The Lie by Natalie Wrye (most inspirational books of all time .txt) 📗

Hey, missing girl. Don't talk about my BFF like that. I was worried about you. Where have you been all weekend?

Me: I should have texted you. I'm sorry. But… I went on a little trip, and I guess I was just trying to forget about real life for a while.

SOPH: YOU? You went on a trip???

Where?

How?

Why?

DETAILS PLEASE.

I'm dying. You never even told me you were going out of town!

You sneak, you.

SOPH: I hope you're not going to make me ask nicely.

Me: I was hanging out with a friend.

SOPH: WHAT friend? You have no friends.

God…

Please tell me it wasn't Eric.

That guy is such a wet mop.

Me: It wasn't Eric.

SOPH: Thank God.

She pauses, writing back nothing for a few seconds, and then the question I don't want to answer comes.

SOPH: So, who'd you go on a trip with?? An imaginary man friend?

Me: Actually, that's a little more accurate than you know…

I curl farther into my armchair.

Me: With Andrew

Her next text is immediate, and I can feel her yelling from Vegas, my phone buzzing like mad.

SOPH: ANDREW?!?!?

BARTENDER ANDREW?

Andrew who works at The Alchemist-ANDREW??

The man you once said was the human equivalent of LICE?!

I'm calling you.

I have too many questions for text.

Seconds later, my cell rings. And I answer it with a frustrated groan, my neck growing hot as I press my phone to my face.

I sigh out loud, waiting for the deluge of questions I know are coming. I was trying to forget about real life for a while, I tell her truthfully. I didn't think I could take one more drama-packed phone call.

“And you just happened to choose Andrew?” Sophia asks.

“I didn't choose him,” I admit. “I didn't choose anyone.” I pause, my face feeling hot. “It just…happened,” I say, hoping she doesn't press any further.

“How?” Sophia asks.

“It's complicated,” I tell her.

“You and Andrew being together was always complicated,” she points out.

“I know,” I tell her. “But this was…different. This was…this was real.”

I can practically hear Sophia's eyes widen.

“Nancy,” she says slowly. “Are you saying…you and Andrew are in a real relationship?”

“Well, I don't know. Not exactly,” I add on a nervous laugh. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“But you might be?” Sophia presses. “Are you?”

I bite my lip.

“I think so. I think…” I falter over the words. “I think I'm falling for him.”

And I tell her the rest.

About my thoughts of selling the bar.

Going back to school.

I’d majored in Finance, following in my father’s footsteps, even though I’d lately been thinking about film…and how much I loved it.

How much I’d denied my desires—even the little ones—for so long.

Sophia echoes my sentiments, screaming when I can’t. When I won’t.

I try to keep my composure in the face of so much change. But my best friend doesn’t make it easy.

Sophia squeals into the phone like a teenager hearing of a first date.

“Jesus Christ! How'd I miss this? What the hell happened? Did he kidnap and drug you? Is there a gun at your head right now? Blink if you're in trouble. I swear, I can hear it. I've got ultrasonic ears.”

“Sophia!’ I cry, a bit too loudly. “It was just like any other fling! It started off as flirting AKA wanting to murder each other at work. And then it became…more.”

“When did it become more?”

“What are you, seven? It's not like there was one specific moment.”

“So, it just sort of…happened?”

“Yes. It just sort of happened!” I groan, wishing we could talk about something else, anything else.

“Nancy. That's it?” she pushes. “He just…swept you off your feet?”

“Yes. It's not that hard to do.”

“Oh, I know,” Sophia agrees. “I've been swept. Or, swept up. Or just downright knocked off my feet. One of these days, I'm going to get to the bottom of someone.”

“To the bottom of what?”

“To the bottom of what makes something so great that you can no longer think or act or even breathe.”

“Oh.” I snort. “Yeah, I get that. More than you know.”

“So,” Sophia starts. “I think you're leaving out one very important detail…” She pauses dramatically, the air heavy with her unanswered questions. “How was the sex?”

“The sex?” I ask, the word sticking in my mouth.

“Yes, the sex. You know, intercourse? I know it's about a million years since you've had any, but please…don't make me spell it out.” She laughs. “Because I will. Now, spill.”

I take a deep breath.

I don't want to be a liar. Any more than I already have been.

But I don't want to tell her the truth, either.

Because the truth is dangerous…especially for me.

I don't want to tell Sophia that the sex was toe-curling, but that it didn't mean anything, or worse, that it meant everything.

I don't want to tell her that I'm just going through the motions, that I'm just letting things happen to me.

I don't want to tell her that I'm not actually happy.

Because I am.

I really am.

I'm happier than I've ever been. And it scares me more than anything I’ve ever known.

“It's great,” I tell Sophia, along with news of my other plans. Plans about potentially selling the bar. Plans about going back to school…

If I can just work up the nerve.

My best friend scoffs—an incredulous sound. “Forget ‘great.’ It must have been mind-blowing, right? I mean, that man must have a magic cock to have you changing up like this. I do wonder: Is it to the point that you're going to spend the rest of your life with him kind of magical, though?”

“I'm not sure about the rest of my life,” I admit out loud, “but I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a great rest of the weekend with Andrew.”

“Well, that's all I needed to hear. A great weekend of magical cock’ing. With Andrew. As you should be. You deserve it. But,” she continues. “I have to ask…did you tell him that you love him? Or did you just go in and have a good time?”

“What's your point?” I ask her.

“My point is,” her voice goes low, sinking with suspicion, “that you need to tell him, if you do.”

“I don't know,”