exclaims. Her eyes widen. "What if the super moon last month threw our cycles off?"

  I shake my head, drawing little on the table with my finger using the remaining tea in my cup.

  "Then what's got you down? Is it work?"

  "It's not work. It's not PMS." I shrug. "It's just jaded cynicism." Jealousy. Misery. Loneliness. I don't know.

  "Navy, I have an idea! Why don't you volunteer at an animal shelter? It's just after the New Year. You didn't make a resolution."

  I consider this. I adore dogs, puppies, seniors, mixes, mutts...

  When I don't respond right away, buzzed on espresso, she blurts, "I have an even better idea! The next holiday is Valentine's Day. Your New Year's resolution could be to get laid by February fourteenth."

  The café goes silent. A spoon clatters. My pulse quickens and my cheeks blister.

  She doesn't even flinch. "But make sure you use contraception."

  I clear my throat.

  The activity in the coffee shop resumes, but my cheeks don't return to their usual pale shade.

  "Oh come on. Sex isn't that bad," she says. Thankfully, she lowered her voice. "In fact, it's the greatest thing in all of creation. Wait. Navy, you're not a virgin are you?"

  "Kat," I say with frustration. "Do you need me to remind you that we met in college? We were roommates. You walked in on me and whatever his name was. The guy you hooked me up with sophomore year. He was in our statistics seminar. Ring any bells?"

  "It was a long time ago," she reflects as though recalling the highlights of her own exploits.

  "It's not about the sex," I whisper.

  "It's always about the sex."

  The guy clicking away on his keyboard wears a lurid grin, all too eager to be overhearing this particular conversation.

  "Don't you have a yoga class to go teach?"

  She clicks the button on her phone, reading the time. "Yes. Walk with me."