A Lie, A Secret, and A Town Called Tallulah

Somewhere east of Seattle, Layla and Preston wound through the labyrinthine roads for what seemed like an eternity. Around every turn, mountains, pine trees, and waterfalls beguiled, surprising Layla with some of the most breathtaking scenery she had ever seen in person.

But even on that trip with her husband, Rex was all she could think about.

She had told Preston about the flirtation—but that was hardly the whole story.

Part of her wanted to tell him the rest…

Preston punched the horn of his new SUV. “Move it!” He shouted. Coffee splashed from the styrofoam cup in his hand onto the dashboard.

Preston cursed under his breath.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, Layla thought.

“Honey, let me hold your coffee,” Layla offered. But Preston shooed her hand away like it was a bloodthirsty mosquito.

“Never mind,” she huffed.

Without warning, Preston jerked the wheel to the left and peered around the semi-truck in front of them. The truck had been holding up traffic for the past half hour, going no faster than 30 mph.  As traffic slowed to a near halt, the trucker ignored the growing line of cars and the furious shouts of drivers behind it.

Now, the traffic stretched far into the distance, wrapping around miles of mountain-rimmed curves that hugged the single-lane highway and snaked through the scenic landscape. Under the late afternoon sunlight, the traffic glittered like amber jewels, adorning the sinuous road like a royal necklace. Above, the sky was a canvas of velvet sorbet—a haunting mélange of white-washed gold, cantaloupe, and tangerine swirled in honey.

No sign of rain.

Several cars had tried to pass the truck but to no avail. The frequent twists and bends in the road made for perilous passing. Plus, the “Do Not Pass” signs posted at every mile marker reminded even the most intrepid drivers to think twice.

“I think this dude is slowing down!” Preston growled. “Can you believe this?”

“No,” Layla muttered, gripping the door handle, as Preston whipped the wheel back to center.

Behind them, drivers rolled down their windows and shook their fists, some of them cursing. The trucker plodded along at the same speed, unfazed by the escalating road rage.

Preston took a long swig of coffee, puckering his lips in disgust.

“Why does this taste like urine?” he asked, looking at Layla for answers.

She shrugged.

They had searched for an alternate route but found nothing. Besides, this was their first trip to Washington state. The last thing they wanted was to wind up lost in the boondocks like that one couple Layla heard about on the Investigation Discovery channel.

Only highway 20—this highway—led to the rustic and largely untraveled town of Tallulah, where Layla and Preston would spend their New Year.

“Tell me why we’re going to this shit-hole town again,” Preston urged.

Layla shot him a withering look.

With a whopping population of 119, Tallulah occupied a remote corner of the Pacific Northwestern hinterlands. Still, it boasted some of the most stunning natural beauty Layla had ever seen in print. Layla recalled the photos she had seen in the travel brochure when they’d started planning this trip back in June. One article explained that most of the locals lived off the land in log cabins. Some lived entirely off the grid—generating their own electricity and energy, growing their own fruits and vegetables in their backyards, and even growing their own fish in their aquaponic gardens. Other locals lived in wigwams or yurts for reasons the article never clarified.  

The town was like a throwback to a long-gone era or some land from another life. The locals looked rugged and earthy. The men were lean, with laborers’ arms, long, uncombed beards, plaid shirts, and mountain-climbing boots fit for lumberjacks. The men in the brochure reminded Layla of the Alaskan hunters and fishermen she had seen in a National Geographic documentary years ago. She recalled how those men lived on the edge, spearfishing and hunting and wrestling down wildlife with their bare hands in sub-zero temperatures, sometimes while wearing little more than a gossamer raincoat.

Layla shuddered at the memory.

After reading the brochure, she’d teased Preston. “If you ever grow a beard like those guys, I’ll shave it off in your sleep!”

Preston had grinned and playfully bopped her on the nose.

Then, before she could laugh at the memory, the rain came.

A few sprinkles drizzled onto the windshield, darting across the glass in a zig-zag. Then, as if on cue with the thunder, the rain exploded into a torrent, unleashing its fury onto the travelers below.

Layla gasped. “This storm! Where did it come from?!”

But Preston’s attention was glued to the trucker ahead. “This Neanderthal!” he roared, sounding like the over-caffeinated football coach of a losing team. Preston seemed oblivious to the raging storm that threatened to swallow their vehicle into an invisible yet ferocious abyss.

Layla sighed. “I probably shouldn’t have told you about Rex earlier,” she said, keeping her voice calm and steady as she studied his reaction.

“Of course, you should have told me,” Preston sneered.

When Preston lost his temper, his eyes narrowed into beady brown slits, and his mouth contorted into an ugly little ball of rage.

“I knew Rex Davis had a crush on you,” Preston snarled.

Preston pounded his fist on the horn again, then shouted at the trucker who couldn’t hear him: “Come on!"

Unmoved by Preston’s rage, the trucker continued at 25 mph.

“Rex probably hasn’t been laid since prom,” Preston scoffed. Layla nodded without hearing him.

Maybe I should have kept the details to myself, Layla thought. I didn’t have to tell him about Rex hitting on me at the office Christmas party last weekend. Then again, seeing Preston get so jealous after nine years of marriage is kind of flattering, she thought. 

She felt a hint of a smile creep onto her lips and tug at the corners of her mouth, but she resisted.

Layla drummed her fingers absentmindedly on the passenger door handle, wondering if she would ever tell Preston everything that happened between her and Rex last weekend.

No, not now, she thought. Guilt gnawed at her from the inside, but she kept quiet.

I didn’t lie, she told herself, as she replayed memories of her and Rex last Saturday night in her mind—including the memories she’d omitted from the story she had told her husband. 

Preston couldn’t handle it, she reasoned.

But those memories resurfaced. Her mind flashed back to those torrid four hours she had spent with Rex in their suite on the 27th floor of the Mondrian, where the office Christmas party had been.  Rex had splurged on the room, and the two of them had giggled like drunk high-schoolers at an after-prom party as Rex slipped off her four-inch Louboutin stilettos as she lounged on one of the bar stools.

A college party raged in the room next door to them, where Tupac’s greatest hits blasted mercilessly from the loudspeakers, and opaque pillows of marijuana smoke poured out from under the door, filling the hallway with a dizzying, intoxicating fog.

Rex swayed and stumbled to Dear Mama, as Layla laughed, feeling every bit of 15 again, the same age they both were when they had dated. She had never told Preston that. He didn’t need to know. But that night with Rex brought back memories that flooded her with a giddiness she hadn’t felt in years.

But Layla and Rex hadn’t planned for it to happen. No one could have predicted it. Even she wasn’t sure how it happened or who had initiated the tryst. The details of that night had started to blur after her fourth vodka tonic. But, the next thing she knew, she and Rex were ripping off each other's semi-formal business attire with the ferocity of a pack of lions tearing into a fresh deer.

A part of Layla did want to confess. She was tired of the secrets and the lies. Yet another part of her was too swept up in her feelings for Rex—the ones she never expected to return, but that now threatened to destroy her marriage.

It isn’t a lie if I don’t tell Preston, she thought. Or is it?