“Fresh, frank, and fearless. Liza Palmer is a road warrior of contemporary fiction.” —Georgia Clark, author of The Regulars
Olivia Morten is perfect. Maybe she’s constantly hungry, but her body is to die for. Maybe her high-flying publicist job has taken over her life, but her clients are L.A.’s hottest celebrities. Maybe her husband is never around, but he is a drop-dead-gorgeous doctor. And maybe her past harbors an incredibly embarrassing secret, but no one remembers high school…right?
When Ben Dunn, Olivia’s high school arch nemesis and onetime crush, suddenly resurfaces, all of her hard-won perfection begins to unravel. As she finds herself dredging up long-suppressed memories, she is forced to confront the most painful truth of all: sometimes who we become isn’t who we really are.
Release date:
April 25, 2017
Publisher:
Flatiron Books
Print pages:
256
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“There’s the truth and then there’s the lie that people want to believe.”
I’m sitting in my car in the parking lot of the coffee place near my house, on the phone with my assistant.
“The editor says they’re going to pull the story,” Ellen tells me. “She says the deal was that they had an exclusive and all that went out the window when she saw your client on the cover of GQ this morning. They were supposed to have the only cover of him this month.” I turn my car off.
“Did you tell her it was supposed to be an inside piece that got moved up to cover last second?”
“Yeah, she’s not buying it. I don’t understand what the big deal is anyway.”
“She’s pissed they no longer have the get.” I check my face in the rearview mirror.
“The get?”
“GQ was first, so by the time people read her interview with Gus it’ll be old news. Literally.”
“She’s gotta know that GQ is so much better than her magazine.”
“Well, that’s her fear, for sure. Okay, she wants to believe this was a terrible misunderstanding. All we have to do is give her what she wants,” I say.
“How do we do that?”
“We start soft. How hard this is on her. How sorry we are. How disappointed we are in ourselves. Are you writing this down? Then we talk about how we’re okay with their story about our client being pulled or just relegated to digital content only.”
“Are we okay with that?”
“Fuck, no.” I grab my purse from the passenger seat and climb out of the car.
“Oh … okay. Right.”
“Stay with me. Then, if that doesn’t work we segue into how unfortunate it is that because of our unintentional—really stress that word—misstep, all of our clients will … how do I put this—” I open the door to the coffee place and stand off to the side for a quick second as I get my head together. Ellen waits. “Because of our unintentional misstep, their access to our clients will be blocked until we figure out how this terrible mishap came to pass.”
“Blocked? All of them?”
“All of them.” I walk over to where the line is forming and scan the food options.
“Okay. I’m on it,” she says.
“And remember. She wants to believe you. And all you’re doing—”
“Is giving her what she wants,” Ellen finishes.
“Right. Talk soon. Oh, and Ellen? Send some flowers to the editor over at GQ. The cover is beautiful.”
I hang up with Ellen feeling the smug satisfaction of someone who’s just placed the last piece into the puzzle. I breathe a contented sigh as I drop my phone into my purse and fall into line right behind a father and his two daughters. The eldest can’t be more than maybe six or seven—I’m not good with kids’ ages, so she could be four for all I know. Maybe she’s in high school. She’s wearing a purple cottony dress and beat-up tennis shoes with giant flowers threaded into the laces. Her white-blond hair is messed up, and she’s posing in a weird lunging position and looking at herself in the reflection of the stainless-steel base of the coffee bar. And she is having a very passionate, very detailed conversation with her father about carne asada tacos. He is holding the littler of the girls. She is gnawing on the top of a sippy cup and making an uncomfortably intense level of eye contact with me. I try a smile. Nothing.
“Honey, you’re scaring the poor lady,” the father says, turning around. “I have nightmares of waking up to that stare and just her little sticky hands tightening around my neck.” He swipes the flame-red wisps of hair from her face with a sweet gentleness. The little girl doesn’t take her gaze from me. I look at her father. Pins and needles radiate through my entire body. I try to regain control, but all my self-assurance and dignity have vaporized as if I’ve been walked in on in a public bathroom, pants around my ankles, helplessly reaching for the door and squealing some iteration of “someone’s in here!”
“You’re Ben Dunn,” I say, before I catch myself.
“Do we know each other?” he asks.
“We went to high school together,” I say. He looks exactly the same as he did in high school. The reddish-blond hair. The blue eyes. He was always so painfully masculine. I hate how well I know his face. I hate that I only know his face because Ben Dunn is as close as I’ve ever come to having an actual comic-book-level nemesis. How set his jaw was, how furrowed his brow, how that crooked smile told me if I was about to have a very good day or a very bad one. I studied him as if my life depended on it, because in many ways it did.
The last time I saw him was the day we graduated. He was surrounded by admirers and didn’t even register me as I disappeared into the crowd.
That was twenty years ago.
“Ah,” he says, his entire being deflating. “Well, let me apologize now, then…,” Ben trails off. He shakes his head, looks down at his oldest daughter, and with a long sigh finally speaks: “I don’t think I remember your name.”
“Apologize for what?” I ask, purposefully not answering his question. We all shuffle forward in line.
“For whatever terrible thing I did to you back in high school.” His daughter looks up at him. “Daddy wasn’t always the nicest guy, honey.”
“Oh, I … you were always … you don’t need to apologize,” I stutter.
“What’s your name?” the little girl asks. Ben shoots her a look. “What?”
“It’s Olivia. Olivia Morten,” I say. Ben’s eyes jolt up to mine as if he’s heard a loud bang. He looks away quickly, his face flushing.
“I’m Louisa.” She points at the little girl in Ben’s arms. “That’s Tilly.” Death stare. Louisa points at Ben. He can’t look at me. Won’t look at me. “You know Dad.” She sighs. A glance back over at her own reflection in the stainless steel. A quick lunge. She makes a bored staccato farting sound with her mouth.
“Olivia Morten,” Ben repeats.
“I know. I’ve lost about a thousand pounds,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, unable to make eye contact. I clear my throat.
“A thousand pounds?!” Louisa says, laughing. “You can’t lose a thousand pounds!” She stretches her arms wide and weeble-wobbles from one foot to the other. “A thouuuuuusand pouunnnnnds!”
Oh my god.
“Lou? Honey,” Ben says, stopping her with a gentle hand on her shoulder and putting an end to my living nightmare.
“It’s fine. It’s actually a pretty spot-on impression,” I say.
“A thousand pounds,” Louisa repeats with a melodic sigh. “That’s crazy.”
“What can I get you?” the girl behind the counter asks. Ben and Louisa order as I quietly panic, Tilly’s eyes now boring into the girl taking their order. He pays and Louisa takes the receipt and runs to an empty table. Tilly bullies her way out of Ben’s arms and totters over to the table with Louisa, scrambling up into a chair of her own.
“It was nice seeing you again, Olivia,” Ben says, tucking his credit card back into his wallet, one eye on his daughters.
“Nice seeing you, too,” I say. He smiles and walks over to his table.
“Your usual? Chamomile tea?” the girl behind the counter asks, her pen hovering over the cup.
“You know what—” I glance over my shoulder. Ben Dunn is cutting a sugar cookie in half with the precision of a surgeon as Louisa and Tilly eye him skeptically. I scan the food options once more. Louisa’s impression of “a thousand pounds” burns through my brain and lands squarely on my chest. Flaky scones. Melty cookies. Even that wilty egg salad sandwich looks mouthwatering. “Think I’m going to splurge. How about—” Ben walks over and grabs a handful of napkins. “How about a small decaf Americano.” Clearly disappointed, the girl rings me up with a sigh.
As I wait for my coffee, I can’t help but stare at Ben. Each time I get caught. I shove my now clammy hand into my purse and tug out my phone. I scroll through work emails as I wait for my order. A text. It’s Adam. He has to stay late at the hospital. Again. Thankful for the distraction, I make a quick call to that Thai place he likes and have dinner sent over, making sure they leave it for him at the nurses’ station. My drink is finally called out. One last smile at Ben and his girls, and I’m finally able to leave that infernal coffeehouse. I beep my car unlocked, set the coffee in the cup holder, and close my car door. The quiet surrounds me.
“Ben Dunn.” I say his name. I let my head fall into my hands and scrape my fingers through my hair. “Of all people.” I look at my hands. Light pink nail polish. I isolate my index finger, grab the perfect fingernail, and pull. Pain. Blood. Immediately. I pull a tissue from my purse and wrap my finger in it. “Fucking Ben Dunn.”
I put my keys into the ignition and let them hang there. Did I think he just ceased to exist? The smell of my decaf Americano has gone from inviting to rancid in mere minutes. “You’re Ben Dunn.” Why didn’t I just think those words? Why did I have to say them? I see people from high school all the time, but it’s not like they ever recognize me. Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut? And how is it fair that the sight of him can make me revert to exactly the same person I was in high school, as if that coffeehouse were the cruelest, most unfunny time machine in the world? No, you’re going to forget you’re a wildly successful, gorgeous, married woman and the time machine is going to plunk you right back down into your awkward teenage body where no one likes you.
“I AM A SIZE 2!” I yell to no one. “MY HUSBAND IS A DOCTOR!” A bearded man gives me a wary glance as he hurries to his car. “I RAN THE L.A. MARATHON!” It’s not fair.
It’s not fair.
Louisa’s impression of “a thouuuuuusand pouunnnnnds” zooms to the front of my consciousness. Do I think I’m past all this? Safe? Do I? Do I still have to endure standing in front of Ben Dunn as his daughter weeble-wobbles around like a sumo wrestler? Let today be a constant reminder that I can never outrun her. But, it’s not like I ever let my guard down. It’s not like I ever feel safe in this new life. I am an interloper obsessed with honing my facade. I’ve built my entire life—my new life—around keeping my past a secret. My husband knows bits and pieces, but even the little bits he knows have been reshaped and colored by my persistent rewriting and massaging of the “facts.” I shudder to think what would happen if he knew the truth of who I was. The whole truth.
“Stupid,” I whisper. “Stupid.”
No matter what I do, I’m always going to be her. It doesn’t matter what I look like now or what I’ve made of my life over the twenty years since Ben Dunn saw right through me, all it takes is one run-in at a coffeehouse and I’m right back to being trapped inside the Sweaty Marble version of myself like it’s some kind of haunted house. This is the moment I’ve been running from. It’s the secret that flushes my cheeks when I even think about being unmasked: I was once really fat.
TAP TAP TAP
Gasping, I whip my head around toward the car window and see Ben standing there. I turn the car on, immediately silence the blaring music, and roll the window down.
“I’m sorry I … scared you,” he says, crouching so he can make eye contact with me.
“Yes. Yes, you did,” I say, barely catching my breath.
“I wanted to … I do remember you.” He stands back a little from the car, peering into the coffeehouse. I look back to see Louisa and Tilly happily ensconced at a table filled with hot cocoas and a perfectly halved sugar cookie, not even aware their father is gone.
“Yes, we established that.” I’m still replaying Louisa’s unerring impersonation.
“No, I—” he starts. I shut the car off and open the door. Ben backs up as I swing it wide and climb out. I slam it shut with a forced sigh. Calm down, Olivia. I turn to face him. He continues, “Olivia Morten.”
“Right.” We stand there in the awkward silence befitting a conversation about high school.
“You still live locally?” Ben’s eyes dart from me to his girls inside the coffeehouse and back to me.
“Yes, down by the Arroyo.” I gesture toward a Metro station over my left shoulder as if that is “the Arroyo.” It is not.
“I do, too. Well, not by the Arroyo. We live closer to South Pasadena than—”
“The Arroyo,” I finish. He nods.
Silence.
“Are there guidelines for how to do this?” he asks. “Rules?”
“Talk in a parking lot? I think it’s just about staying out of the way of cars,” I say.
“Come on,” Ben says, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know what I mean.”
“Okay, then. Let’s see if you’re any better at taking social cues.”
“How does that—”
“Just because you’re ready to be absolved of the shit you said back in high school doesn’t mean that I am.” Ben takes a step back, his face draining of color.
“I wasn’t the only one saying mean shit,” he says.
“Are you saying that it was my fault?”
“No.”
“That I made you say those things?”
“NO.”
“How saintly should I have been? What fictional level of angelic would have been enough to make you take full responsibility for what you said?” He doesn’t break eye contact with me so I can see every layer of this realization hit him.
Ben is quiet. Another glance back into the coffeehouse. The girls. Shoving sugar cookie bits in their mouths and laughing. He looks back at me. He puts his hands on his hips. Then stuffs them into the pockets of his jeans. And now he’s crossing them again over his chest. He finally breathes.
“Don’t blame me just because I beat you at your own game every once in a while,” I say. He tears his gaze from mine and looks at the ground, shaking his head.
I am quiet. He starts and stops a sentence. Another one. I wait. When he finally speaks, his eyes stay fixed on the ground. “Do you ever wish you could erase whole parts of your life?” When he finally looks up at me, his eyes lock on to mine. His face flushes and then, “Just me?” A heartbreaking forced smile.
“It’s not just you.” A smile. A real one.
“It’s not?” he asks. I nod in agreement. He steps forward. And I flinch. I hate that I do it, but it just happens. His entire being deflates. A breath. “I’m so sorry. For all of it.”
“Yep.” It’s the only word I can muster. For everything I’m feeling, I’m not ready to forgive him. He just stands there.
“Yep,” he repeats. “I’d better get back.” I nod, fussing with the collar of my shirt. “You’re bleeding.” I look down at my finger. The blood is everywhere. “Here … just…” Ben runs over to a dull silver sedan parked two spots away, leans into the open window, and pulls something out. He hurries back over. “Give me your finger.” I oblige him. He takes the now-bloodied tissue and wraps a bright blue and red bandage around my finger. “I try not to buy them only pink stuff, you know?” I nod. “These are superheroes. It’s one of Lou’s favorites. It’s not just the one, though. They’re a whole … it’s a whole team.”
“Of superheroes?”
“Of superheroes.”
“This one is her favorite, though,” he says, still holding my hand.
“And Tilly?”
“She likes the villain.”
“Naturally,” I say. He laughs. We both look back into the coffeehouse and Tilly is just staring at us, one single cookie crumb hanging out of her mouth. Ben waves at her and she flicks the crumb in her mouth and slides her gaze away from us slowly.
“Naturally,” he says, noticing he’s still holding my hand. As do I. And in that tiny moment it’s like we both decide to 3, 2, 1 … let go.
“Thank you,” I say, my finger held aloft as if I’ve just had an idea.
“You’re welcome,” he says, crumpling up the plastic bandage wrapper. “Nice seeing you again.”
“You, too.” Ben lingers. “See you around.”
“Yeah. Yes. See you around.” He waves one last time and with a final smile and a hint of a furrowed brow, he heads back into the coffeehouse and sits down at the table with the girls. I climb into my car, close the door behind me, and exit the parking lot, headed for home.
The streets of Pasadena. My driveway. Unlock the front door. Walk through the living room, straighten the dining room, and continue into the kitchen. Purse down. Workbag down. Set the coffee on the island and pull the fixings for a chicken salad from the fridge. I set my hands on the cold of the Carrara marble.
Quiet. Everywhere.
My legs feel heavy. I run my hand down the side of my body. Pinch the fat just under my bra. I close my eyes and am immediately bombarded with an almost seizure-inducing fireworks show of my past. Whole swaths of time I’d long had buried, now bursting out.
One memory, long entombed, burns brighter than the rest. And I fall into another unwelcome reverie. March 27th, fifteen years ago. My wake-up call.
I was a senior at Cal Berkeley, and one of my favorite things to do was to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge. The crisp San Francisco air that felt like I was inhaling life itself and the rhythmic thunks of tires on the pavement; the monolithic orange towers and the sweeping cables that seemed to cradle me at a time when I thought I couldn’t be truly held by anything. Whatever the alchemy, being on that bridge made me feel weightless. And I’d have given anything for one second of that freedom.
I’d just gotten a new car and was there with my best friend at the time. It was cold. I remember that. I was wearing a bright yellow shirt, a cardigan with flowers on it, and khaki pants. I don’t know why that night was different. I felt emboldened. The bridge made me do it? But, that night we got out of the car and began to walk. I remember talking excitedly about what I was going to do when I graduated. I remember feeling strong and alive. It was one of those nights. The kind where you feel like you can accomplish anything. I bent over the side of the bridge and just breathed in the night air.
That’s when I heard it. A yell from a passing car. A young man’s voice.
“Thar she blows!”
I remember my friend going through the usual Things People Say in a situation like that. Forget those guys and what do they know and some lighthearted joke to let me know it wasn’t a big deal as she tried desperately to get the moment back on track, to a time before I was likened to a white whale by a carful of strangers. All I could do was take a deep breath.
I looked down at myself. As if for the first time. And I finally saw what they saw.
To them, I was just another fat girl on a bridge.
But that was never how I saw myself. Sure, people had made fun of my weight before. It was Ben Dunn’s bread and butter. But, I never cared. Even then, I knew calling a girl fat was the go-to insult for every knuckle-dragging idiot who was just too dumb to think of something better. Being called fat never convinced me that I wasn’t still valuable. But that night on the bridge was different. The punch landed. And I hated them for it. I loathed how superior they got to be in that moment. They weren’t better than me, but because of The Fat, for that one fleeting moment they were. Being fat was a weakness. My only weakness. And I decided once and for all to sew that shit up. Tight.
My hands are in fists and I realize I haven’t taken a breath in however long I’ve been lost in my not-so-distant past.
The bright blue and red bandage wrapped around my finger stands out against the white and gray color scheme of our house. I wash, chop and dice, grab a bowl from the cupboard, throw in the salad and the chicken, add some balsamic vinegar and a dash of olive oil. A fork. A cloth napkin. I take them both to the dining room table that’s all decked out with its autumn tablescape: Gourds, pumpkins, and glass candlesticks trail down the center of the large wooden country table. I set everything down, find a place mat in the credenza, and set the salad on top of that. A trip to the wine cellar. A nice bottle of red. Pop. Pour myself a glass. Set that down on the corresponding coaster. Flip the napkin onto my lap.
I look at the bright red and blue bandage once more. I pull the napkin off my lap and walk down the hallway to the bathroom. I pull the bandage off and throw it in the bin next to the toilet. I rummage through the medicine cabinet and find the box of bandages that I bought at the store—regular, beige—and wrap one around my finger. I shake my head. Better. I close the medicine cabinet and walk back into the dining room. Flip the napkin onto my lap.
And I breathe. Home. This is who I am. There is no cruel time machine. I am not the Olivia that Ben Dunn made fun of anymore.
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