Living Lies Read Free Page A

turned back to her mom. “Really. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up. It’s just a date.”
    “Dear, that’s wonderful.”
    Rita followed her children. “Are you certain you’re going to be all right?” She asked when they reached the curb.
    “I’m fine, how about you, Brucey?”
    “I told you not to call me that.”
    “At least take some of the leftovers,” Rita begged.
    “I’ve got some,” Melanie tapped the box she carried in one arm. With her other hand she yanked her jeans up. She always lost weight when she came home. Her mother was a horrendous cook whose feelings could be hurt with even the slightest remark. Bruce’s waistline had the opposite effect. He snuck in Hostess powdered doughnuts gobbling them with Doritos and washed both down with Mountain Dew.
    “Call when you get to your apartment,” Rita waved as Melanie drove away.
    Melanie was grateful to have her family so near – and even more grateful to be on her own.

    New Year’s Eve, wearing old, bleach-stained jeans and a threadbare T-shirt, Melanie got to work. She spent the afternoon scrubbing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, cleaning out the refrigerator and reorganizing the cupboards. She was exhausted by nine.
    With a bowl of milk and a can of tuna, Melanie whistled outside her building.
    “Happy New Year, Felix,” she said, scratching the tabby on the head.
    Plodding up the stairs, her date over, she settled in front of the television, a book in one hand and a fork in the other. Steam rose from the microwaved macaroni and cheese she balanced on her lap. A glass of milk rested on a coaster.
    Her phone never rung, there were no knocks on the door and she left the apartment only to retrieve food and a slew of epic movies from Blockbuster. In her flannel polar bear pajamas she stretched out across the couch. The soft cushions contoured to the curves of her body, and she sank in deep and comfortable charmed by Cary Grant in The Bishop’s Wife . The disruption of the phone ringing startled her awake.
    “Hello?” She yawned.
    “Hi, is Melanie home?” a deep voice asked.
    “This is Melanie,” she reached for the remote to turn down the volume.
    “Hi, Melanie, this is Dan Ashe.”
    Melanie bolted upright and turned off the television.
    “Hi,” she said, more like a question.
    “Is this a bad time?”
    “No, it’s fine.” Melanie’s heart and stomach both synchronized a leap to her throat. “Are you, um, still in Denver?”
    “No. I just got back. Hey, I was wondering if you were busy tonight?”
    “Well, um,” microseconds ticked off loudly in her head. “No, I’m not busy at all.”
    “Great. How about I pick you up at 7?”
    “Okay.” A tentative smile stretched across Melanie’s face.
    “I’ll see you then. Bye, Mel.”
    “But,” she said, limply, into the dead receiver, “I have questions.”
    Her melancholy, fluffy sock day was replaced by panic and fear.
    What could he possibly want? Cary Grant was forgotten, the laundry that waited for her downstairs was forgotten, all that she had left were questions. Questions flowed in an endless torrent, and hours of mulling caused her brain to ache. Melanie swallowed three aspirins with a single gulp of water and laced her running shoes.
    The fresh air helped. It didn’t stop the burning, nagging, uncertainty mixed with insecurity, but it did make her tired enough to stop thinking.
    After a long shower, Melanie dressed in a skirt and blouse she found in Jenny’s closet. Taking great care, she primped and prepared for a heart-stopping, mind-blowing date with Danny Ashe. The excess energy flitted up from her belly and traveled as a soundless scream out her mouth. She added curls to her hair and applied makeup. It was the stranger with her eyes that brought her back to reality as she scrutinized her reflection. What had been his exact words?
    She was fuzzy on the specifics and now she worried that she might have mistaken