I nod.
He feels sorry. I can see it in the set of his shoulders. They’ve dropped under the weight of his admission. “Did you ever love me?” he asks.
Years ago I did. I lie, “No,” and then I follow it up with the truth, “Yes.”
His eyes drop to the floor and he whispers, “What are we doing?” The darkness of the hour and the truth filling the room make his question feel substantial, its veracity smothering me.
Denial is rising in me. It’s the gentle boil of failure, bubbling in my stomach, up through my chest, until it clogs my throat and I’m blinking back tears. Fearing what’s going to happen next. “I don’t know.”
“Where do you go every day when you leave for work?”
It’s a loaded question, I know that by the way it was posed, but I lie anyway because it’s what I do. “I go to work.”
He takes a deep breath, both to calm and instill patience, and he continues, “Just be straight with me, Miranda. You haven’t worked since I fired you. Why aren’t you working? Where do you go?”
“Truth?” I don’t know if he really wants to hear or he’s just going to use it against me. We play games. This conversation feels different. It feels honest. We don’t do honest, so I’m skeptical.
“The truth. Please.” He really wants to hear it.
“I have a suite at the Hilton downtown. I don’t have a job. No one would hire me,” I admit. “It seems your HR department didn’t paint me in a flattering light when potential employers called. It was all true, of course, but damning, nonetheless.” The time for embarrassment is over. I worked with a headhunter early on but was turned down for VP positions. It felt like a punch to the gut and my confidence, and accepting any title beneath vice president was unacceptable, so I gave up. And lied. Again.
“What do you do all day in a hotel room?” He’s a workaholic and looks mystified as if the thought of lounging around all day is inconceivable. I used to be him.
I study his eyes. They’re still tired and sympathetic and sad—the kind of eyes that used to make me salivate and pounce on my prey, but now they just make me want to wave the white flag and give up. When my balled up nerves say fuck it and begin to unravel in an unceremonious surrender, I decide to let the truth out. No more lies tonight. “I binge watch bad TV, I order room service, I work out in their gym, I get massages, I fuck lonely businessmen I pick up in the lobby bar.” I shrug. “You know, the usual.” My recent usual is a usual I never thought I’d submit to. My time in Seattle, depression, failure, and rejection have slowly transformed me into someone unrecognizable to the Miranda of old. My master plan has been trampled to dust. I no longer go out and take what’s mine, and what’s not mine—I merely survive my self-created hell.
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. I don’t know if it’s an act of aggravation or pity. “Really?” It sounds like a little of both.
“Really?” I mock his tone. “Fuck you and your judgment, Loren. You’re the pot. I’m the kettle. Get over yourself.” We both live for bad choices.
He shakes his head. “Your moral compass is bent. Holy shit bent,” he mutters. “But you have a mind for business like no one else I’ve ever known. You’re wasting it. That’s all I’m saying.”
I want to fight. I want this to escalate. But because I’m done lying tonight, I answer, “I know.”
“I know the paperwork you presented me with that indicated illegal activity was fabricated. I know they were all lies. Lies you created to trap me. Deceit only on paper. The law wasn’t broken, your moral judgment was.” He doesn’t sound angry.
“It’s still broken it would seem.” No more lies.
“We’re not married, Miranda. The wedding wasn’t official. I paid someone to create the marriage license and certificate. The ordained minister who came to the house and married us was an actor. Your ring is glass.”
I huff out a laugh, surprised that I’m able to see the irony in this clusterfuck, and then I pull my hands out from under the covers and offer him a slow clap. “Touché, Loren. Tou-fucking-ché.”
He’s watching me carefully now, but he’s not weighing his words. His normal precision is gone, replaced by a version of Loren I’ve never seen, desperate. “It’s time for you to leave, Miranda.”