Importance of the Unimportant

           Opposite me at her kitchen table cluttered with mail, opened and unopened; pink pens; dog-eared romance novels; and half-spent sugar cookie-scented candles, Kailyn glares at me like I’ve murdered her firstborn child. Her face is as red as paprika, bluish veins swollen and silhouetted in fluorescence leant by the light weeping clouds fling through her window’s gossamer curtains. What point does she see in having curtains if they let so much light in? I asked her when she got them. She doesn’t want the house to look like a dungeon, she snapped.

“The lies,” she says, “again and again—I can’t take it anymore.”

           An exaggeration. Yeah, I’ve told a few fibs. Who hasn’t? But nothing egregious. Nothing that harmed anyone. In many cases, in fact, I saved her some angst. She needs to relax.

           She glares at me like Peyton did when I confessed that I kissed someone else. That realization makes me, again, hear him telling me that I “stabbed him in the back,” his voice flaying my innards. That I volunteered the information, apologized, and begged for forgiveness as tears streamed down my cheeks didn’t matter; once a cheater, always a cheater. It had broken a part of me.

           My own sister resenting me will finish the job.

“You have a problem, Abbie,” she says. “You need help.”

            “Come on, Kay. You know that’s not true.”

           Kailyn sighs. “Let’s go over this, then. Starting today.” She gestures at the window, where liquid needles continue to click. “You told me we could go to the park—that it’s not supposed to rain.”

           Yes, I did, because, as this proves, she needs to get out of the house for a while, and she’d never say yes if she knew there was any chance of precipitation. If it starts coming down while we’re there, we run back to the car and leave. No casualties—it’s not like either of us is the Wicked Witch of the West.

“You told me you got accepted to Harvard.”

           Yes, I did. But only because of Tevin. Just two days before, as we sat across from each other at his favorite Italian restaurant, he told me that this wouldn’t work, that he needed someone “more interesting,” and I cried into my linguine while he ordered me in a harsh whisper to stop making a scene. I needed something to distract her with because, otherwise, she would’ve wallowed, trying to raise me up by hurling him down, trying to make me forget it by dragging me through it over and over again, painting me in watercolors and him in ink. Pressing the card of a “good” shrink into my hand, as if such a person could fix what ailed me. It would’ve driven anyone crazy, made anyone reach for whatever ledges one could find, regardless of whether their razor-grade contours sliced one’s fingers.

           “You told me you were seeing somebody freshman year of college.”

           Yes, I did. Because I could get her to move on from Tevin only by convincing her that I had. And I had done just that, until my roommate had to go and open her big mouth.

           “You told me you went zip lining with your friends.”

           Yes, I did. So what? The story had made her laugh, gasp, and nearly fall out of her chair. If anything, she should’ve thanked me for providing the most interesting part of an outing whose runner up was her accidentally dropping her spoon and having to ask the salty waitress for a new one.

           “You told me all that stuff about ‘Lauren.’ ”

           Yes, I did. As with my zip lining tales, I’d made sure she’d enjoyed the stories.  Besides, who would’ve wanted to tell her the truth—that, all those nights I said I went out with “Lauren,” I really spent alone, watching The Secret Life of Us reruns on the tired corduroy couch I hadn’t gotten around to replacing and guzzling cookie dough ice cream straight from the carton? It would’ve embarrassed me, and worried her. Lose-lose.

           Kailyn waves dismissively. “I can’t possibly go through it all, but you get the picture.”

           No, I don’t. I don’t see why she thinks it such a big deal. She hasn’t ended up any worse off because of what I said; in every case, I said it for me, for her, or for both.  She’s gotten so tangled in labels and absolutes that she’s blinded herself to reality.

           I don’t have to say this; the way Kailyn rolls her eyes tells me she can see my thoughts, and resents them. I know I don’t deserve it, but I wither inside, anyway.

           Her phone buzzes. She grabs it from the table, glances at the screen, scowls, and presses “decline.”

           Then, however, her jaw drops, and her face flushes. “Are you serious?” She looks back at me; her eyes could congeal milk. “You told me the one that called before was from California.”

           She’d gone out to get the mail while I waited here. Meanwhile, her phone rang. Out of curiosity, I glanced at the caller ID. I did tell her, when she returned, that the call had come from California, rather than its true origin, New York.

           She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Why would you do that, Abbie? Why?”

           The question hits me like a baseball bat. Why, indeed? She doesn’t know anyone in either state; either ID would’ve suggested a spam call. It would’ve made no difference to her if I’d told her the truth, other than, of course, that I had told her the truth. Plus, I knew that the phone’s records would list the real caller, more than likely to expose me. I flinch, scrambling, searching familiar dark for a hand to grasp, fists closing around air until they find what I don’t want to see.

           “I’m looking for somebody more interesting.”

           “Once a cheater, always a cheater.”

           I open my mouth but don’t speak. I have nothing to say—which, in fact, says it all.