I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee brewing, and the unmistakably yummy smell of bacon sizzling on the stove top. Mixed with those scents radiating through the air is the other side of my bed, which still smells like Brandon. The mix of him and breakfast is the most wonderful combination to wake up to—much better than how I woke up in the middle of the night. I wonder if he heard me crying. I hope not. I wouldn’t know how to explain myself.

I walk out into the living room in nothing but an old tee shirt, to the visual of Brandon dodging the spitting frying oil that’s flying out of the pan. There’s smoke hovering on the ceiling, and steam from the coffee is seeping out of the top of the Keurig. He looks like he’s trying his best not to get burned, and I can’t help but smile at him. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning. You don’t have to cook for me, you know.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, cause I’m not sure I’m doing much more than starting a grease fire in your kitchen. Yet to be determined.”

“I see that. Maybe turn down the flame down on the stove a little so the oil stops smoking.”

“Good idea.”

“Yeah, well, you learn something after you set off the fire alarm a couple of times.”

“A couple?” he asks. I can hear the disbelief in his voice.

“Fine,” I say. “Six times. You learn how to cook bacon after setting the alarm off six times.”

“Six? Hell, I thought you were going to say like three or four.”

“I wish. It got so bad that I think the fire department guys hated my guts. Gave me dirty looks and everything. One of them told me to. . .how did he put it? Learn how to cook, you inconsiderate bitch. Yeah, that was it.”

“Oh my God, really? Did you slap the guy?”

“No, I felt bad. I would have called myself an inconsiderate bitch, too. But I took his advice, and I haven’t burned any food since.” I point to the stove, but Brandon’s already turned the heat off and taken the bacon out. The smell is still great despite the fact that it has an edge of burned fat to it. And I can still smell the coffee through everything else. “I need some caffeine, I slept like shit.”

“I thought I dreamed that.”

“What?” I ask, even though I already know what he’s talking about and I’m mortified. I almost forgot that he woke up for a few seconds when I was up.

“I heard you get up in the night. At least I think I did. You told me you were sick or something. Were you up long?”

These moments keep coming faster than I want them to. There seems to be an opportunity every time I see him to lie in some way—to evade, to avoid, to bend the truth, but never to be totally open with him about who and what I am. The guilt of it all is starting to eat at me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.

“Not too long,” I say, lying through my teeth. “My stomach just felt a little weird.”

“Maybe some food you ate,” he says. “Sometimes food poisoning can come on hours after you eat something bad. It happened to me and my sister when we were twelve. Awful experience.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Must have been something like that.”

It would be ironic if Joel knew that when I was in my early twenties I went through a really destructive self-loathing promiscuous phase. It was a rough six months in my life, a time when I would sleep with just about anyone who hit on me. Sometimes being numb is so unbearable that you’ll do anything to feel, even if that feeling is negative. That’s what those nameless guys did for me, at least for a while, until it all stopped. That’s when sex became an act for me, like drinking a cup of coffee when you don’t actually like the taste of coffee—I just wanted the effect it gave me. But eventually the effect faded, and after that phase came my serial monogamy—a series of good guys who I knew didn’t want me just for sex, but who I pushed away because sex wasn’t an enjoyable thing for me anymore. What all those guys have in common is that none of them knew why I was the way I was. None of them knew about my depression.

Brandon should be different.

Brandon is different.

And if I want anything more than what I’ve had, I have to at least be honest with him.

So why do I hesitate? Fuck.

As he’s buttering toast and putting bacon on the plates, I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I press my cheek into his back and squeeze, closing my eyes. His body feels so good—muscular, comforting, a sadness cure in human form. He leans his head back and turns his head so we can kiss. “Last night was incredible, Talia. I know that sounds cliché, but it was. . .amazing.”

“It was more than amazing, it was fucking amazing. In case you were wondering, that’s a notch above regular amazing.”

“That right?” he asks. I nod. “In that case, it was really fucking amazing. How do you like that?” We laugh, and he kisses me once more, and then turns back to finish. “So, what’s on your agenda today?” The smoke has cleared, and he’s plating breakfast for the two of us. I love a man who can cook, and I love that he sacrificed some extra sleep so that I could wake up to a nice breakfast.

“Umm. . .work.” That’s a lie. The real answer is that I’m going to therapy.

“You know what?” he asks. “I just realized that I don’t know what you do for a living.”

It’s obvious but I never thought of it, either. “You’re right. And ditto, by the way.”

We sit down at my dining room table and he puts the plates of food in front of us. “I’m an English professor,” he tells me. I don’t know why that surprises me. It probably shouldn’t. After all, most of what I know about the guy revolves around books in some way. The idea of him running a classroom makes him even hotter to me—a sexy professor.

“At the university?” I ask. “That’s really great, Brandon.”

“I’m only an adjunct right now. It kind of sucks. We’re the lowest form of academic life according the powers that be. I’m hoping for a tenure track position to open up soon. It’s always been my dream to be a tenured professor at a college. I think that lifestyle would suit me perfectly.”

“It’ll happen,” I say. I’m not usually so positive, but Brandon has those qualities that you know will lead to success one day. “I know it will. Eventually someone has to see in you what I see. And when they do, they’ll offer you a job.”

“And what do you see in me, exactly?”

I don’t answer right away. It’s my turn to give him that smile—to make him feel good just by the look on my face, like he’s done to me a few times already. “I see someone who deserves to get everything he wants in life.” He doesn’t answer, he just reaches across and caresses my hand. It feels warm and comforting.

“And what about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

“Oh, I’m a child and family care social worker. I work at an agency that helps at-risk youth. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you that.”

“No way?”

“What?” I ask. He sounds really surprised, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“That’s so cool. Like teens?”

“Teens. Young adults, whole families. I help families find places to live, or apply for food stamps if they need, or sometimes I help with childcare.”

“Every time I think about how great you are, you get even greater.”

His words should lift me up, make me feel great about myself. After all, this man—this handsome, intelligent English professor is complimenting me like I’m the greatest woman in the world. He doesn’t know the monster I can be. All of a sudden Brandon’s kind words are drowned out by thoughts of Joel’s cruel ones— . . .the you that you became.

“Look,” I begin. “I need to tell you something. Like, a confession.”

Brandon smiles “You’re not really a man, are you?” When I don’t smile at his joke his face gets really serious. I think I’m ready to tell him.

“I hate having to say this right now, but I. . . I wasn’t totally honest with you about some things, and if we’re going to go anywhere with this, I need to tell you the whole truth.” He puts his hand back over mine and looks at me lovingly, not suspiciously, which I notice before I say anything, and it makes me a little more willing to say what I’m about to say. He doesn’t ask what I lied about, he just listens, and keeps those eyes fixed on my face. “I. . . I lied about. . .” I hesitate. I’m such a coward.

He rubs his thumb in small, gentle circles over my hand, and it slows me heartbeat. “It’s okay,” he practically whispers. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. Just pull the band aid off.”

Okay, Brandon, here it goes. Just remember that you said that. “I. . . wasn’t completely honest about. . .Henry.”

Fuck me.

Fuck my life.

Fuck my lying tongue.

“Is he okay?” Brandon sounds concerned. Really concerned. I need to finish my bullshit so that I don’t give the guy a heart attack.

“He’s okay, physically, but he. . . he relapsed, recently. I didn’t want to upset you by reminding you of your sister, so I just told you that he was living it up in Europe, having a great time, but he’s been having a terrible time. Panic attacks, anxiety, severe depression that he hides from all the friends he’s making. It’s getting bad, apparently.”

I didn’t think it was possible to ruin the bliss of waking up with Brandon making me breakfast after a night of the best sex I’ve ever had. But once again I’ve taken something good and turned it into shit because I’m too afraid to just tell him the actual truth. And all the sympathy that I know is about to come out of his mouth only amplifies my feelings. “Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry. You know that you didn’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I’m a big boy. On top of that I’ve dealt with all of this before. There’s nothing new you could tell me that would upset me more than what I’ve already gone through.” There’s something in his voice that I can’t place—a strange tone, or maybe an odd expression that’s really subtle, but I ignore it so that I can cover my bullshit.

“I know. You’re right. I’m just so used to hiding Henry’s issues from the world. My parents don’t understand. I’m the only one who helps him feel better.”

“Well that’s good. That he has you, I mean. Without that. . . bad things can happen.” Tell me about it. I’ve done them all.

“I know. I’ve always been there for him. He’s just so far away now that I feel like I’m useless. I wish that he was here with me so that other people could help also.”

“I know the feeling. Being useless, that is. Like no matter what you do—no matter how Herculean your efforts, it just can’t overcome their problems. Depression is quicksand, isn’t it?” It’s a weird thought to have in such an emotional moment, but I think about how only an English professor would use the word ‘Herculean’ in a casual sentence. And then I notice the depression metaphor, and it’s a good one, too. I feel like I’m in quicksand right now, falling faster with each falsehood I let leave my lips. “I can tell you from experience that hiding it is maybe the worst thing. As unpleasant as some of those things are, if they’re hidden then no one can help, and they’re just left to grow where no one can see. Then, by the time you actually do find out, it’s too late.”

He doesn’t mean to upset me. I know he means the opposite, but as he’s speaking I’m not thinking of myself, or my fake depressed brother, Henry, I’m think of Nana. The last part of what he said reminds me of how she got diagnosed. She was of a generation who believed in being stoic—of sucking up your problems and facing life down without complaining. She always used to tell me how soft ‘kids’ my age were, always looking for other people to solve their problems for them. It was that toughness that let her convince herself that the pain she was feeling was just a muscle pull. It must have been that time last week when I bent over too fast to pick up the book I dropped. When the pain got worse and worse my dad forced her to go to the doctor. A referral to an oncologist later and she was diagnosed with the Cancer that would take her away from me.

As all of those memories flash through my head in a manner of seconds, I start to feel the shadow fall over my mood. I know how to hide it—it’s what I’m best at—but the feelings of last night are fading from me, quickly. “You’re right. I’m going to call him later and talk to him. Maybe convince him to come home.” I’m a robot right now. The latest in artificial intelligence, and I look so very life-like.

“I think that’s a great idea. You’re a good sister.”

“I’m sure not as good as you are a brother.” We go back to our food, each of us seemingly lost in our own thoughts that the conversation inspired. Great, I think, looking at him stare down, his mood noticeably less energetic than a few minutes before. Now I’ve depressed him. I’m contagious. After a few minutes of silent chewing we each finish, and Brandon rises first to clean the table. “No, it’s okay, leave it. You cooked, the least I can do is clean up.”

“We sounded like an old married couple just then,” he says, the smile coming back to his face. “But allow me to clean up my own mess, okay?” I nod. He looks like he wants to distract himself from what we just talked about, and loading the dishwasher is his way of doing that. It seems a strange favor for me to let him clean up, but I grant it nonetheless.

Leaving him at the sink, I go and get dressed for the therapy that I’m pretending is my job, and when I come out he’s finished. “You’re good. I’d never know that anyone was just cooking greasy food in here. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“A few things.” He has that look again. The one I can’t quite place, but he forces a smile for my benefit, not knowing he’s talking to the queen of deception. The only question is why. What is that fake smile covering up? “I need to get to work soon,” he says. “I have class in like two hours. I teach a summer intro to lit class twice a week for freshman.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” I say, glad to talk about something normal.

“Actually, it sucks. They’re like high school kids but they can drive, and you can’t really discipline them. But it pays the bills until that magic tenure job opens up and I can teach real classes.” I walk up to him as he approaches the door. We hug, and he gives me an extra strong squeeze like I’m his good luck charm. I love the way he smells.

“Well someone’s gotta teach them. Might as well be you. I would’ve killed for a hot professor like you when I was in school.”

“If I say I would’ve killed for a student like you I’ll sound like a creep, so I’ll just leave it at ‘thank you.’”

We laugh and promise to see each other soon. When he leaves I feel a little empty, like something is missing. I head to the bathroom to finish my makeup. I stare at myself, but not out of vanity. I stare hoping to recognize the woman looking back at me. I hope that Talia is still in there somewhere. The one who doesn’t lie. The one who I want to be again.