Can a man not be faithful to one woman? Are all men liars and cheats?
A fissure cracks open the wounds in my barely healed heart.
Why am I so afraid to know the truth from Leo and to tell him the truth?
I feel my doubt hacking away at my heart—a wooden moll splitting my very core—tearing me in two.
I glance at the wall clock and then at the box of postcards and back to the clock. Leo will be back soon.
I should get the card now, in case Tori is right. In case I’ve been a fool, a rebound, a temporary replacement. I was wrong about Wesley and I could be wrong about Leo.
He cannot post my card in Mr. Expose.
He’s not told me everything and I can’t trust him.
I scoot a wood ladder over from one end of the bookcases. The books with the faux spines matching the box are at the top and I pull the one on the end out and balance it. Lifting the lid, I examine the dates inscribed on the inside label.
Not the right one.
Matching Leo’s meticulous personality, the boxes are in chronological order on the shelf and it takes only minutes to locate the one that should have my card. My heart slams against my ribs.
I finger through the cards. Several slip out of my grasp and litter the floor.
With one foot in the bookshelf and the other on the ladder, I lean on the books and try to breathe. All I have to do is stay calm and get my postcard. I’ll hear him walking up. I can always hear him.
As I use my thumb to fan the cards, the pink postcard suddenly appears. Score! I exhale and move down the ladder so I can pick up the mess I’ve made.
Click. My skin tingles in alarm.
“Hey babe.” Leo stands in the doorway with two takeout bags and a look of utter confusion.
13
One Fell Swoop
Leo
Harper’s foot slips from the ladder rung, and she reaches out to grab something to hold. It’s no use. She tumbles to the side away from the bookshelf and hits the floor with a sickening pop. The floor is painted concrete with no rugs in front of the bookshelf. The sound of her body crashing against the surface causes me to flinch. It’s like watching one of those car crash commercials on television in slow motion.
My muscles have trouble taking directions from my brain. I drop the bags of takeout and run to her. “God, Harper. Don’t move.”
She’s flat on her back but sits up, obviously determined not to do as I say. “I’m OK.”
Postcards are strewn for at least ten feet surrounding us. I kneel into the space beside her. “Careful. Is anything bruised? Broken?”
Her eyes water and she looks away, sucking in air.
“I knew you were hurt. I’m going to take you to the emergency room.”
“No! I’m fine.” She begins picking up postcards in her immediate reach.
“Leave them.” I put my arms around her body. “You scared the fuck out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” She begins picking up cards again.
I run my fingers along the back of her head to feel for any bumps. Nothing. No blood. I allow myself to calm down. “I didn’t mean to startle you when I came in.”
She must’ve been looking for a book and grabbed one of my storage boxes by mistake. “Baby, you’re shaking. Are you positive you’re OK?” I draw back.
“Yes, yes.” Her voice has a strained edge. “I shouldn’t have been in your things.”
I frown at her expression. Something is off and I can’t put for my finger on her mood. Maybe the fall frightened her as much as it did me. “Come on.” I hold out a hand to help her up.
“Aren’t you mad?”
“No. I mean, I’m just glad you didn’t kill yourself when you hit this floor.”
Harper continues picking up the postcards. She wasn’t looking for a book; does she know what the cards are? I still her hands and take the cards from her. “I’ve got this,” I say. “Let’s get you to the sofa.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice is now soft and regretful. She has to be embarrassed, being caught snooping.
Why do I feel bad for her? Normally, I’d be pissed. Only Josie and Dane know I’m Mr. Expose. And now Harper has glimpsed a part of my life that I’ve vowed to keep a secret.
I put my arm around Harper and kiss her head. “Come on. Let’s see if the lasagna survived. I dropped our dinner when you did the sky dive from my ladder.”
Harper shrugs me off and goes to the bag. “I’m OK. I’ll get the food out.”
I can’t figure out what’s wrong with her. “OK. I’ll pick up this.”
All my storage boxes contain three months of postcards. I carefully log all the cards by scanning them as an image into the computer, but I can’t let myself throw the physical ones away. I save them like some nostalgic hoarder.
It takes me a few minutes to pick up the cards. Although I tag them and put them in a special order when I store the cards, I don’t have time for that now. I have a moody woman on my hands and I’m confused. Harper is not that type.
She stares at me, her body as tense as I’ve never seen it.
“What’s wrong, babe?”
“Can we talk about the postcards? About Mr. Expose?”
My eyes widen. She’s called out the name of my blog and had time to read one of the cards. How long had she been on the ladder, reading?
“It’s for a website I run.”
“Is everything you do a big secret?”
I’m taken off-guard by her tone. Why do I suddenly need to defend myself? It reminds me of the way Tori always quizzed me about how I paid my bills and how much I made. “That’s all you need to know. I’d appreciate not talking about it anymore,” I say coolly. “And you should forget you saw the postcards.”
“It’s not like you’re running a porn site.” She’s breathing hard. “I want to talk about it.”
Why the hell is she so angry? “But it is confidential and my business. People trust me. If I were a psychiatrist, you wouldn’t expect me to divulge client records.”
She squeezes her eyes closed. “I knew you were Mr. Expose before today.”
Her sudden admission feels all wrong, twisting in my gut like a soured meal. I search my brain for some time I’ve slipped and said something. “Why haven’t you said anything? I need to know what’s going on.”
“I sent you a card. I asked that you return it and you wouldn’t. I knew who you were when I moved into my apartment.” She opens her eyes. “I’ve lied to you. I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Fuck, Harper. I don’t get it.” But I do get it. I thought she’d been following me and that things were too convenient. Why would a postcard spur all that? And how can I look at her without wondering what else is a lie?
She’s pale and I have to stop myself from going to her. I want to comfort her. Comfort myself. But I’ve been with a woman who lied to me too many times and this shift in my world with Harper cuts me.
She is a liar.
I inhale slowly and make my way to the sofa. “I don’t know you at all, do I? You sent me emails. You were the one who kept writing me, over and over. Right?”
She nods and twists her hands. “I should’ve told you in the beginning. But this thing with us isn’t a lie. I…um… I didn’t know I was going to feel like I do about you.”
I rub my hands over my face. I feel hot, and cold. “I’ve been honest with you. I have this thing about people lying to me.”
“Honest? You aren’t honest about what you do with that blog. I’ve hinted around, tried to bring it up and you won’t talk about it. Is that honest?”
My temper paws at the gate of my self-control. “Don’t try to turn this on me. That’s work. It’s confidential. My pen name’s a secret because I don’t tell people about it. It’s not a personal thing between you and me.”