Devious Lies: Part 3 – Chapter 31

Nothing made me more agitated than talking about Sisyphus with Ben.

Not hunger.

Not poverty.

Not Virginia.

Not Dad.

Not even Nash Prescott.

Ben saw Sisyphus as having been punished, but I knew Sisyphus was smart.

Cunning.

A planner.

Here’s my take: Sisyphus created an empire. He was a human, yet he ruled the winds. He tricked gods and goddesses. Even Death feared him.

Sisyphus wanted his punishment; otherwise, he would have escaped it, too. Sisyphus chose not to, and each day, he got to reach heights no other mortal man could.

Through his punishment, he was the never-ending battle of the sea, the constant rise and fall of the tides, the cycle of the moon and the sun. His punishment immortalized him. Placed him in the company of gods and goddesses. Gave him the power of a god, too.

Ben didn’t see it that way, and no matter how much I wanted to shake him and demand he wake up, I couldn’t. I scrolled through our messages, resisting the urge to run out into the rain and let it drown my screams.

I’d spent the past two days trying to explain this to Ben, but it was useless. He’d set his mind on condemning himself. I didn’t understand why, and I felt powerless to help him.

I rolled my bottom lip into my mouth, scraping my teeth against it just to feel the bite, wishing I could distract him from his demons. I hoped Ben considered me his escape as much as I considered him to be mine.

I would take that any day. Two giant wings expanded in my belly, flapping their way to my chest. They weren’t butterflies. They were powerful tsunami waves, consuming me each time I spoke with Ben.

He’s a fantasy, Emery. You will wake up one day, and he’ll be gone. Keep your distance. Save your heart. Nothing good lasts.

Like always, my warnings didn’t deter me. I typed out a reply, hoping I was Ben’s fantasy, too—a warrior princess who fought his demons beside him.

I’d said it before.

After he’d talked me down a ledge caused by a failed finals exam.

Or when I got evicted from my apartment sophomore year, and he offered to break the rules and help me in person.

And that time I nearly caved and answered Dad’s postcard, where he told me he loved me, missed me, and would always be here to balter with me.

Probably a dozen times after, too.

Each time felt different.

This time, the declaration came from comfort. I needed him to know someone cared about him, was there for him, and would always be there for him. Because at the end of the day, that’s all any of us really need. Someone who shares their sunshine no matter the weather.

I never stopped smiling when I talked to Ben. I hoped, wherever he was, I made him smile, too.

My grin splintered as I waited for a response. Not because I didn’t think Ben loved me. I knew he did—just like I knew I made him smile and the real reason we refused to break the barrier and meet each other had nothing to do with the rules.

We were geode crystals.

Beautiful.

Tough.

Shiny.

Resilient.

Destined for a life sheltered inside an ugly rock.

My worry for Ben egged at me to press harder, to beg him to see himself the way I saw him, but I wouldn’t, because even geodes shattered. If we shattered to pieces, I would lose my compass, my refuge, my sanctuary.

Selfish, selfish, Emery. Tell me all about how you’re a good person.

I whispered magic words into the empty office air, even though I knew magic words wouldn’t save me from this.

My cheeks still stung red when Nash walked into the office ten minutes later. He held out a to-go bag of overpriced food from a local steakhouse. Everyone else had gone out for Taco Tuesday lunch, so nothing but silence filled the room.

He gave me a solid thirty seconds to grab it before he plopped it on the coffee table in front of me and studied my flushed cheeks. “It’s lemon herb salmon with the little green things Ma makes that you’re obsessed with.”

“They’re capers, Nash, and people don’t make them. They cook them.” I tapped my naked nails on my phone screen, breathing from my mouth so I couldn’t smell the food. My stomach continued its relentless growls. “How do you know I like capers?”

“Is that a serious question? You and Dad would fight over them whenever Ma made Chicken Piccata.” Nash sat next to me on the couch, making it feel a hundred times smaller. He dragged the bag closer to the edge of the table and pulled out a black plastic container with a transparent lid. “You spilled the entire serving plate one year while trying to steal the capers from Dad and Reed’s plates.” It looked like the memory made him happy, which did uncomfortable things to my chest, even as I did my best to ignore him and the food. “Ma ended up doubling the capers in the recipe. Every time she makes Chicken Piccata, it’s like eating green shit with a side of chicken and pasta.”

My eyes dipped to the dish as he pulled off the lid.

Fuck.

Was I drooling?

“Betty still makes Chicken Piccata?”

“Yeah. Once a month.”

His words pulled me out of his orbit.

Out of the tussled hair that made me think words like cafune.

Out of the full lips that parted every time he spoke.

Out of the scent of him I loved to steal.

“You see her once a month?” I stumbled over the words, not quite believing them. It fought the villainous archetype of Nash I’d built in my head.

The one that kept me safe from pesky attachments and reminded me this was not the same guy that packed me lunches and steadied me after the Able incident.

Nash pierced the salmon with a fork at the same time my stomach let loose an obnoxious growl. “I see her nearly every weekend.” He waved the salmon in my face, showing off its flawless medium cook. “I’m eating this if you don’t, and your stomach sounds fucking pissed at you.”

I ignored the food, latching onto a piece of my past that didn’t feel tainted. “How does Betty look?”

He shoveled the fork into his mouth. “Strong.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s keeping herself fed and smiles when I’m looking.”

“And when you’re not looking?”

“She stares wherever Dad should be, eyes leaking like a broken faucet. If we’re at the dinner table, she eyes the empty chair. If we’re in the living room, she eyes the La-Z-Boy. If we’re in the car, she stares down the steering wheel at every stoplight like it should be him driving instead of me.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you asked, and maybe you care.”

“Maybe? Of course, I care about Betty. I love her.”

“Are you eating or what?”

Why do you keep trying to feed me, you confusing, fucked-up villain?

The words sat at the tip of my tongue, begging to be unleashed. I had no energy for a fight, so I swallowed them. They tasted like poor decisions and a forlorn appetite.

My eyes tracked each bite of his. I allowed myself two and half seconds of misery before I turned away from the food and clutched my phone like it was my only connection to Ben. (It was.)

“No,” I forced myself to answer. “I’m not your charity case.”

Ben loved me.

Nash confused me.

And at the end of the day, lust was just a consolation prize for love.