The Lies That Bind Read online

  I say we’d love to, adding, “Are you sure you have time?”

  Grant swallows, his expression turning stoic, as he tells us it’s okay, he has some time before he needs to get back to the hospital.

  I nod, something telling me not to ask more, as we all walk out the hotel door. Moments later, we are passing the Royal Albert Hall and, across the road from it, the towering Albert Memorial—which, according to Scottie’s Fodor’s, was commissioned by Queen Victoria upon her husband’s death. In the distance, we can also see the gates of Kensington Palace, where Princess Diana once lived. A huge royal follower, Scottie is giddy, snapping photos with his new digital camera and clamoring that he wants to go see the palace right now. But I gently remind him that Grant is on a schedule, and we can do it after lunch. Meanwhile, Grant consults a small pocket map, explaining that, unlike New York’s grid, the streets of London make no sense, so even though the pub we’re looking for is nearby, we have to weave to get there. I love this—not only because the residential back streets are so charming, but because Grant takes my hand as we go.

  About fifteen minutes and two dozen pics on Scottie’s camera later, we wind up at a square in front of a pub called the Scarsdale, which looks like an old-fashioned postcard, the entire façade adorned with window boxes and hanging pots of cascading pink and purple flowers.

  “Oh my goodness. This is adorable,” Scottie says, snapping away, before the three of us walk inside, our eyes adjusting to the dim light.

  In the front of the restaurant is the bar area; in the back are tables. Grant asks which we would prefer, and I choose the bar, thinking about our first night together. We take three vacant stools at the bar, Scottie sitting to my right, Grant to my left. After a few seconds, the bartender arrives and, in the most delightful accent, asks whether we’ll be having lunch or just “something wet.”

  Grant motions for me to answer first, and I tell him both—and that I’d love a pint of Newcastle.

  “Make that two,” Scottie says, even though he doesn’t usually drink beer. “When in Rome…or London!”

  The bartender smiles and nods, then looks at Grant. “And you, mate?”

  “Hmmm…let’s just make it three,” he says.

  “Brilliant,” the bartender murmurs as he hands us menus and also points to a chalkboard of specials.

  While the bartender begins to pour our pints, Scottie asks what he recommends, the same question he asks every server, whether at a fine restaurant or The Cheesecake Factory, before promptly disregarding the suggestion. The bartender tells him the cottage pie is his favorite—and I watch Scottie pretend to ponder this, then order the fish and chips. Meanwhile, Grant and I go with the house recommendation.

  “Cottage pie. What a cute name,” Scottie says, looking at Grant. “Is that like shepherd’s pie?”

  Grant shakes his head and explains the difference—cottage is beef; shepherd’s is lamb—before we segue to other topics. Over the next hour and second pints for all of us, Grant and Scottie get to know each other, discovering a few things in common, namely their love of seventies hard rock. They spend quite a bit of time on the topic, ranking Van Halen, The Who, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, and Queen (in that order), and both of them giving Rush an honorable mention.

  At one point, right after Grant insists on getting the bill (which we agree to only after he promises that we can get the next one), I see a guy about our age approaching us. He looks at Grant as he breaks into a grin. “Holy shit! Grant Smith! No way!”

  Now Grant is laughing and smiling, too, hopping off his stool to do that backslapping man-hug thing. “What’re you doing here?” he says.

  “I live here now,” the guy says.

  “Wow. Cool. Are you still writing?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Trying to, anyway,” he says with an exhausted writerly sigh I find so familiar. “What about you, man? Still in New York, doing the Wall Street thing?”

  “Unfortunately. But I’m thinking of making some changes here soon…on a lot of fronts,” he says, giving him a funny look. “We should grab a beer sometime so I can catch you up on all that….But for now, I want you to meet my friends—Cecily and Scottie….” He turns toward us, then says, “And guys, this is Ethan, my buddy from college.”

  As Ethan smiles and shakes both our hands, Grant adds, “Cecily’s a writer, too.”

  “Oh, really?” Ethan says, looking at me. “What do you write?”

  “I work for The New York Mercury,” I say. “But I’m trying to write a novel, too.”

  He nods and says, “Cool. What genre?”

  “Young adult,” I say.

  Scottie, the only person in the world whom I’ve let read my book so far, chimes in that it’s amazing.

  “She’s amazing,” Grant says, gazing at me proudly.

  I feel myself blush as Ethan reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, taking out two business cards. He hands one to Grant, the other to me, saying I should let him know when I finish my manuscript, that he has a close friend in New York who reps young-adult fiction. “And I know a few agents here in London, too,” he adds.

  I effusively thank him, putting the card in my purse, while Ethan and Grant chat for a few more seconds, comparing notes about what I assume are their fellow classmates. A pro golfer. A software millionaire. A stylist. I tune out for a second, looking around the pub at all the charming details, until I feel Scottie give my thigh a hard pinch under the bar. I whip my head to the right, and whisper, “Ow! What was that for?”

  Scottie shakes his head, as if to say not now, all the while giving me intense side-eye.

  I sigh, completely lost, thinking that we almost got through lunch without any Scottie drama.

  * * *

  —

  “What in the world’s going on?” I say once Grant has dropped us off at the hotel, and Scottie and I are alone in the elevator, going up to our room. “What’s with your one-eighty?”

  “What’s with your cluelessness?” Scottie says, as we get off the elevator and start walking down the hall. His tone isn’t quite harsh, but it’s definitely negative.

  “Cluelessness?” I say, trailing behind him. “What are you talking about? What did I miss?”

  He pauses when we get to our room, staring at me a long beat before unlocking our door, then waltzing in. “Did you not notice how Grant went out of his way not to introduce you as his girlfriend?”

  “Oh, jeez,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Um, yes,” he says. “That’s what this is about. Something sketchy just went down.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say.

  “When they were talking about that woman? In New York?” he says, turning and pacing back my way. “That stylist to the stars?”

  “What about her?” I say, looking down at my suitcase, calmly unpacking and transferring clothes to the lower drawers of the dresser, doing anything not to feed his latest antic any oxygen.

  “How would I know?” Scottie says, throwing his arms up in the air. “When all your boy would say is ‘it’s a long story.’ ”

  “I didn’t hear him say that.”

  “Well, he did,” Scottie says, whipping open the minibar. “Twice. And I’m telling you—I know sketchy when I see sketchy.”

  “Jeez, Scottie,” I say. “Where are you going with all of this?…I thought you liked him.”

  “I did. Do. And he’s seriously hot, but…”

  “But what?” I say, annoyed.

  “But something was off there…and he totally tried to make it seem like you and I are together,” he says, as I look over his shoulder into the minibar.

  “Whatever, Scottie,” I say. “I don’t think he was doing that. And besides…you’re clearly gay.”

  “Not that clearly,” he says, turning back to the fridge and selec
ting a small bottle of white wine. “Women hit on me all the time.”

  “Hey! I thought we said no minibar?” I say. “We can’t afford it!”

  “Whatever,” he says, waving me off. “I need this.” He unscrews the top and sucks down a few huge gulps.

  “Why do you need that?” I say. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m looking out for you!” he says.

  “Well, stop. I don’t need you to look out for me. I’m warning you…don’t do this. I really like him. This is the real thing. So please…just stop. Okay?” I smile to soften my statement, but I can feel my heart begin to race. I tell myself not to be pissed—but I can’t help it. I am pissed.

  “Fine, then. Sorry,” Scottie says, nailing his wounded martyr routine, before adding, “I’m sure it’s all in my head anyway.”

  I stare at him, unsure if he’s being sarcastic or conceding that sometimes—often—he manufactures drama. “It’s definitely in your head,” I say.

  He shrugs, still in poker face—at least his version of poker face. “I’m sorry, okay? You know I have a hard time trusting hot guys.”

  “Or anyone I like,” I mutter.

  “Look. Just forget I said anything.”

  “Fine,” I say with a shrug. “I will.”

  * * *

  —

  Although I stop being pissed at Scottie, I spend the rest of the day feeling intermittently uneasy, even as we stroll around Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park and Harrods. I desperately want him to like Grant—and I’m especially bummed after things were off to such a promising start.

  When we get back to our hotel, I very casually ask the lady at the front desk if we have any messages, holding my breath, hoping that Grant has called. She informs us that we do not.

  “Okay!” I say breezily, pretending to be unfazed.

  “I’m sure he’s just busy with his brother,” Scottie says as we turn and walk toward the elevator.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling almost worse hearing the pity in his voice as he makes excuses for Grant. Then again, it’s the truth. Grant is with his brother. Who happens to be very sick.

  We go back to the room, order room service, and watch television as we get ready for bed. At one point, Scottie sees me eyeing the phone, and says, “Why don’t you just call him?”

  I shake my head and say, “Nah.”

  “Why not? You’ll feel better.”

  “I don’t feel bad,” I fib.

  He takes a deep breath, always able to tell when I’m not telling the complete truth, then says, “Okay…But I really take back what I said…about Grant being sketchy.”

  I tell him it’s okay. “I know you’re just looking out for me,” I say.

  “But I’m still sorry,” he says. “And I think…I think maybe you’re right. I do try to find fault with your boyfriends…especially this time….I don’t know. Maybe I’m just jealous, you know, that you may have found your guy.”

  “You’ll find someone—”

  “I don’t mean that,” he says, cutting me off. “I mean—I don’t want to lose you. And I have the feeling that this time I really might. For good.”

  “Scottie,” I say. “That will never happen. We’ll always be close. Forever.”

  “Fine. But you can only have one best friend,” he says, sounding—suddenly even looking—like his teenage self. The ridiculously skinny kid who suggested we wear best friend necklaces, although he wanted to put his on a more “manly” long chain with his uncle’s Vietnam dog tags.

  “Right,” I say. “And that will always be you.”

  I stall in our room the following morning, hoping Grant will call before we set out for the day. He doesn’t. As disappointed as I am, I remind myself what he’s going through. He’ll call when he can. Instead, I focus on my precious time in London with Scottie.

  We go to breakfast at a local tea house called the Muffin Man, then take the tube to Green Park station, strolling along Piccadilly, the Queen’s Walk, and the Mall, past St. James’s Palace and Clarence House, then back over to the Victoria Memorial and Buckingham Palace.

  Afterward, we board a double-decker sightseeing bus, hopping on and off to visit one glorious landmark after the next. Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and the Houses of Parliament. The Tower of London and Trafalgar Square.

  At dusk, we head back to our hotel, exhausted and grimy and famished, having stopped for only an occasional snack to save time. I am dying to check our messages, knowing for sure that Grant will have called, even feeling a little guilty for having been gone all day with no way for him to reach me since my cell doesn’t work here.

  The second we get to our room, I run over to the phone, checking for the blinking message light. It’s not on. Hoping it’s just a glitch, I call down to the front desk only to be told, once again, that we have no messages. My heart sinks.

  “Maybe he tried to call and didn’t leave a message?” Scottie says.

  I shrug and wave it off. “He’s with his brother. We have no idea what they’re really going through right now,” I say to Scottie but also to myself.

  He nods, then announces that he’s going to take a shower. I turn, sit on the side of the bed, and start to flip through our Fodor’s, using a pencil to check off all the things we’ve seen, trying to distract myself. As I hear Scottie turning on the water, the phone rings. I lunge for it, answering, overcome with relief, knowing it has to be Grant.

  “Hi,” he says, his voice strained and distant. “It’s me.”

  “Hi,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I am now,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called….”

  “Don’t be,” I say.

  “Have you and Scottie been having fun?” he asks, his voice even more off.

  “Yeah,” I say. “We had a nice day. We just got back….What’s going on with you? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  There are a few seconds of silence before he clears his throat and says, “It’s been a rough twenty-four hours.”

  I freeze, so afraid as I ask how his brother is doing.

  “Not good,” Grant says, his voice cracking. “Do you…do you think you could come over?”

  “Over where?” I say, knowing that it doesn’t matter—the answer is yes.

  “To our hotel…my room…Or I can come to you?” he says.

  “I’ll come there,” I quickly say.

  “Are you sure?” he says, sounding so anxious.

  “Yes….When should I come?”

  “As soon as you can,” he says. “I need to see you.”

  * * *

  —

  I take the fastest shower of all time, change into jeans and a light sweater, and cab it across town, with Scottie’s reassuring voice in my head telling me that if something were really bad, they’d be at the hospital.

  When I get to Grant’s hotel room door, I see a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the knob. I knock anyway, and he opens the door immediately, standing before me, shirtless and in a pair of long Wake Forest basketball shorts. Clearly, he is just out of the shower himself; his hair is wet and uncombed. We exchange subdued hellos and hug. He then motions for me to come in and apologizes for the mess. I walk the whole way into the room, glancing around, taking in the two double beds, both unmade, and piles of clothing everywhere.

  He turns, rifles through an open drawer, grabs a T-shirt, and throws it on. He then walks over to the bed nearest the bathroom, pulling up and straightening the covers before sitting down and patting the spot next to him. “C’mere,” he says.

  I go sit beside him, and he takes my hand as I work up the nerve to ask about his brother.

  “He’s at the hospital. He’s staying there tonight.”

  “D
id he…take a turn for the worse?” I ask.

  “You could say that.” Grant nods, a tremor in his voice. He takes a deep breath, his chest swelling, then exhales slowly before going on. “Yesterday…while I was with you and Scottie at the pub, he was back in the room, overdosing on sleeping pills.”

  I stare at him in horror, then stupidly blurt out, “Accidentally?”

  “No,” he whispers, shaking his head, staring at the floor. “On purpose.”

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Yes. I got him to the hospital in time….He just wants it to be over, Cecily,” he says as he finally breaks down, sobbing.

  It’s the most heart-wrenching thing I’ve ever seen or heard, and also terrifying because I feel so helpless. Speechless, even. So I just put my arms around him and hold him, as we eventually go from sitting to lying down.

  After a long time, he says again, “He just wants it to be over…and he wants me to let him do it….Fuck.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, stroking his damp hair, his cheek rough with stubble.

  He swallows, then takes a deep breath and says, “The Netherlands just passed a law. In April. Allowing assisted suicide.” He chokes on the final word. “But it’s not in effect yet….”

  “Good,” I say, instinctively compartmentalizing, thinking only of Grant’s pain—not his brother’s. “So you don’t have to make that choice. It’s not legal.”

  “But I do,” he says, adjusting his head, then transferring it from my chest to a pillow beside me. I turn onto my side, so we are now face-to-face. “Practically speaking, I do….I mean, I can’t watch him every minute. I mean, I could try…but isn’t that taking all that he has left?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, thinking of how impossible it would be to help someone you love leave you forever. I think of the legal consequences, and even more so, the emotional ones. “You can’t do that….On so many levels…you just can’t.”

  Grant props himself up on one elbow as I do the same, so we stay eye to eye. “I know,” he says, blinking. “And I’m so sorry. For bringing you into all of this. For asking you to come…”