The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (24 page)

Kimberley hands Brad her cell. “Call her. If anyone can talk her down from the ledge, it’s the great Dr. Bradley Stevenson.”

Unassuming and confident enough for all three of us, Brad dials Tally’s number while Kimberley and I stand together leaning up against the railing and watch Brad the psychiatric maestro at work.

“Tally, it’s Dr. Bradley Stevenson. Yes, I’m Kimberley’s husband.” He smiles and I actually feel myself relax just watching him. “Thank you. It’s been a few months but I love being married to Kimberley. Married life is good. We’re worried about you. She’s on another phone call and didn’t want to miss the time window she promised in getting back to you. She’s got everything worked out with your director. He called? That’s good.” He pauses. “So. How are you holding up?” There’s a long silence. Brad winces and looks away from us. “That’s awful. I wish we were all there to help you. Can you make it safely to your friend’s car? Why don’t you keep me on the line until you do? Sure. I’m right here.” He sits down in one of the deck chairs and waits. “And just remember about the worst thing that can happen is they take a picture of you. And so what, right?
Exactly.
They’ll caption it however they want. I know it’s frustrating. Good. She sounds like a great friend. I’d love to meet her sometime.” There’s another long silence. Then, Brad looks over at me. “I’m here with him actually. We’re going to do some work together about all of that. I specialize in neuropsychology and have a practice in Manhattan. You did? Where? I know that area. Yes, of course; they serve the best burgers that side of town. You do? My favorite thing, too. Yeah, Kimmy’s always after me about that,” he laughs a little, “but I love them too much to give them up.”

“We are no longer here,” Kimberley says looking enchanted with Brad.

I glance sideways at Kimberley. “He’s pretty great, by the way.”

“I know.”

For his part, Brad looks our way again and gives us an all thumbs up. “That’s understandable and no, I won’t make any promises about that. I can only imagine how hard this has been on you. I know. I’m sorry too. If it makes you feel any better, he says nothing happened.” Brad looks over at me, and I slowly nod but feel guilty and foolish at the same time because I cannot explain those used condoms. “Either way. It looks bad. And it made you feel worse. Just know that I think you and he share the same interest in safe-guarding Cara’s well-being right now. Yes, I agree. Let’s give it some time.
More time.
That’s probably best. Okay, so you’re on the way to your friend’s house. Great. Why don’t you call Kimberley when you reach Marla’s? That would make us all feel better. It’s nice talking with you too even virtually like this. You’re welcome. I will. Thanks, Tally.”

“See how he does that? He could charm feathers off of a bird,” Kimberley says softly with a little smile before pushing away from the railing and launching herself directly into Brad’s arms. “Thank you, husband.”

“You’re welcome, wife.”

Brad kisses Kimberley but then steps back from her and looks over at me. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. I know you want to know everything, Linc, but I don't want you be overwhelmed by it all and have it set you back any further. Kimberley, you need to do up those profiles, so we can go over those with Linc. I need photographs, time lines that call out important events in his life he may not remember. That’s how we should start out anyway.”

He puts his arm around her and whispers something to her as the two of them head inside and pulls her along inside.

“So when do we start? When are you two going to tell me about Tally and how I used to know her?”

“Soon,” Kimberley says looking somewhat guarded now by whatever Brad has just said to her.

I watch the two of them interact from my vantage point on the deck and appropriately feel like a third wheel. Sighing with frustration, I turn and lean on the railing and watch the Pacific. The sound of the waves and the promise of a spectacular sunset offer me a reprieve, but I have to wonder if I’m going to get one. Or, if it’s already too late for that.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wanna Get To Know You -TALLY

Sam Wilde stops what he’s doing and stares at me
for a few seconds, then he nods slowly. Eventually, a little smile flits across his face as if he’s just learned an important secret.

A little undone by the intensity I detect in his gaze, I shimmy up to the edge of the bar and sweetly order a Diet Pepsi and a hamburger with everything but tomato from him. He raises an eyebrow at my special request and my somewhat failing flirtatious efforts, but promises to have it ready for me
very soon
.

I return his winning smile with one of my own, the one I reserve for special occasions. It’s been a while. My facial muscles ache with the unusual effort.

He starts to leave, but then he turns back, pauses in that unnerving, sexy way of his I remember. My heart beats erratically. I go for nonchalance with a slight shrug of one shoulder. His sudden attention for me alone does not go unnoticed by the other female patrons still languishing late at the bar who undoubtedly vie for some of his time.

“To go?” He conveys nothing but innocence in the way he asks this. “
Or
, are you staying here? You could…wait for me while I close up.” There’s this long moment where we stare at each other, suddenly very much aware that my answer will have an effect upon us both. The rest of the bar goes silent fully cognizant of our noteworthy exchange. “And then, I could walk you home.”

Now he shrugs and gets this little smile. Meanwhile, all these open sighs of disappointment and a few hisses from the ladies in waiting to my right at his bold suggestion are audible all around.

A loaded question for sure.

Yet, he just stands there waiting patiently for my answer. He gives me this I-dare-you-to-say-yes-with-this-crowd look.

Despite the growing ruckus of protest surrounding us, he makes me laugh. I am grateful for this little respite even if it’s just for a few minutes from the dark turn my life has taken.

“I’m staying.” I catch my lip and attempt to hide a sheepish smile. Then, dip my head, a little embarrassed at his brazen suggestion and my unexpected answer, especially since I’m obviously situated among his most avid female fans, and may even be risking bodily harm for accepting his invitation.

I’ll let him walk me home.

We can play house.

Or, something else.

I’ve toyed with this idea long enough and I’m here to make good on it. The look I reward him with tells him this. He slowly nods as if he’s already figured out the plan for both of us.

His blatant self-confidence in our little exchange has me laughing again. He looks surprised by this, shakes his head, and begins to laugh too.

It’s ten o’clock at night. I’m at loose ends with absolutely nothing to do. Rehearsal for the part of Cinderella doesn’t start for three weeks. The part of Cinderella is mine,
if I don’t screw it up
. These were Mikhail’s last threatening words to me after the final night’s performance of
The Nutcracker
on Christmas night. Two days ago.

Cara is spending the night with my parents as agreed to earlier in the week when we were there for Christmas. I am supposed to be resting up, having fun of some kind—like sleeping in and enjoying my time off. My parents have not yet learned the sordid details about Linc’s escapades in LA just four nights ago. Not really tabloid people my parents, although I suspect my dad has heard a few things. He does follow the sports pages. In any case, neither of them have brought it up to me.

We’re all going for normal, coping in any way we can find. Thus, I am here because it was a half-hour ride back on the Metro, after I dropped Cara off at Mom and Dad’s, and in lieu of going home to a dark house by myself, stopping by
The Promissory Note
seemed like a good idea. It has seemed like a good idea for some time now. One I have had several times over the past fours days or so since Linc Presley’s whoring around episode in LA began. The rage over all of that still burns through me.

Distrust lingers and actually grows. I’ve been put through too much. I have nothing left to lose. Even so, I’ve never been brave long enough to actually walk the two blocks from Tremblay’s place to this one, keeping the idea alive and finally following through on the-girl’s-got-to-move-on mission in seeing Sam Wilde again.

Until now.

Two months, twenty-three days, twenty-one hours, and eighteen minutes since that line drive obliterated my life.
Who’s still counting?

I sip my diet soda and contemplate things.

I revel—
or is that wrestle?—
with the idea of moving on.

My body still trembles at the idea of coming here to see Sam and battles these gigantic doses of knowable fear which zing me from all sides like endless shock waves. All my fears—falling, losing, and failing—come calling. Granted, these fears visit my psyche quite often, just not usually all at the same time like now.

Breathe, Tally.

Marla has continued to champion her cause—
me
. Her chant every time we talk now begins with her best you-should-just-move-on-Tally speech. It gets more frequent and louder.

The LA debacle just a few days ago still follows him around and inadvertently me. Yet, I hate reading or hearing about it because the pain is too far reaching. Any more news of Lincoln Presley and his escapades and I fear I may not survive it.

I am broken by it all. Why doesn’t everyone see that?

The truth is I have my answers regarding Lincoln Presley. He’s met someone. Or, he’s considered a player. And maybe he is now.
The papers and ESPN all still say so. No retraction was ever printed although Kimberley Powers has been quoted as saying her client denies all involvement with Trinna Danner.

But does it even matter?

No one has heard from Linc for the past few days. Beyond the he’ll comply with my lawyer’s request, I haven’t heard anything more from Kimberley Powers. And why would I? Six months of no-contact from Linc is what I requested. Six months of no-contact from Linc is what I’m getting. So why do I feel so empty with this supposed victory in what has become a battle between us?
I got what I wanted. I wanted this; didn’t I?

Just this morning, Marla suggested a visit to
The Promissory Note
was in order because reaching out to Sam is most definitely a good idea according to the bestie. She said, “You should go see Sam,” at least six different times during our conversation today. “It would do you good.
He
would do you good. And hey, there’s this doctor that Charlie knows.”

And, so it goes.

While Marla launched into her best, let’s-fix-up-Tally-with-someone mode most likely to assuage her own guilt over having the perfect life, in comparison to mine, which is so clearly fucked up, I withdrew from her completely. By the time our phone conversation was over, I agreed to see somebody—a counselor, a therapist, and or date the entire Lowell High School football team even if jail bait as they most certainly would be—just to get her off of my back and off the phone.

And yet, I’ve been thinking.

I’ve been contemplating things ever since the news stories began to circulate.

So.

This is what moving on feels like.

Sam returns with my hamburger and places the plate in front of me with a French waiter flourish. Then, he proceeds to lean directly across from me with his arms folded across his wide chest and judiciously watch me as I perform my unique ritual surgery upon my meal. Under his guise of continual fascination and open disgust, I proceed to destroy the masterpiece that he’s so carefully put together by adroitly removing the top bun, tossing it aside, and then slicing the burger into eight equal parts with the steak knife he’s provided, just like a surgeon’s daughter surely has been taught.

I glance up at him after savoring the first lovely bite, and note he is properly captivated.
And I can admit to liking it.

This is what moving on looks and feels like.

I attempt to smile, but that proves to be too much. I’m still too close to the edge of despair. I might actually cry instead. And that, I absolutely cannot afford to do here.