Through (dis)Honest Eyes, page 4
Due to this discrepancy, Brianna will no longer be allowed to work on the Project Melon Application. The manager will determine the following steps, but she is no longer eligible to handle confidential projects.
Sincerely,
Matt Wright, Head of Security
The air thickened, pressing down on me. My carefully constructed lie—the one that shielded me from uncomfortable questions—was unraveling.
Why hadn’t I just told the truth? I rarely spoke to my family anymore. It never felt like enough to say I was estranged from my family. So, I buried them. Pretended they were dead, and now I was paying for it.
Hope’s voice broke through the spiral.
“I’m not going to fire you,” she said gently, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
Relief washed over me, but shame followed quickly, sinking deep.
“What happens now?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “Is my job gone?”
She shook her head. “No, you’re too valuable. However, I need to remove you from the confidential projects. This lie is serious, Brianna. I had to talk to you before I made a final call.”
I stared down, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I had messed up. Badly.
“Why did you lie?” she asked, calm but edged with disappointment.
I rubbed my forehead. “When I filled out the clearance forms, I realized I’d never pass with my real family listed. I asked if I could omit them, and someone told me the only exception was if they were dead.”
Hope let out a dry chuckle. “Brianna, everyone has family they wish were dead. I get wanting to cut ties. But lying on legal documents? That’s not the way.”
Her words stung, but she was right. She softened.
“Next time, talk to me. You’re smart, but you need to be smarter.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “If I’d included my family’s bankruptcies and criminal records, I never would’ve been approved.”
She nodded sympathetically. “I’m not saying share every detail. But don’t fake a death. That’s permanent. It removes nuance. It removes options.”
Her words landed hard, but they felt like a lifeline.
“You’ll need to explain this to the team,” she added more firmly. “You can’t leave it hanging. Tell them you’re estranged. Say it’s complicated. But own it.”
I nodded, the gravity of it all settling in.
“I’ll apologize. I’ll explain. I’ll be honest—at least as much as I can be.”
“Good,” she said. “And one more thing—get away from your family. The first chance you get, cut ties and don’t look back.”
Her words hit me like a blow. “What?”
Hope leaned in, her eyes sharp. “You’ve outgrown them, Bree. Move on. You’re too talented to keep letting your past hold you hostage.”
Frustration surged. “It’s not that simple. Robert’s still in school. We can’t just leave.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You can and you should. Robert will figure it out. You’re holding yourself back.”
Her conviction rattled me. Deep down, I knew she was right, but fear gripped me.
“What if I fail?” I whispered.
“You won’t,” she said without hesitation.
I took a slow sip of beer, her words echoing. As I set the glass down, my phone buzzed. A message from Robert flashed on the screen:
We need to talk.
The words curled around my throat like a noose.
“What’s wrong?” Hope asked. She must’ve noticed my expression shift.
“Robert,” I said, voice tight. “He wants to talk. He met with his counselor today.”
Hope didn’t press. “Go home. Figure it out. You’ve got this.”
I forced a small smile as I got up to leave. “Thanks, Hope.”
“Anytime, Bree,” she said, lifting her glass.
When we finished lunch, Hope walked me towards my car, only to wave me off with a quick, playful gesture.
“I’ll tell anyone looking for you that you got food poisoning,” she said with a wink, her laughter light and effortless, as she opened the door to her BMW.
I couldn’t help but admire the ease with which she bent the truth. She made it look natural—almost elegant—something I could never quite manage. Her ability to disarm people was calming.
Yet, as I sat in my car, seeing Hope pull away, the unease of the day wouldn’t lift. What did Robert want to say? What was about to change?
Chapter 7
When it Rains
*
Sometimes the sky falls with it.
The drive home stretched before me, and Robert’s enigmatic text occupied my thoughts. My mind spun through possibilities, each one more troubling than the last. I called his number, but it went straight to voicemail.
“Hey, babe, just calling you back. Your text was a little cryptic, and you know how that shoots my anxiety through the roof. Call me back. Love you. Bye!”
I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and tried to shake the unease. The two pints I’d had at lunch left a warm buzz in my system, making me feel lighter than I should’ve. As I exited the parking garage and turned onto the eight-lane road leading to the highway, I couldn’t help but notice how dull everything looked. Every building wore the same tired shade of beige as if someone had spent the day drinking Baileys and then painted the entire city while tipsy.
Who had chosen this hellish color palette, and where were they now? I wanted to find them and make them pay.
My thoughts darkened. What if I got pulled over? What if I blew over the limit? I’d get arrested, lose my job, and Robert would leave me. Everything would collapse.
The familiar chime of my phone jolted me back.
I glanced at the passenger seat—empty. “Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered, fumbling with my seatbelt and reaching down. The phone kept ringing. I swerved into a parking lot and stopped beside a rusted sedan, frantically scanning the floorboards. Finally, I spotted it buried beneath a pile of empty sparkling water cans. Robert’s face glared up at me—his Wolverine cosplay photo still his contact pic—just as the call ended.
“For fuck’s sake!” I shouted, slamming my hand on the steering wheel. A passing family jumped. The mother gave me a sharp look. I offered a sheepish wave and mouthed a “sorry,” then grabbed my phone and waited for the voicemail alert to call him back.
He answered on the second ring. “Are you still with Hope?”
“No, I’m free. Hope sent me home for the day,” I said lightly.
“Why?” His voice tightened.
I bit my lip, trying to keep things casual. “Nothing serious. What happened with your counselor?”
Robert exhaled slowly. The silence crackled with my overactive imagination:
I can’t finish the program. I’m dropping out.
I’m switching careers to become an eSports professional.
I’ve fallen in love with an eighteen-year-old intern; her millionaire parents are taking me in.
His voice pulled me out of the spiral. “…this could be great for us. You’ve always wanted to live in Europe, and now we have a chance.”
“What?” I blinked, trying to catch up.
Robert chuckled. “Were you even listening?”
“Yes,” I lied, sitting up straighter.
“They invited me to join a program in the UK,” he explained. “I’d finish my bachelor’s, get certified, and move straight into my master’s. The tuition is more affordable, and my counselor says I’m a perfect fit. They’ll even help with the paperwork.”
I stayed silent, trying to process. Then Robert added, “I’m excited to never worry about seeing a red truck again and thinking it’s Tony.”
Right. Tony—his father, well, adoptive father. The man who beat him for years while pretending to be a model parent. An ocean between them would be more than symbolic; it would be safety.
The afternoon sun poured through the windshield, forcing me to squint. “When would we move?”
“This summer,” he said. “I’d finish my last semester here and graduate. After that, we’d go. They can’t transfer more credits, so we’d need to make the move then.”
I nodded slowly, letting the weight of this opportunity sink in.
“Bree—are you still there?” he asked gently.
“Yeah. I’m here,” I said, forcing a breath. “It’s just…a lot.”
“I know. We’ll go over everything when I get home, okay? I’ll bring dinner and some wine, and we’ll figure it out. This move will be worthwhile for us. I believe that.”
We said our goodbyes, and I hung up the phone. I leaned back, staring at the car’s ceiling as the enormity of his news hit me.
Moving to the UK could be the fresh start Hope had discussed—a real escape from my past. However, now that it was real, the fear returned. Could I find work before we moved? Where would we live? What would we do with all our stuff? How would my parents react?
That last question echoed the loudest. My mother, who saw betrayal in everything, would view this as unforgivable. When I moved out at eighteen, she retaliated by cutting me off her health insurance. When I married at nineteen, she didn’t congratulate me—she criticized me. Moving across the ocean would feel, to her, like abandonment.
I exited the car, hoping the crisp November air would calm my nerves. Instead, the cold amplified the nausea bubbling in my gut.
I saw her face in my mind—lips curled in that disapproving sneer, eyes narrowed in judgment. “Why would you do something so impulsive? You’ll fail. You’ll be back in a year.”
I leaned against the hood, gripping the cold metal for balance.
Hope called it a lifeline. Now, I just had to decide if I was brave enough to grab it. Yet, after all these years of running in circles, trying and failing to cut the cord, what did freedom from my family even mean? Did I deserve it?
A moment later, the nausea won. I doubled over and vomited onto the grass at the edge of the lot as cars whizzed by, indifferent.
Hope’s food poisoning excuse was more accurate than we had expected.
Chapter 8
Margaritas and
Murder-Suicides
*
“The best-laid plans of mice
and men oft’ go awry.”
Robert Burns
Dinner that night was surprisingly perfect. Robert came home with two takeaway boxes of nachos and a pitcher of margaritas, the kind barely sealed with stretched cellophane to keep the contents from sloshing out. We sat cross-legged on our cheap apartment carpet, the rough fibers pricking our skin as we devoured the greasy, cheesy mess like two college kids crashing a living room party, passing the pitcher back and forth like we were in a frat house.
“So, you’re not bothered that I’m switching from Anthropology to Archaeology?” Robert gave me a boyish grin as he handed me the half-filled pitcher.
I glanced at the dented lamp in the corner. The slight concave bend in the shade created a distorted light cone, pulling my gaze inward like a vortex. The room’s flaws glared under the harsh light, but I turned back to Robert with a smile.
“Not at all,” I said, taking a swig straight from the pitcher. “You’ve always liked Archaeology more anyway. So, where do we go?”
He grabbed his laptop, balanced it on his knee, and clicked through the ten open browser tabs. “There are five programs. They’re all over the UK—York, Leeds, Durham, London, and Edinburgh.”
I crunched into a chip, the snap loud and obnoxious. The jalapeños hit my tongue with a sting. “Which one do you want?”
He clicked on the Durham tab. A photo filled the screen: a medieval castle surrounded by thick trees on a hill. I squinted. “Where the hell is Durham?”
Robert laughed and zoomed out on the map. “Northern England. South of Newcastle. It’s beautiful. You’d find work easily, and we could afford to live there.”
He moved to the following few tabs: Edinburgh, a gorgeous, moody place. Leeds looked very similar, with its Victorian industrial buildings and sprawling row homes on hills. Then there was York, twenty minutes from Leeds by train but surrounded by massive rivers and historical buildings.
I nodded slowly, but my gaze drifted to the untouched University of London tab. With a mischievous grin, I reached over and clicked it, leaving orange cheese streaks across the trackpad. He winced.
“Why not here?”
His frown was subtle, but it felt like a slap. I saw the flicker in his eyes—the flicker of Chic City Brianna rising from the grave and dying again.
“London wasn’t a serious option, was it?” I asked.
He let out a sigh. Heat rose in my cheeks and I raged. “You put it on the list. What’s wrong with London?”
He sighed and leaned back, taking another swig before passing me the pitcher. “You know I’m not into big cities.”
I took a gulp that stung on the way down. “Then why include it?”
“Because I knew you’d want to live there. I hoped I could change your mind.”
He always did this. It was as if he were a teacher who lived to correct me for every infraction.
Remember to say thank you and hold the door open.
Why did you complain that your food was cold? That’s not very midwestern.
I placed my nachos on the coffee table and shifted to my knees. “So, you tried to manipulate me. Is that it?”
He reached out, resting a hand on my knee. I batted it away.
“No. I just thought we’d talk about it. We’re allowed to want different things.”
I leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Sounds like you made a decision and hoped I’d just go along with it.”
He stood, moving around the coffee table, which stopped me from storming off. His presence was calm and steady, and I hated how quickly that disarmed me. He walked slowly toward me, and I stayed where I was, fists clenched.
Then, the bastard smiled—soft, warm, infuriating.
I looked ridiculous: standing there with nacho goo on my hands, breathing hard like a cat puffed up to look tough. I wanted to scream. Instead, Robert hugged me.
I resisted, stiff and shaking in his arms, but the warmth of his chest and the familiar scent of sandalwood beard oil and tea tree deodorant began to dissolve the tension. I hated him for knowing exactly how to make me fold.
He kissed the top of my head, and the tenderness settled over me like a warm blanket.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve talked to you instead of just presenting options.”
I sighed and leaned into him. “You’re right. You are a prick,” I muttered with no real venom. The fire had dulled to a flicker.
He exhaled loudly. “I do this, don’t I? Give you only the options I want?”
I nodded. Yet, as the fury grew, I relented, throwing cold water on it. Robert wasn’t the only one at fault. “Well, I don’t even give you an option, so it’s likely something we both need to work on.”
We stood silently for a moment, his arms still wrapped around me, my body slowly admitting how much I needed the hug. Then, gently, he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.
“If you want to stay here, we can,” he said. “I don’t have to go. I can stick with Anthropology and finish here.”
I stepped out of his grasp and dropped onto the couch, tucking my feet under me. “I don’t want to stay,” I admitted. “I got pulled off Project Melon.”
His brow furrowed as he sat beside me. “Why? I thought Hope loved your work.”
“She did. Security didn’t.”
His concern deepened. “What happened?”
I took a deep breath and stared at the carpet. “I lied on my security forms. I said my family was dead.”
His reaction wasn’t what I expected.
He laughed softly at first, then loud enough to shake the walls. I expected a lecture. What I got was a release. I looked up, confused, but couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my mouth.
“What’d you say killed them? A bus crash? Volcano eruption?”
I rolled my eyes. “Murder-suicide. I said my mom finally snapped.”
That set him off again, his laughter ringing through the apartment like a bell. It was absurd and morbid, and it was what I needed.
This moment dissolved the day’s tension in that shared, unhinged laughter. He wiped tears from his eyes as he handed me the pitcher again.
“Well,” he said, catching his breath, “this timing couldn’t be better.”
I took a long swig and passed it back. I reached forward and went through the tabs again. My eyes locked on one.
City Chic Brianna could whip out those stilettos on some cobblestones. “What about York?”
His eyes lit up. “York could be fun.”
I looked at the pitcher, the laptop, and him. Maybe “fun” was all we needed right now.
Chapter 9
Merry Christmas
*
Deck the halls with boughs of holly.
I stared at the computer screen, the hum of the office fading beneath the monotony. The spreadsheet blurred—rows bleeding together, indistinguishable in their dull sameness. This clerical grind was my life now. Since the company reassigned Project Melon to Lily Brock, I’d spent my days buried in error codes and update logs, far removed from leadership meetings, strategic brainstorms, and the sense that I was a real project manager.
It was embarrassing enough to explain to the team why I was removed from the project. Telling them that I am estranged from my family, but not completely, since I still answer their phone calls and see them. Hope helped me debrief and was a kind voice to walk me through the difficult parts of “Making an ass of yourself due to trauma 101.”
