The Truth About Us

The Truth About Us

by TJ Hannah

Copyright © TJ Hannah 2013

All rights reserved. Except for review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover Design by B Design

Cover image from Shutterstock: ©Tsian

Chapter one

Sophia

Lying to myself wasn’t always this easy. Standing in front of a mirror and telling myself that I’m pretty and fun and wild takes a lot of convincing. Especially when the girl who stares back at me is thinking, ‘
Come on, Sophia, be honest with yourself. Even your name is uptight and stuffy’.
But like everything else, I shove those thoughts down as far as I can and layer it with more sugar coated lies.

Because it’s not about seeing the truth. It’s about believing the lies.

That’s exactly what I did when I convinced myself that I needed to get out of my Manhattan apartment, believing that the city was what suffocated me. I convinced myself I needed to get away from my parents, believing it’s their cold, calculated plans for my future that causes the crippling anxiety that had taken over my life. I convinced myself that anywhere else in the world is where I needed to be, believing that I could reinvent myself only outside of my sheltered, shattered existence.

But the thing about lying is that it always catches up. There’s always that moment where I have to commit to it. Go all in or change my lie.

That moment comes with dinner.

“It really is tragic,” my mother mutters under her breath, fingering the pearl necklace she always wears and tosses the newspaper across the deep mahogany table.

“What is, Darling?” Dad asks, not looking up from his phone. I sit between them, silent, as always. The doctor and the lawyer. Powerful people that have so many intelligent things to say that they don’t say anything at all.

A dinging sound rings out through the dining room and Mom slides her own phone from her pocket. “Oh, it’s Collette. Excuse me.” Her voice lowers, and her eyes flick over to me, like they do every time Collette phones, and Dad finally looks up.

“So, how was your last exam?” His eyes lock onto mine, and even though they are the same familiar shape and blue-grey color as my own, I feel as though he’s a complete stranger. Seeing me, and judging me for the first time every time he looks at me. I can’t help but to shrink down into my chair.

“Fine,” I reply, my hands shaking in my lap. His greying eyebrows pull together, and I’m convinced he knows I’m lying. It was anything but fine, and I’m sure it’ll lose me my 3.8 GPA, which according to my father should be a 4.0, anyway. I’ll still get my degree. A useless piece of paper that tells me I understand the way our fucked up government works, so I can call myself a college grad.

“Just fine?” Dad asks, and my chest starts to pump, pushing air through me too fast. “I spoke with your counselor. She says you're dwelling on the past. It's unhealthy. You have to focus on the future. You can’t have that attitude when you take the LSAT.
Fine
is not good enough to reach our goals.”

My fingers fumble through the pockets of my sweater, but I can’t focus. Our goals. It never used to be
our
goals.

“May I be excused?” I find my unsteady voice, and Dad shakes his head.

“For God’s sake, Sophia. I just asked a question. You need to get a hold on this. Get some control over yourself.”

And there it is. Five words that bring my existence crashing down on me. Get some control over myself. He means my emotional state, but I see it as much broader. Control of myself. My life.

This is the moment of commitment. Do I go all in and live the lie my parents have set out for me, or do I change it?

I look at my dad, sadness flashing across his face as I pull out the pill bottle for my anxiety medication. I can’t handle him looking at me like that anymore. I can’t do this anymore.

I need to change my lie.

xxx

Dying my hair and getting fake fingernails is where I start. Step one to the new Sophia Ross.

Getting a fake tan, refilling the prescription for my anti-anxiety meds, and finding the perfect push-up bra for my almost non-existent boobs were my only priorities in the weeks leading up to my drastic change. My new lie. My great escape.

But the escape turned out to be pretty anti-climactic, and here I am standing in front of a perky waitress at a tiny little bar, in a tiny little city, trying to convince her that I know how to pour a perfect head. Which I don’t. I have never poured a draft beer in my life, but beginners luck, I guess.

“Oh, that
is
perfect,” Kayla the perky waitress with the stunning blue bedroom eyes says and dips her finger into the white foam, licking it off. Everything this girl does is saturated with sexual innuendo, and while part of me is fucking irritated, I secretly take notes. Because my new lie comes with a whole new me, and becoming the new me means doing things that I normally would never do. Like being sexy. Like wearing a red lacy bra with a white tank top and
not
covering it up with a tattered old zip up. Like dipping my finger into white beer foam and sucking it off in front of a bar full of people.

But the new Sophia has the power of a push up bra, and all the artificial confidence that brings.

“It’s all about the head,” I reply to her and she smirks, picking up on my double entendre. She points a manicured fingernail at me.

“I think Corbin will love you. Can you start tomorrow night?”

My eyes widen. I did not expect this when I walked into the Screaming Owl ten minutes ago holding my breath and an old resume. “Uh, yeah. Tomorrow is good.”

Kayla flashes her bubbly smile and grips my shoulder. “Great. Come at eight because I don’t have time to show you anything until after the dinner rush, anyway. And maybe wear something a little nicer.”

She wrinkles her nose and twirls the string of my beat up grey zip up around her finger. I nod and step out from behind the bar.

“Sophia.” Kayla gets my attention again, and I turn to face her but continue to walk backwards toward the door. She’s leaning over the bar, still smiling. “Make it seven. Don’t be late.”

I’m about to answer her when my shoulder slams into something solid and I spin around, losing my balance. The old Sophia would have apologized profusely, but as part of my effort to be the new Sophia, I have vowed to never say I’m sorry again.

Hands grip my waist and steady me before I stumble, and I push them away. “Watch where you’re going.” I mutter without looking up past the plaid button up shirt, and tattooed forearms. I step around him to the door.

“Someone’s friendly...” the amused voice laughs behind me, and I hear Kayla say "Garett don't be an ass", as the heavy door slams.

The sun is blinding and I instantly start sweating, but not from the mild May heat. I have no idea why I wore a zip up hoodie to try to get a job at a bar. Oh, right, because I was too chicken-shit to take it off before I went in. Frankly, I don’t know why I want a job at a bar. This isn’t just
new
me. This is polar opposite me. I can feel the condescension drip through me as I imagine what my parents would think about this. A Ross working as a bartender. The clouds of doubt begin to stir in my chest, and I lean against my old beat up Chevy to breathe. The car I bought from some scumbag salesman just outside of Kansas City. It worked out in the end. He bought my Lexus, and I bought this rust bucket with money to spare. I clutch at my purse for my meds, just in case.

No, Sophia. Grow up.
I toss the pills back in my purse.

This is what I want.
I unzip my hoodie and strip it off; leaving only my white tank top and bright red bra that makes it look like I actually have a chest. Sort of. It’s so stupid, but I feel better with the thick cotton material off my body, a layer of self-loathing peeled back as I try to let myself escape. Tossing the sweater semi-successfully through my open car door window, I lean my head back and feel the air fill my lungs.

This is what I want
, I tell myself again.

A faint smell of smoke fills my nostrils, and I hear someone suck in a sharp breath. My eyes snap open, and there’s a guy standing in front of me, a cigarette held to his lips and dark grease smudges covering his angular face. His skin is shiny with sweat and his eyes sparkle with amusement.

“You okay?” The smoke curls from his mouth as he speaks and his voice rumbles through me.
My parents would hate him
, is the first thought that passes across my mind making my cheeks warm. Why would I think that?

“I’m fine,” I say as I try to push the rest of the sweater into the hot car, along with my embarrassment. He smiles a half smile and gestures to my hands.

“You look like you have a personal vendetta against that sweater.” His dark eyes absorb my every movement. The intensity makes me feel exposed, and my arms instinctively cross in front of my chest.

“I said I’m fine.” I try to sound stern, to put punch behind my voice, testing out the new Sophia 2.0 Beta Version Bitch. This just makes him laugh as he pushes damp dark hair from his forehead. I wonder what he could have been doing to be this dirty and sweaty by noon.

“Easy, Killer. You just look like you’re having a shit day, is all.” His eyes scan me again, but this time in a way that makes me blush for a different reason. Slowly I feel every part of me taken in as he draws a long drag off his cigarette.

“More like a shit life, but thanks for making me so painfully aware of it.” I’m serious, but he laughs again and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes, and tosses them at me.

“You might need one of these.” He pulls out a Zippo next and sparks it. I stare at the small flame. The old ‘me’ would say no. I tried once when I was in eighth grade, but I don’t smoke.

‘I might’ is what I say now as I pull open the pack, and slide the slender tube from it. He lights the smoke for me. The horrible taste fills my mouth, and I want to scrape my tongue to get it all out. Instead, I just stand there in front of him wondering what the hell I’m doing, holding a cigarette between two fingers, leaning against my car, and staring at what I now realize is an insanely hot guy.

“You comin’ or goin’?” He breaks the silence after a few moments, and I point to my car.

“Goin’”

“Too bad.” He pulls the smoke from his mouth and flicks the butt into the street. Without saying anything else, he turns and walks through the big, thick, red door into the Screaming Owl.

xxx

By the time I get back to the house that I’m now living in, the taste of smoke is still thick in my mouth, so I go straight for a toothbrush. The sound of the running water and the unsuccessful scrubbing of ashtray taste from my teeth distract me, so when I look up into the mirror and see my roommate standing behind me I jump and scream.

“Tobie
!” I say through toothpaste covered lips and smack her bare arm. “You scared the shit outta me.” 

Her crooked lips smile as she pushes past me in our tiny bathroom. Her thick corded dreadlocks hang down around her shoulders emitting the smell of patchouli incense as if she were a giant hippie air freshener. She’s the stereotypical pothead minus the pot. Dreads, tattoos, piercings, the whole gamut. She’s wearing a lacy white sundress, and she’s hiking it up over her bony hips and small protruding belly.