The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (16 page)

And then she leaves. She leaves without a backward glance at me.

And I let her go because, somehow, I know this is the way we’ve said good-bye before.

My hands shake.

Despite the tremors, I pour myself another glass of water and drink it down.

Then, I drink another.

And another.

But no matter how many times I try to quench this thirst that rages up deep inside of me, I can’t find enough water.

Anywhere.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Realize -TALLY

I sit in the middle of a metal bench cloistered at the front entrance of the hospital between two Magnolia trees and keep my face hidden from the two sports reporters I recognize from Chronicle. The last thing I want is to be asked about Lincoln Presley. I pull Linc's Giants baseball cap that I found earlier in my bag lower over my face and avoid eye contact with them altogether.

A cool breeze messes with my hair. The chill in the air eventually makes its way through my clothes.

And yet I feel almost nothing.

Fall is almost here.
I refuse to examine what that means.

Time has stopped in my world.

I am dead inside. Who cares what time it is? Or what day? Or month. Or year. It’s all gone.

There is just this incredible amount of emptiness but it is surprisingly so heavy; it weighs me down.

There is nothing left. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing left.

Well, there’s Cara. Mom. Dad. Tommy. I’m not completely alone. It just feels like it.

I take an unsteady breath and breathe out.

My lips still work.

I stare at my phone for a few minutes and then send the inevitable text to my mother.

“Hey, I’ve got to go by the studio for a few hours. You good? Cara good?”

Johnny-on-it replies within thirty seconds. “We’re fine. You okay?”

Am I okay?

Am I okay?

Will I ever be okay?

Probably not.

I text back: “I’m fine. Good. Linc’s good too.”

I add this little tidbit because I don’t want to get into it all quite yet about Linc and me.
Not yet.
I’ll deal with my parents later when I pick up Cara. Hours from now, when I trudge the two miles from the studio to Mom and Dad’s, and pick up Cara, and just before the two of us take the Metro home, right then I’ll tell my parents what I know to be true; that we’re over.

I practice these words out-loud. “We’re over.” I say them at least ten times until just the idea of us being over begins to resonate. Yes, I’ll tell them when the weight of the world and this confounding emptiness doesn’t crush me quite so much.

Then, I’ll tell them.

That’s when I will tell myself too; and I’ll believe it, but only then.

My mind races through the scene with Linc this last half hour. Fragments, like glass, cut at me.
Where did it all go wrong?
I had this naive idea that producing the papers for the house in Sea Cliff would somehow change everything, but nothing changed
.

He doesn't remember me.

And I need to forget him.

I need to move on. Let go.

A tear trails down my face. I angrily wipe it away.

I go over the unexpected father and son scene from a half hour in my mind that I was able to witness from my unique vantage point just outside of Linc’s hospital room. Unfortunately, I got to hear the hatchet job done on my character by Linc’s father. His venomous words are still fresh in my memory. The absolute fury for Linc’s dad resides there too. And this little modicum of disgust—this seed of hatred that has been consciously planted, however subconscious—begins to take root for Linc there too. It takes root inside my heart and seemingly attempts to destroy it.

I can never believe in love again.
This much I know about myself.

Of course, Davis Presley is to blame for all of this, but Linc’s utter and absolute acquiescence in believing the worst about me and choosing baseball once again is a fresh assault on my psyche. I can’t quite shake the fury I have for him now. The loathing. The disgust. The acrimony. My rage at Lincoln Presley is incalculable. My love for him begins to die beneath the weight of all these hostile feelings that have burst forth and all but taken over.

Sure, I know he’s a victim in all of this. He’s the one that got hit in the head with a baseball, but does he have to be so oblivious about the two of us and easily accept every lie his father has told him about me? I think I hate him now. I really think I do. Maybe I never really loved him that I’m able to give up on us so easily.

Empty.

I feel empty.

I have to hope that feeling absolutely nothing is enough to get through the next part of all of this.

Please God, let it be enough.

Marla stands before me.

How long has she been here?

It’s hard to tell.

I stare up into her face. Mine unreadable. I try to hold onto nice words and simple gestures. The depth of my anger starts to drown me but I claw my way to the surface of sanity and conjure up a smile for her.

Meanwhile her face twists up reflecting a mixture of sympathy and guilt.

Nobody wants to be Tally Landon like ever.

“Hey, you okay?” She asks gently.

Such simple words but such a loaded question.

“I’m fine.”

She starts to laugh at my easy answer but then stops. “You’re sure you’re okay? I thought you were going to go talk to Linc about the mortgage papers you found, but you’re out here…” Her words trail off. She must get a glimpse of the fury. I’m sure my eyes glow Incredible Hulk green. I look away but the Hulk thought causes me to emit this weird laugh and when I glance up now she really looks worried.

Because I am crazy and she knows it.

“I
did
talk to him. It’s all straightened out. The mystery of the missing six million is solved. He bought a house. It’s all good.” I practically purr the words like a cat would. “But I do need to get to the studio. I could use a ride, so I get there on time because if I’m late it will further fuel Mikhail’s crusade in firing my awesome ass and then he’ll finally have the valid reason he’s been seeking.” I smile wide.

Marla looks confused by the Cheshire Cat smile, but she slowly nods as she seems to go over my answers in her head, one by one. “Okay. Okay. Charlie will be right down. We can drop you off. I don’t want you taking the metro this late at night. And anyway it will give us a chance to talk.”

“Sure.”

Talk.
Great.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Smile and curtsy if necessary.

Get up from the bench and make your way over to her car.

Smile at her again.

Nod at what she says even though you can’t understand or hear a word she says.

“I
said
, when are you going to talk to Linc again?” Marla rolls her eyes at my lack of response.

“Tomorrow.”

That’s the nice thing about best friends; they believe you when the world doesn’t, even when what you say isn’t true. She nods and her lips curve into this sweet smile.
Marla, my life saver, rescues me once again.

I climb into the back of her SUV and close the door. I try not to think about the almost three months before when Linc proposed to me in this very beast of a car. That’s another lifetime. One that is clearly now gone.

I look out the dark window while Marla goes on about Elliott and Cara until Charlie arrives a few minutes later. He gives me a sympathetic look while Marla fills him in about my plans to talk to Linc again tomorrow and the mortgage stuff I found for the house Linc bought in Sea Cliff. All is right with the world again from everyone’s point of view, except mine. Yay! I’m no longer accused of a being a thief. Although Davis never really apologized to me for that.

I look out the window as we move through the parking lot and attempt to concentrate on moving air in and out of my lungs as we leave.

“Tomorrow,” Charlie says, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“Tomorrow. Because tomorrow is another day,” I say from the backseat. The two exchange a peculiar look at my silly answer.

That’s right I don’t make any sense, but no one cares. No one notices, not for long anyway.

A half-hour later, I say good-bye to Charlie and Marla, thank them for the ride, and promise I’ll talk to Linc again tomorrow. They miss my sarcasm when I once again say, “After all, tomorrow is another day.” Personifying Scarlet O’Hara only makes sense to me. I laugh and manage to wave at them at the same time and soon their SUV is out of sight. They are forty miles from home. They have been going back and forth for days now. For Linc. For me. I love them, but a part of me is relieved to see them go so I can be alone.

Alone.

I stand there outside the dance studio for another five minutes acknowledging the time while it silently ticks off. There’s a buzzing sound in my ears. It takes a few seconds to make the connection that I’ve been holding my breath and could in fact pass out from the lack of oxygen to my brain.

This is going to be a problem. Not being able to breathe. I just know it.

I’m alone.

Insert the key to the back door side entrance. Take the long way to the dressing room. Put on rehearsal clothes. Pin up your hair. Stretch before you break something or break into two. One of those.

Slowly, I make my way to the stage only seven minutes late to night rehearsal. I’ve missed more than two weeks of them.

There will be a heavy price to pay.

This I know.

I smile at the crowd of dancers as they step back and make way for me. I go to the center of the stage.

Mikhail Rostov is yelling. He is always yelling. Right now, the pianist is his target, but I prepare for it to be me. I’ll be next.

My smile widens. I pose in first position knowing full well he will make me wait. I will stand this way for ten minutes if I have to. I will wait and face Mikhail Rostov with a smile. My best one because, as if today hasn’t been hard enough already, now I have to dance like I care to save my job.

And even though I can’t really breathe. Even though I feel as if I’m suffocating every time I try to take a breath because there just isn’t any more air left in the world for me. Even then. I will dance because ballet and Cara are all I have left.

And breathing? Actually, not being able to breathe?

I’ll just have to get used to it.