Page 39 of Alonzo

“Ummm…”

“Hey. Everything OK?”

“You lied about your family.”

“Sorry. It’s no big deal, really. It’s just… you know. When you start chatting with people online that’s what you do. You lie. It’s a game. Not that I think we’re a game. We’re different now. We’re… aren’t we different?”

“Did you lie about anything else?”

“Uhhh… what’s going on? Did something happen?”

“I’m just curious. Because I like you, Lonnie. I like you. The you I know. And I feel like maybe we’re about to turn a corner here. Either move on to someone else or… you know. Get serious.”

Now it’s my turn to be silent.

“Lonnie?”

“I’m here.”

“Do you not want to get serious?”

“I do.” I pause and let that sink in. I do want to get serious. And yeah, Jesse is a dick for this stunt he pulled today. But the reason I was so mad was because he was right. That dumbass douchebag was right. I have no one. Everything I’ve told Tara has been a lie. If she could only see me right now with no shirt, no hat, no glasses—just me. All of me…

What would she think?

I mean, surely, I am the real deal, right? I’m not Jesse Boston, but not every girl likes his type. Some of them like my type. I really am a six-foot-four, yoked-out, hot-as-fuck, tattooed fisherman. What’s not to like about that?

“Tara?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to see me?”

“See you? Like… in person?”

“Um. Well, I meant on a cam call right now. But… yeah. In person works too. I’d actually love that. But first…” I take a deep breath. “First I need to show you something. Can I call you back on FaceTime?”

She’s silent again. Fuck. Did I go too far?

“OK. Yeah. OK. Let’s do a FaceTime. I’d like to show you something too.”

CHAPTER TEN - TARA

Lonnie ends the call and I hold my phone in my hand, a little bit in shock. This whole day has tipped me upside down. And yes, Vann Vaughn was definitely the part that swung me hard. But it all started this morning with the leather jacket. Then the trip to the thrift store.

I look down at myself. At the thrift-store clothes I bought and put on the moment I got home from my world-crushing talk with Vann.

They are old jeans. Not even nice jeans. They are ripped, and those rips weren’t made on purpose. Someone wore these jeans for years. Worked in them. Washed them hundreds of times. They were only a dollar fifty at the thrift store, but even brand new I doubt these jeans set anyone back more than twenty dollars.

The t-shirt is gray now, but it was probably black once. It’s soft. There’s a tear in the collar and the hem is frayed. It’s just a plain men’s t-shirt. Hanes, maybe. But the tag was ripped off years ago. And on my feet are someone’s old sneakers. Not Chucks. Not Keen. Not even Vans.

If I was still me, this is what I’d be wearing back home.

My gaze swings to the open bedroom door and the closet beyond. Filled with skirts, and blouses, and fashion boots.

Was it all fake?

Is Lonnie all fake too?