Chapter 8
Samantha
The coffee in the break room tasted like cardboard, but I drank it anyway. Anything to stay awake after another night of barely sleeping.
"Sam?" My supervisor Linda knocked on the doorframe. "Can we talk for a minute?"
I set down my mug. "Sure."
She closed the door behind her and sat across from my desk. Her expression was kind, which somehow made this worse.
"I'm worried about you," she said. "You've been off this week. Missing details in your notes, spacing out during supervision. What's going on?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. I've known you for three years. This isn't like you."
I stared at my hands. The manicure I'd gotten last week was already chipped. I hadn't noticed until now.
"Personal stuff," I said. "I'm handling it."
"Are you though? Because yesterday you completely zoned out during a session with Maria. She had to repeat herself twice."
I felt awful. I didn't even remember that happening.
"Take some time off," Linda said. "A few days. Get your head straight."
"I can't just abandon my clients."
"You're not abandoning anyone. You're taking care of yourself so you can take care of them." She stood up. "That's not a suggestion, Sam. I'm putting you on mandatory leave. Three days minimum."
After she left, I sat there staring at my empty calendar. Three days with nothing to do but think about Brandon and his lies and how stupid I'd been.
My phone buzzed. Text from Jenna: Lunch today?
Can't. Got sent home.
Her response came immediately: What happened? Are you okay?
Not really. Can you come over tonight?
I'll bring wine.
***
THE APARTMENT FELT smaller. I'd spent the afternoon cleaning things that didn't need cleaning. Reorganizing my bookshelf. Anything to avoid sitting still.
Every sound from Brandon's apartment made me freeze. His door opening and closing. Water running through the pipes. The low rumble of his voice on the phone.
I stood in my kitchen and stared at the counter where he'd pressed me against it, his mouth on my neck, my legs wrapped around his waist.
The shower was worse. I'd avoided it for two days, taking quick rinses instead. But I needed to wash my hair, so I forced myself in there and tried not to remember his hands on my body, the way he'd made me come against the tile wall.
Everything in this apartment held a memory of him. Of us. Of something that had never been real.
By the time Jenna showed up at six with two bottles of wine and Chinese takeout, I was ready to crawl out of my skin.
"Okay." She set everything on my coffee table and turned to face me. "Talk to me. The whole story."
So I told her. About the parking garage, the badge, the gun in his hand. About Kyle and the drug dealers and how Brandon had been investigating them the entire time we'd been together.
"He lied about everything," I said. "His name, his job, why he moved here. All of it."
"His name too?"
"Brandon Spencer is his real name. But everything else was fake."
Jenna poured us both generous glasses of wine. "Have you talked to him since?"
"He knocked on my door the next morning. I told him to leave."
"And?"
"And nothing. I haven't seen him or spoken to him since."
"Do you want to?"
I took a long drink. "I don't know. Part of me wants to scream at him. Part of me wants answers. And part of me just wants to pretend he never existed."
"Which part is winning?"
"The part that still loves him." The words came out quiet. "Which makes me pathetic, right? How can I still love someone who lied to me about everything?"
"Love doesn't just turn off because someone hurt you. That's not how it works."
"It should though. It would be easier."
We ate in silence for a few minutes. The shrimp lo mein tasted like nothing.
"Tell me something," Jenna said. "When you were with him, before you knew the truth, how did he make you feel?"
"Safe. Seen. Like I mattered."
"And when you touched him, when you kissed him, did that feel fake?"
I closed my eyes. Remembered the way he'd looked at me in my bed, his hand cupping my face, his voice rough when he said my name.
"No. That felt real."
"So maybe not everything was a lie."
"How would I even know? He's a professional liar. That's literally his job."
"Was his job," Jenna corrected. "Past tense. The case is over now, right?"
"I guess."
"So what's stopping you from hearing him out?"
"Pride. Self-preservation. Common sense." I finished my wine and poured another glass. "Take your pick."
My phone rang. Unknown number.
I almost didn't answer, but something made me pick up.
"Miss Richards? It's Kyle's attorney."
My stomach tightened. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine. He's in county jail, enrolled in the rehab program there. He wanted me to reach out and see if you'd be willing to visit him."
"Visit him in jail?"
"I know it's irregular. But he specifically asked for you. Said you're the only counselor who ever gave a damn about him."
I rubbed my temples. "I don't know."
"You don't have to decide now. But he'd really appreciate it. The case is closed, so there's no conflict of interest."
After I hung up, Jenna raised an eyebrow. "You're going to go, aren't you?"
"I shouldn't."
"But you will. Because you can't help yourself." She smiled. "It's one of the things I love about you. You care too much."
"It's exhausting."
"I bet. But it also means you're really good at what you do."
We finished the first bottle of wine and started on the second. By nine, my head was fuzzy in a way that made everything feel slightly less terrible.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Always."
"Jake lied to me. About using, about being clean, about everything. And it destroyed me when he died because I'd believed him."
"I remember."
"Brandon lied to me too. But his lies were different, weren't they? Jake was lying to hide self-destruction. Brandon was lying because of his job."
"Does that make it better?"
"I don't know. Maybe? Or maybe a lie is still a lie regardless of the reason."
Jenna set down her glass. "I think intention matters. Jake was protecting his addiction. Brandon was protecting an investigation. Those aren't the same thing."
"But the result is the same. I got hurt either way."
"True. But with Jake, you never got the chance to hear his side. He died before you could confront him, before he could explain or apologize or try to make it right." She looked at me. "Brandon's still here. Still next door. Still trying to talk to you."
"How do you know he's trying?"
"Because men don't give up that easily when they're actually in love. Trust me."
After Jenna left around ten, I cleaned up the takeout containers and wine glasses. Pepper had been hiding under the bed most of the evening, unimpressed with company.
I sat on my couch in the dark and tried to imagine what I'd say to Kyle. What I'd say to Brandon if I ever let him explain.
Sleep came in fits and starts. Every time I drifted off, I'd wake up convinced I'd heard something. His door. His voice. The sound of him moving around next door.
Around two in the morning, I heard him on the phone. The words were muffled through the wall, but the tone was clear. Broken. Vulnerable.
Before I could stop myself, I got up and pressed my hand against the wall.
On the other side, his voice stopped.
I held my breath, waiting.
Then I felt it. The slight vibration through the drywall. Like he'd pressed his hand against the wall too.
Both of us there, separated by inches of plaster and paint and all the lies between us.
I stayed like that for a long time. Hand against the wall. Listening to the silence on the other side.
Finally, I pulled away and went back to bed.