Stars for Eyes

I have no poker face. My smile gives me away ten times out of ten, and of all the rotten luck, I've never been happier. This is the brunch of my nightmares; beads of sweat luge down the crease of my spine while I lie to my best friend over cinnamon sugar crêpes.

Don't misunderstand. I'm a talented liar under the right circumstances. My imagination is unparalleled, which comes in handy as a romance novelist. My golden goose. That's the thing—I tell love stories, I don't hide them, so to conceal this new relationship from Devon, who's known me since middle school, is mission impossible. I wish it weren't necessary. I wish there were a chance in hell she'd understand, but I'm realistic. She would knock me unconscious and wheelbarrow my ass to the nearest mental institution.

The patio at Le Bonbon was a mistake. Across the world’s smallest bistro table from me sits a woman who missed her calling as a criminal profiler. She's stuffing her mouth with croque monsieur to lull me into a false sense of comfort, but I'm not that gullible. Neither is she.

She wipes the corners of her lips with the cloth napkin. “So how's the sex?”

Damn it. I try not to react, just fork a couple of banana slices into my mouth and chew to buy myself a few seconds. “How's what sex?”

“Please, don't insult me. The sex you are very clearly having with a new man. Girl, your cheeks are working so hard to beat that smile into submission, I'm amazed your jaw has the range of motion to chew.”

“You're just starved for drama and trying to dig for some where there isn't any. Things getting stale with Zane?”

“Yes, but don't change the subject. Who's the mystery man? Tell me, for the love of God, I'm so fucking bored.”

“You're pathetic.”

“Yeah, I am. So take pity on me.”

I sip my latte and keep my eyes on the smeared heart design in the foam as I lower the mug to its saucer. There's no way out of this except to be selective with the information I share. Devon is far from judgmental, but everyone has their limit. The best lies are rooted in truth. I can do this.

“His name is Alastair.”

“Hot. Wait, isn't that, like, your absolute favourite name?”

“You remember that?” Nothing escapes this woman, I swear.

“I do, because when you said it, I pictured Alastair Cookie. You know, Monsterpiece Theatre? Sesame Street? Whatever. Go on.” She puts her fork down. I have her full attention.

“Right, so, I don't want to jinx it, but he's pretty perfect. The name is just one example. He has hazel eyes.” I flip my hand palm-up as if to present evidence of his excellence.

“Aw, you love hazel eyes! Now tell me about the sex before I die of old age.”

“I mean,”—I point my gaze toward the sidewalk and pretend to people-watch rather than let the awkwardness of eye contact consume me—“it's unbelievable. The best I've ever had. He's like some kind of virtuoso.”

“Mm-mm, is it possible we've finally found someone who can hold a candle to the men you write? And the stratospheric standards you've created for all potential suitors?”

I cringe. “I did do that, didn't I?” It was hard to avoid, if I'm being honest. The dating apps had been nothing but a clown car of duds, assholes, and emotionally unavailable men who sent me screaming back into the embrace of fictional romance, with its heroes who would never spend the entirety of a first date talking about their job in human resources. My male characters were exciting, strong, and sensitive. They knew how to fix up old cars and do the Argentine Tango and show up with homemade soup when their beloved had the sniffles. They were perfect, and the men I dated fell short to such a degree that I’d sworn off their entire gender for good. Two days into the boycott, I fell in love at first sight.

“How did you meet?” Devon does enjoy a good old-fashioned meet-cute story. My specialty.

“We got paired up at that French cooking class I took. I was so nervous, my hands had the shakes and my knife work was a shit show. He was like a frigging surgeon though. You should see the man dice his mirepoix vegetables.” God, I'm good.

“He can cook?” She raises her hands in surrender. “When is the wedding? You'd better lock that ass down.”

I smile against the rim of my cup and give my head a tiny shake. “He’s not going anywhere.”

*****

Tomorrow is our one-month anniversary. While I'm downtown after brunch, I buy a fresh bouquet from the florist for my coffee table, I duck into my favourite gift shop, and I make one last stop to get Alastair a little something special. Well, maybe not so little. He's going to love it.

*****

Alastair will be here at any moment. He never keeps me waiting. I lounge on my sofa, eyes closed, relishing the peatiness of Islay’s finest single malt Scotch. Liquid smoke pools on my cupped tongue, and I pull its vapour into my lungs, a pleasant sort of burn down my throat. Perfect. I have my ear buds in, listening to my favourite podcast—well, erotic podcast. All right, fine, it's audio porn. I find there are few sounds as effective at setting the mood as a whimpering man. My three-wick sandalwood candle duels with the lasagna in the oven for the apartment's dominant scent. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

The knock at the door of my townhouse apartment comes a minute before six o’clock. I yank my ear buds free and leap to open it, unconcerned with appearing too keen. Knowing Alastair, he's just as eager to get the door out of the way as I am. He only gives me a second to take in the sight of him—those hazel eyes, that blue-black hair that curls around the tops of his ears—I couldn't have designed a more perfect embodiment of my kryptonite. My knees turn boneless when he smiles, and he draws me towards him with a strength that might as well be a rip current carrying me out to sea.

“Happy one month,” he says against the top of my head, and tucks something into my hand. I pull back to find a tiny white box with an even tinier red bow stuck to the lid.

“You got me something?” The surprise in my tone is an act. I knew he wouldn't be able to help himself.

“Yes, of course. As if I wouldn't. Open it.” I pluck the top off the box, and oh. He remembered. On our first date, Alastair noticed that one of my earrings was missing while we were—well, let's just say his attention was on my ear. I'd turned my apartment upside-down hunting for it afterwards, to no avail. They weren't anything fancy; just little gold stars, but I'd bought them recently as a pick-me-up from a cute gift shop downtown, and was frustrated to have lost one already. He must have seen its buddy still in my other ear and gone on a quest.

I pop in the earrings and turn the oven knob to warm. Forget the lasagna; it will keep. “Do you want your present now?” I back towards the bedroom. He sneaks a sip of the whisky I've left on the table and follows me.

“See, I knew you'd get me something, too.”

“Of course. And I knew that you knew.”

“How are we ever going to surprise each other when we're this predictable?” he says, closing the distance between us.

“I’m not one to back away from a challenge.” I turn the doorknob and reverse into the bedroom as he kisses me. The heavy peat of the Lagavulin 16 tastes even better on him. Our partially intertwined legs find their clumsy way to the edge of the mattress, where we collapse in a heap of deteriorating patience.

“How do you want to feel me tonight?” His teeth tug at the new gold star in my earlobe and he waves his hand at my nightstand.

I swear I can feel my eyes twinkle. “Glad you asked.” I reach under the bed skirt to retrieve the gift bag I stashed earlier, and place it on the bed between us. “Happy one month.”

He smiles, delighted, and pulls the long box from the whorls of tissue paper. A huff of laughter escapes him. “Ten inches?” he squawks.

“Surprise,” I say, feeling devilish. His lips move as he reads the fine print on the side of the box.

“Um, yeah.” He blinks. “This is a good one, babe. Eight different settings, but if I know you—and I think I do—you’ll stick to the first three.”

“Well, the new you is fully charged, so let's find out.”

*****

Okay, so, I have this thing. Hyperphantasia: it's technically a cognitive condition, but I consider it pretty damn close to a superpower. I visualize objects with intense clarity; they're indistinguishable from reality. I can bend the truth to suit my needs. After all, what is truth but perception? And what is perception besides our brains’ interpretations of various stimuli?

I close my eyes and see Alastair in as much detail as if he were flesh and blood in front of me. To manage the other senses, I cheat a bit, but I've gotten so good at manipulating my brain, I don't even notice that his cologne is a scented candle, his taste is my favourite Scotch, his voice is the same as the audio porn actor’s, and his touch is the latest addition to my sex toy collection. It’s irrelevant, as long as my brain translates the sensory input correctly, which is to say, incorrectly. Mind over matter over mind.

In a way, it's even better than real life. These days, it's not hard to be.

*****

“Don't go,” Alastair says on the morning after our second month anniversary. “Stay here with me today.” It's devastating how cute he looks when he first wakes up, his hair poking in all directions.

“I'd love to, but I can't. I have plans with Devon.” I plant a kiss on his cheek and swing my legs over the side of the bed. He stretches across the mattress like a giant cat, his fingers grazing back and forth along the side of my thigh while I fish for clean clothes in my dresser drawer.

“Are you going to tell her about me?”

I nod. “Yes, I think I have to. It's time.”

“Nervous?”

“Very. It's… not going to go well.” My hands are cold. I give them a shake to encourage blood circulation.

“Why don't you, you know, make it go well?” He reaches up to tap my temple. “Talk to her like you talk to me.”

I smirk over my shoulder at him while I fasten the clasp of my bra. “What, like, convince my brain that she and I are having coffees and when I tell her about my hyperphantasia boyfriend, she's super supportive and psyched for me?”

“Yeah, why not? That sounds a lot better than what’s bound to happen if you go meet her in the physical world. And then you could stay in bed with me all day.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Babe, that wouldn't count. I have to talk to her for real.” As the last word leaves my mouth, I freeze, locking eyes with myself in my dresser’s mirror. I want to cram it back in.

“This is real.” He withdraws his hand from my leg. “Your brain accepts it as real. That's all that matters. Don't go.”

I sigh as I remove my new “happy two months” earrings (gold moons to match the stars) and wedge their posts in the velvet tray of my jewellery box. In the mirror's reflection, I spot the goddamn receipt from the gift shop my absent-minded ass left on the dresser. “I wish that were true”—I turn to touch his face, to explain, to promise I'll come home to him later—“but it's not,” I say to myself.