Sweet Liar

The same night that I told Jace I loved him, I was up and packing my bags. There was a despicable peace in erasing my presence, gathering my belongings and stuffing them into my backpack - bras, jeans, jewellery - until nothing was left. Until I was only a bad dream.

Glancing over my shoulder, Jace turned in his sleep, limbs splaying out like a star; the slices of moonlight through the blinds obfuscated the soft grimace of his lips.

"Lila," he muttered, hand smoothing over cold sheets.

I turned away.

I'd take the bus back to Surrey, returning home like the deceitful Odysseus after the Trojan War; I'd tell Dad that the apartment flooded, that I need to work at the garage until I'm back on my feet.

I paused my packing as my fingers scraped something plastic at the bottom of the drawer - the contours of a watch. It was too dark to see the patterns on the band, but I knew it was a blasphemous pink, decorated with flowers and deceitful, smiling suns.

A month ago, Jace won it at an arcade, and presented it to me, grinning so wide I could see the chip in his tooth from the time he laughed so hard he slipped and hit the counter; I remember I told him he was stupid, that it was perfect, and that I’d wear it every day to remind me of him.

Letting it fall into my backpack, it slid into a crevice between my clothes, disappearing among the rest of my junk like a dirty secret, and I returned to my mission. I had no idea when the little watch had stopped its incessant ticking.

I remember Mum used to tell me the truth was better than lies, but in reality, the truth is like an infection; febrile and indisputable, but only existing inside you. Only I could feel it, eating me with renewed fervour each morning, leaving me weak.

I know now that Mum was a liar.

Even on her deathbed, she was a liar.

"Don't cry, Delila. Everything will be fine," she promised.

I slammed the drawer shut.

It wasn't fine. Nothing was ever fine.

Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I marched to the door, wrenched the knob and swept into the corridor. A trickle of cold air slunk past me, but I snapped the door shut before it could invade the bedroom. Then, a hurricane died inside of me.

It was a short stretch of corridor, and my trainers sunk into the carpet - past the kitchen, the bathroom, and Jace's makeshift office, littered with crude sketches and diagrams of buildings still in their molten state. His compulsory cup of coffee sat half drunk on his desk. My hands itched to empty its muddy contents into the sink and let it slip silently away.

Instead, I trailed my fingertips down the doorframe, grazing the feathers of peeling paint…

"Where you going?"

Jace was leaning against the wall behind me. Brown hair mussed, the left corner of his lip turned down, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment too long; not angry - just tired. Reproachful.

"For a walk," I replied.

"Really?"

"It's the perfect weather."

"Is that why your closet is empty?" I shrugged, with difficulty, as the backpack straps dug into my shoulders. He squinted at me, in the way that made me grit my teeth and stand straighter.

“Have I done something wrong?"

"There was a call from the hospital-"

"No lies, Lila. It's three in the morning."

With a huff, I dumped the backpack and marched past him into the kitchen. My fingers curled into a fist, and I squeezed tightly before relaxing. Making coffee was too automatic to act as a relief - the kettle too slow, the cups too close at hand. Jace had an animated Star Wars mug with red streaks of light curving around its edge, and mine was lime green with a stripe.

Squeeze and release. My nails dug into my palm.

"Do you remember the day we first met, at the park in London?" I said quietly, and Jace listened with his usual attentiveness. "You asked me if I wanted company, and I told you no. No - I was only sad because my golden retriever died that morning."

"You told me his name was Bruno, but you've never owned a dog in your goddamn life."

I shrugged and picked up my coffee, taking a scathing sip. "I did have one when I was around eight. But his name wasn't Bruno."

Jace tilted his head in disbelieving acquiescence. "Of course."

"Anyway, you still gave me your number, and I still met you there the following day, and two months later, we were dating."

"I remember," he said, his fingers drumming on the counter, starting to get impatient. "I was there." He still hadn't touched his coffee.

"You called me a liar, Jace," I said quietly, crafting a callous accusation with a practised needle.

"I never-"

"On our anniversary." I heard my voice break, and he rolled his eyes, but his jaw was tense.

"Stop making things up."

"Stop refusing to face the truth."

His fingers stopped drumming, and when he met my eyes, I marvelled at the glint of vexation, where the white kitchen light caught his eye.

"The truth?" he said, slightly breathless. "The truth is, Lila, that after over a year of being together, a year of tolerating this - you - I still don't know who you are. I know so many versions of you that I don't think even you can keep them straight. The truth is, you're running because of some lie you've told yourself: that we aren't going to work, or that I'm not what you want - I don't know. I don’t understand. I probably never will. But I was so sure, so stupidly hopeful that, last night, when you told me that you loved me - you were telling the truth.“

I stared at him. Set my mug aside. He was like a wax statue, face frozen in a vision of vulnerability, begging for me to understand, and to wave away his fears.

"I'm going to miss my bus."

I left him there, in the kitchen, in the silence. I grabbed my backpack, pressed the door shut, walked down the staircase, out of the building, and past the food bowl Jace left for the feral cats, to the bus stop a hundred metres down his street. I sat down on the rusted metal bench, listening to the wind sift through the fallen leaves. The sky was thick with the anticipation of rain, cool moisture tightening the air like a noose.

Why do I lie?

Jace had asked me that once, at our anniversary - he'd asked me, "Why do you lie, Lila?"

He'd been drunk. I'd been drunk, but I'd cupped his jaw and said, "I don't lie."

For one, lies are more interesting than the truth. My dog that died is more entertaining than having no dog at all - than telling someone that I grew up alone, without pets, without parents who cared. People took my fiction and used it to draw a connection, and paint a conversation; "Oh I'm so sorry," they'd tell me. "I have a sad story too - my cat got hit by a bus. How funny is that?"

The sky started to spit with rain, wetting my cheek and sticking to my eyelashes.

Everyone is about creating constructions of people, editing their perception as a conversation progresses - but I like to build wonky buildings. As soon as someone thinks they have a solid framework, I shift the ground like an earthquake, sending what they think they know crumbling. I like the powerless offence of all that hard work of getting to know me, wasted.

They didn't know me. Only I knew me.

And that was amusing, for a time.

Jace, however - Jace was an architect. He knew how to build on difficult land. He was patient. He learnt to predict them - the shifts, and didn’t lay down a slab of foundation before the first earthquake hit.

That is to say, I’m never malicious in my knocking down of constructions; I’m just a force of nature - my lies are simply a part of me.

I would continue to lie, and Jace would continue to build around me. I believe, at first, I was a challenge to him, until somewhere along the line, he fell in love with his creation as it began to rise from the dirt.

It was a magnificent building, the furthest anyone had ever got, compiled of every nugget of truth he garnered. I was charmed by his mastery of discerning false words and the way he unravelled my game.

I sighed. The bus arrived, and my socks were soaked through now. I climbed aboard and found a seat at the back, by the window, passing a handful of lonely figures, all caught up in their own truths. The doors shut with a ding, and the bus jerked forward.

So why am I running?

Jace's words hung in my mind; he thought he knew, but he didn't. I wasn't deceiving myself. I'm too competent for that. I'm the librarian of my carefully categorised mind, a vessel of logic distinct from people driven by passion and vulnerable to deception. People like Jace.

Five months and three days after we started dating, Jace had told me he loved me. He'd always been reckless with his emotions. He never expected a reply.

Last night, he said, "I love you."

"I love you too," I told him.

We festered in the resulting silence until he kissed me, and I kissed back.

Then a familiar beast roused in my stomach, feasting upon my stagnance, gorging upon the idea of settling; I wanted to rip open my flesh and tear it free, strangle its ambition and cull its need. I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't stay still.

Laying back on the lumpy bus seat, I traced a raindrop with my fingertip, intent on its jagged path. I lost it just before it reached the bottom of the window as it hurtled down the last stretch suddenly. Gone too quickly. I clutched my hands together in my lap.

I didn’t have a choice, I told myself. Because last night, I came too close to the truth.