time to time even if Companions for Hire never hears about it.
If sex was what I wanted, I could get it in other ways. Right now I just need a fake husband, and I’ve got an appointment to meet him tomorrow afternoon.
First, however, I need to get through lunch with my mother. Which means I’ll have to lie to her for the first time in years.
I WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD when I discovered I’m an excellent liar.
It was a Saturday morning in a drugstore with my mother. She was waiting to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy, and I was roaming the candy aisle. It all looked so good. My mother only occasionally bought me candy, so it was a genuine treat. I wanted some that morning. Other kids got it all the time, and it wasn’t fair that I didn’t. No one was around.
So I took it.
I grabbed a big chocolate bar and a string of gumballs I’d seen the other kids eat. I was carrying a little purple purse, so I just stuffed them in and zipped it up.
I was breathless and on edge as I returned to where my mother was waiting for her prescription.
“What’s going on?” she asked when she saw me.
It hit me then. What I’d done. I’d stolen something that didn’t belong to me, and it might have been exciting, but it was also bad. I was bad. My mom worked two jobs back then to support us, and she’d always taught me right from wrong.
I wanted that candy, but I also didn’t want to be the kind of person who stole it.
I could have done one of two things then. I could have confessed and put the candy back and lived with my mother knowing what I’d almost done. Or I could lie and pretend the whole thing never happened.
I lied.
Because I wanted it to be true so much, I acted like it was. “Nothing,” I told her, eyes wide and mouth relaxed. “This is boring. When is your medicine going to be ready?” My voice even stretched into a bit of a whine in the last few words.
She was convinced.
It’s not that I wanted to lie to her. I hated myself as I was doing it. Rather, I couldn’t stand the idea of her believing I was bad.
The experience haunted me for months afterward, no matter how much I tried to push it from my mind. I threw away the candy and never ate it. I avoided that aisle in the drugstore for a full year because it brought up guilty feelings. And eventually it faded into an uncomfortable blur in my memory.
I was a good liar. I had figured that much out. If you can make yourself believe in something that’s not true, you can also convince the people around you. But I’d never be able to use my talent to help myself because of my overdeveloped conscience.
All through school and college and grad school, I made sure to be truthful with my mother. Anything else felt too icky. It had taken me too long to get over that first incident. She’s all the family I have (since my dad bailed on us before I was born), and I love her more than anyone else in the world.
It’s twenty-two years after that Saturday morning in the drugstore when I purposefully lie to my mother again.
My reasons are different. I want her to be happy, and after an incredibly hard life, she finally has the chance. It will only take this one lie to smooth over the potential conflict that might take her happiness away, so I do it.
I lie.
She stares at me afterward, her eyes blank for a moment. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I’m engaged. I’m going to get married.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were dating someone?”
I shrug. I’ve planned this out, and the excuse is entirely in keeping with my habits. “You know how bad I am at relationships. I’ve never been able to make anything work. So I figured this one wouldn’t either. It just felt safer to... keep it private.”
She’s smiling now, her brown eyes warming. She looks a lot like me. Medium size. Medium brown hair. Medium level of attractiveness. But she’s been happy lately, and the happiness is evident in the new softness of her demeanor. “I wish you wouldn’t keep to yourself so much. It’s really okay to let other people in.”
“I know.” I’m still meeting her eyes. This is working, and I’m not