The Lies That Bind Read online

  P.S. Come home soon!! Wisconsin for the Fourth?

  JUNE 30

  Wait. I just got a better idea. Let’s go to London! Didn’t you say Grant invited you there at one point? You can tell him you know he’s busy with his brother and that we don’t want to intrude and will be doing our own thing. But I really think I need to meet this guy. Also, and I know this is morbid, but you need to meet his brother ASAP. If you get my drift. What if Grant is “the One” and you never meet his twin brother?? You’d both regret that forever. Anyway, let’s do it! What do you say? Am I being selfish? More selfish than usual? Call me to discuss! LYLAS, Scotté

  JULY 1

  Ha-ha-ha. You’re being an insensitive rube, as always. But thanks for making me smile. I needed that. I’ll call you in a little bit to plan a visit. (Home, not to London!) LYLAB, C

  JULY 1

  Cecily,

  Thank you for your last email. I can’t tell you how much better you made me feel. There are just so many ups and downs. But in the past couple days, it feels like things are going in the right direction. It’s too early to know if the treatment is working, but Byron seems a little less fatigued. I know it’s possible that it’s just a placebo effect, but I’m hopeful that it’s more than that. I’m also hopeful that you’ve given some thought to a visit? I looked at ticket prices and they aren’t too bad. I would love to buy you one. For your birthday. July 17th, right? I need to see you. I miss you so much.

  Love,

  Grant

  JULY 1

  Grant,

  I would love to visit you, and can think of no better way to spend my birthday. But I would not let you buy me a plane ticket. Maybe dinner, though? :) What if I came with my friend Scottie? That way you wouldn’t be under any pressure to entertain me, depending on what was going on with your brother, and I wouldn’t be worried about being a burden on you. We could still spend as much free time as you had together, and if we wanted to be alone, that would be cool with Scottie. He’s very independent. Let me know what you think.

  XO,

  Cecily

  JULY 1

  I think you should definitely come. I’d love to meet Scottie. But I’d want us to be alone some, too. Please tell me you’re serious about this. I’m getting my hopes up. Love, Grant

  JULY 2

  I’m serious. I’ll look at flights now…XO, C

  JULY 3

  Grant! I’m all booked! See below:

  Flight details:

  Depart JFK Wednesday July 18 6:55 pm

  Land Heathrow Thursday July 19 5:40 am

  Depart Heathrow Sunday July 22 10:30 am

  Love, C

  JULY 4

  This makes me so happy. You have no idea. Can you see the smile on my face from NYC? Happy Fourth of July. How are you spending the holiday? Love, G.

  JULY 4

  You’re going to be so jealous. I spent the day in Coney Island covering the Hot Dog Eating Contest. In case you missed the results, twenty-three-year-old Japanese business student Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi won the honors, downing a record number fifty hot dogs in twelve minutes. Best quote of the day was from a Brooklyn postal worker who said: “Kobayashi is the greatest athlete I’ve ever seen.” Yes, he actually said athlete. Bizarre subculture. How are things there?? How’s your brother? Fifteen more days!

  JULY 7

  Hello from Paris! My brother and I got cheap last-minute flights and decided to come for a few days. Today we’re doing a cruise on the Seine and visiting the Louvre. Tomorrow we do Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower. Monday we go to Normandy since Byron’s a huge history buff. Not sure we’ll be able to navigate the actual beaches, but we will definitely hit the American and British cemeteries. France is no Coney Island hot dog eating contest—ha-ha—but should be fun. I miss you and can’t wait to see you.

  Love,

  Grant

  JULY 7

  Enjoy France! I’ll be thinking of you, as always. XO, C

  JULY 9

  Are you back yet? How was the rest of your trip? Not much going on here. Working on a story about one of the Backstreet Boys going to rehab for depression and alcohol abuse, hence postponing the rest of their North American tour. The other members of the band announced the news live on MTV. So that’s really all I got. Talk soon, I hope. Love, Cecily

  JULY 11

  Cecily, yes, we are back in London. The trip was good, though in hindsight Normandy may not have been the best idea. Too many graves. Too many lives lost. Even the German cemetery was gut-wrenching. We think of them as the enemy—and they were, of course. But how many of those young people actually believed in what they were doing, and how many simply had no choice? They lost their lives just like the Americans, the British, the French. But our men are heroes…martyrs with white crosses laid to rest on a gorgeous bluff overlooking the sea. Their legacy is only darkness. Maybe in the end it doesn’t matter. All I know for sure is that life is tragic. For everyone. We are all living in a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions while pretending we don’t know the inevitable ending….

  JULY 11

  Grant, I just read your email. I’m worried about you. If you’re still up, please call me….

  JULY 12

  Grant? Are you and your brother okay?

  JULY 14

  Grant!! Please call me. Or at least write. I’m really worried about you. Do you still want me to come??

  JULY 15

  Cecily, I’m sorry to leave you hanging like that. It’s been a rough few days. I don’t think the meds are working for Byron; he took a sudden turn for the worse. I still want you to come, very badly, but I’m not going to be very much fun so I totally understand if you want to cancel. And you have to let me pay for any cancellation fees, etc. I’m sorry again, and hope this doesn’t screw up your birthday. Grant

  JULY 16

  I don’t care about my birthday. I only care about you and your brother right now. I’m so very sorry the trial isn’t working, but am praying that things turn around….I’m still going to come, but understand if I can’t see you. We land Thursday morning, and I’ll touch base after we check in. We’re staying at the Gore Hotel in Kensington. C

  JULY 17

  Happy birthday! I’m so glad you’re coming and didn’t cancel—and of course I’m going to see you. Travel safe. Love, G

  JULY 17

  Dear Cecily,

  I know we aren’t supposed to talk until September, but I just wanted to wish you a very happy birthday. I hope it’s your best yet. Love, Matthew

  JULY 17

  Matthew,

  Thank you for the birthday wishes. It means a lot. Love, Cecily

  Other than the fact that I have officially begun the final year of my twenties; Grant is slowly losing his twin brother to a degenerative disease; and my boss is being passive-aggressive because I’m taking a few days of vacation that I’m perfectly entitled to but really can’t afford on my crap salary, I can’t imagine why I’m so emotional on my birthday.

  Needless to say, I’m thrilled to see Scottie when he arrives at my apartment the evening before our flight, a box of my favorite cookies from our hometown bakery in hand. He immediately launches into a rendition of “Happy Birthday,” complete with a dance and a cartwheel. I laugh and tell him I love him. Without wasting any time, we pour two big glasses of wine, curl up with a blanket on the sofa, and start talking.

  We cover Matthew’s email; Grant and his brother; and a whole host of issues relating to Scottie’s life, including his fear of commitment, which I think stems from his fear of officially coming out to his parents.

  “Do you really think they don’t know?” I ask him.

  Scottie shrugs and says, “If they know, they pretend not to. I mean,
Mom still tries to set me up with girls….I think she secretly prays that you and I end up together. In fact, I know she does.”

  “I think my dad does, too,” I say, laughing. “Who knows? Maybe we will. Platonically.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he says, smiling.

  “But seriously,” I say. “Why not just tell them? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “Well, they could disown me,” he says. “And cut me out of a huge inheritance.”

  I laugh. “What inheritance?”

  “Um…hello? The John Deere tractor? I mean, there’s no way my dad would give his gay son that tractor.”

  “There’s no way his gay son wants that tractor,” I say, laughing.

  “It’s symbolic. He wants me to want the tractor,” he says, then gets oddly serious. “Look. There’s no point in breaking their hearts when I’m not even dating. When I find the right person—if I ever find the right person—I’ll tell them.”

  I nod, thinking about this, then say, “Okay. But do you think you’re subconsciously avoiding the right person for this very reason?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know what my subconscious is doing? It’s subconscious!” he says with a laugh, then conveniently changes the subject back to Grant and me.

  As we talk, we keep checking the time, saying we really need to get ready for the reservation I made for us at a neighborhood Italian restaurant. But we can’t motivate ourselves to get out of lounge mode, and about five minutes before we’re supposed to be there, I make the executive decision to blow it off and order in. Of course, Scottie can’t just be normal and do the no-show thing—or simply cancel the reservation. Instead he calls and weaves an elaborate lie about how he has kidney stones and needs to head to the ER. Cracking up, I add it to a long list of quirks I love about my best friend.

  “Please move here,” I say when he hangs up. “We’d have so much fun.”

  “We’d have fun in Wisconsin, too,” he says. “And the rent is way less.”

  “We’d have more fun here,” I say.

  “Let’s be honest,” Scottie says. “We have fun anywhere we are.”

  * * *

  —

  Late the following afternoon, I file my last story due before I leave. It’s about socialite Lizzie Grubman returning to her PR firm following her July 7 car crash, in which she backed her Mercedes SUV into a crowd at a nightclub in Southampton, injuring sixteen people. In other words, another depressing story.

  But I leave that all behind as Scottie and I take a cab to JFK. With a stash of candy and magazines, we board our red-eye flight, hunkering down in the back row of coach, right next to the restroom in seats that don’t recline. The “cheap seats,” Scottie calls them, but we have absolutely no complaints as we change into our fuzzy travel socks, strap on our neck pillows, sip red wine from plastic cups, flip through magazines, and play endless rounds of Hangman.

  At some point over the Atlantic, we finally get serious with our Fodor’s guide, making lists of all the things we want to see and do. Other than our church youth group’s mission trip to Guatemala, neither of us has been overseas, and to say that I am excited is an understatement—way too excited to sleep. By the time the flight attendant comes on the intercom to announce our descent into Heathrow, I’m exhausted, jet-lagged, and more nervous than I thought I’d be, finally allowing myself to really think about Grant. Of course he’s crossed my mind all night—nonstop, as usual—but our reunion is quickly becoming a reality.

  I confess my feelings to Scottie as we begin to gather all our belongings strewn at our feet and in the seatback pockets. “I just worry that it’s a little pushy to be here…considering the circumstances. Do you think it was a mistake?”

  “Um, too late now,” Scottie says, offering me the last roll of Smarties.

  I shake my head, feeling queasy, then say, “Be serious, please.”

  “I am being serious,” he says, untwisting both ends of the package and pouring the whole line of candy into his mouth. “What are you worried about?” he asks, chewing.

  I sigh, trying to pinpoint the source of my angst. I think I’m mostly just worried about Grant’s brother. His health. Meeting him. Not meeting him. I guess I’m also a little worried that, in the face of all the stress Grant has been under, his feelings for me might have changed—lessened. I’m worried that Scottie’s personality will be too much given the circumstances. Or more likely, that Scottie will find a way to disapprove of Grant, as he did with Matthew, and really all of my boyfriends before that.

  “Well?” Scottie says, staring at me.

  “I just want you to like him,” I say, too tired to explain the rest.

  “Yeah. Same,” Scottie says, grinning. “Because we both know the buck stops right here.”

  * * *

  —

  About three weary hours later—after we clear customs, gather our bags, convert our dollars to pretty English money, take the Heathrow Express to Paddington, then the tube to South Kensington—we finally arrive at our hotel. We then check in, shower, and take a power nap that turns into a two-hour slumber. As soon as we wake up, I call Grant’s room.

  He answers on the first ring, as if he’s been waiting for me, and I feel a rush of relief just hearing his voice in my ear and knowing he’s not that far away.

  “Hi,” I say, my heart racing. “It’s me.”

  “Are you here?” he says, sounding as excited as I am.

  “Yes,” I say. “At our hotel.”

  “Oh, wow,” he says. “You really came.”

  “Yeah,” I say, laughing a little. “I really did.”

  “So when can I see you?”

  “When do you want to see me?” I say as Scottie sits on the edge of the bed, staring right at me. I turn away, pretending that privacy is actually possible.

  “Now?” Grant says.

  “Okay,” I say, grinning into the phone. “Where?”

  “I’ll come to you,” he says. “The Gore, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Meet you in your lobby in about thirty minutes?”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  I hang up and tell Scottie the plan. He insists he should come to the lobby with me for the reunion—that he “deserves” to be there.

  “Okay,” I relent, thinking that deserves is a stretch. “But please don’t be weird, okay?”

  “So you don’t want me to be myself?” he says, eyebrows arched, a smirk on his face.

  “C’mon, Scottie,” I say. “Just…make a good first impression.”

  “When have I not?” he says, pulling a Union Jack ascot out of his bag and tying it on over his T-shirt.

  Laughing, I rip it off, throw it on the bed, and tell him I mean it.

  “Okay, fine,” he says. “I’ll be good. But can we please have a signal?”

  “A signal for when you’re embarrassing me?”

  “No,” he says. “A signal for whether I approve.”

  “No. We cannot,” I say, doing my best to sound stern. “Signals are for guys we’ve just met in a bar. Not a guy I flew to London to see. Now, Scottie, I mean it. Behave.”

  * * *

  —

  Slightly ahead of schedule, Grant walks into our lobby, wearing Levi’s, an emerald green polo, and aviator sunglasses. I’m biased, but he could easily pass for a movie star.

  Clearly Scottie agrees, because he says, in a voice a little louder than necessary, “Oh. My. God. Is that him? He’s gorgeous….”

  Butterflies filling my stomach, I shush him as Grant takes off his glasses, glances around the lobby, and spots me.

  “Hi,” he says, raising his arm and waving as he breaks into the most glorious grin.

  “Hi,” I mouth, beaming back at him as we walk toward each other in what feels like slow motio
n.

  Seconds later, I’m in his arms, melting.

  “You’re here,” he says, kissing the top of my head. I crane my neck to look up at him, and he kisses my forehead, nose, lips. “You’re really here.”

  “Yep,” I say, grinning up at him. “I’m here.”

  I desperately want to stay in our moment, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Scottie hovering, then hear him clear his throat. So I reluctantly pull away, take Grant’s hand, and introduce two of my favorite people.

  “Well, hell-o there,” Scottie says, his head cocked to the side, his voice an octave higher than his regular voice—one he reserves for talking to handsome men, whether gay or straight.

  I nudge him with my elbow, a cue to knock it off, as Grant shakes Scottie’s hand, saying how nice it is to meet him, that he’s heard so much about him.

  “Really?” Scottie says, hand to his heart. “What have you heard, exactly?”

  “Scottie, stop,” I say, this time elbowing him right out in the open.

  But Grant waves me off, sweetly rising to the occasion. “Let’s see,” he begins. “I know that you’re a high school English teacher….Eleventh grade, right?”

  “Right,” Scottie says, making a clicking noise and pointing at Grant with a wink.

  Grant points back, imitating the click, continuing. “I know that you prefer the country to the city, am I right?”

  “You are so right,” Scottie says.

  “And I know that you’re funny—and that you give great advice…and that you’re Cecily’s best friend.” Grant hesitates, then adds, “In the world.”

  “Well,” Scottie says, head now cocked so hard it looks like it might fall off his neck. “Be still my heart, why don’t you?”

  I roll my eyes, pretending to be annoyed but actually feeling sort of touched, as Grant asks whether we’d like to grab lunch.