“I just can’t believe he never mentioned me,” she says again between bites, and I realize all of a sudden what a blow that would be.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “He probably just knew I’d get paranoid. I’m not an easy person to date.” I’m mostly being nice, but there’s some truth in it; I’ve always been quick to jealousy. I heard somewhere once that the ones who are most jealous are the ones who have something to hide.
“That asshole,” she says, her voice low. “Charlie could be a real jerk sometimes, but I never, ever would have thought he was capable of this.”
I clench my jaw. The Charlie I fell for was sweet and thoughtful, almost to a fault. He was always a gentleman . . . until he wasn’t anymore. Just before he disappeared, I’d started to blame the darkness in our relationship on myself—on naiveté. On never really getting to know him the way a person should know someone she wants to love.
“Oh, he didn’t show you that side of him?” She lets out a bitter laugh, mistaking my silence for disagreement. “Lucky you. Listen, Aubrey,” she says then, leaning toward me. There’s a dangerous spark in her eyes. “Don’t you want to know who Charlie really was? Think about it. You and I could probably talk all day about his lies. But what else was he lying about that we don’t even know? Charlie’s dead,” she says. I catch a glimmer of doubt in her eyes. Her voice rises in pitch, sounding false. “I’m fucking angry. I want to know everything. Every single lie he ever told.”
“What are you saying?” I feel sorry for her; it’s clear that she loves him despite everything, that maybe she’s even holding on to the hope that he’s alive. It’s a desperate hope—even a crazy one. She’s probably been driven over the edge by grief.
“I’m saying it’s obvious Charlie was full of crap. And I want to know what else he was hiding.” I listen as she fills the space between us with her stories: the time Charlie surprised her with chocolate cake (my favorite), thinking it was her favorite, even though she likes vanilla; the time he’d called her from a New York area code (he’d been meeting me) when he was supposed to be in London; the time he showed up with a toolish yellow polo shirt in his bag (“toolish” according to Lena—I’d always liked that shirt) and blamed it on his then roommate, Liam.
Two hours and several lattes later, we’re still comparing notes. Lena’s question—What else was Charlie hiding?—has opened a Pandora’s box.
“Has it occurred to you that there might be more going on here?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “I mean, what if we’re only part of the story? What if there’s another girl, or a few?”
Lena laughs, but it has an empty ring to it. “Yeah, I mean, I just don’t think Charlie was that smooth,” she says. “Think how hard it probably was just juggling the two of us.”
“I know what you’re saying, but think about it,” I say carefully. Lena doesn’t seem to realize how manipulative he could be, and I’m not going to tell her. “We might have no idea who he really was. Also—” I stop myself abruptly. I don’t want her to know anything about my last couple of months with Charlie.
“Yeah?” She looks suspicious. “Spit it out, Aubrey. What are you holding back?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, shaking my head. But it’s not nothing. Charlie had something that belonged to me when he disappeared. If I’m lucky, it was inside the plane with him. But if it resurfaces . . .
“What’s wrong?”
I drag my gaze to her face. She’s looking at me strangely. “You look terrible. What is it?” I clamp my mouth shut. I feel faint. If what Charlie stole from me is ever found, my life will be over. For the millionth time, I wonder if it would have been easier to tell someone, but when I consider it, I can barely breathe. “Aubrey. What aren’t you telling me?”
I lie before I can stop myself, fumbling for words. “He just said something weird to me the last time we talked. I don’t even really know what he meant by it,” I try. “He said, ‘Aubrey, there’s something I really need to tell you.’ And I freaked out a little, because I thought he was cheating on me. So maybe that was it.” I laugh awkwardly. I’ve never been good at lying, and I haven’t gotten any better since I started doing it all the time. “He was probably just going to tell me he had another girlfriend.” Out of habit, I reach for my sketchpad, catching myself before I can retrieve it from my bag. I withdraw my hand and struggle to breathe more normally.