Tell Me More Lies

Chapter 1: Sierra

Jet lag is a b***h. I can't go a minute without feeling my muscles tense up and ready to give after the long flight back to Ridgewood Bay.

I didn't think I'd be back home so soon. It's a relief yet a trepidation to see the familiar placement of the sycamore trees near the church we used to go to. Michigan was alright but there is no place like home. As much as I longed for a familiar sense of safety, there were so many bad memories I held of this place.

I pay the cab driver giving him a small thank you and slam the door shut, sealing my only escape pod out of the doomed unknown. The backpack containing my only belongings feel heavy on my shoulder as I appraise the address my uncle gave me via text.

The house lies on top of a small hill that made it look taller than the other neighboring houses asserting its dominance as if he had to compensate for something. Sobriety, perhaps? He's not exactly known as the quiet forty something neighbor whose hobby includes gardening and talking to the same inanimate garden gnomes as a form of pastime. No, Charlie's a real ladies' man, so they say. The modern two-story home is almost secluded with occasional cars passing by. I'm taken aback by its luxurious appearance.

It's . . . big. Bigger than my dad's Michigan house. But that place was merely a temporary sheathe for my own Lady Tremaine's exploits. Good thing I won't have to see her anymore.

Going up the stone steps, I knock on the big oak door expecting someone to greet me. Seems kind of fitting for a house like this. Being in the presence of this neighborhood alone makes my pocket bleed. Charlie said his step-daughter, or soon to be, was supposed to be home but neither a maid nor a step-daughter answered the door. I try again, and again, and again but alas, my imaginary horseshoe so far has gotten me nowhere. I rattle the knob as if it would magically open with my touch. You're not that lucky, I tell myself. The chirping birds accompany me amid my tiresome state.

It's always the sad and tiresome days that makes us realize to what extent our willpower expands. Mr. Prichard always had words of wisdom for me. Damn right I'm tired, and if I don't set foot inside the house before it starts pouring I'm going to blow a fuse. Sometimes I miss having him in my life just because he listens to me. Dad had made me see my then teacher in middle school after hours because the businessman that he is—was—didn't have time for small talk even with his daughter after—

No, not now, I promised not to talk about it once I've returned to this damned town. That was the least I could do for myself.

I round the corner past the grated fence that separates the stone pathway to the front door and the illusion of a garden that in reality was made up of plastic greenery, except for the grass and the bush behind the fence. I make my way to the backdoor hoping to God Charlie doesn't have an American Bully patrolling his property. I made my way to the backdoor and tried rattling the door knob. Again, no luck.

I walk back to the front door taking out my phone to call him. Before I could press the small blue button, I see a small flower pot right beside the standard welcome mat every house in the neighborhood eerily have on their front porch. Might as well. 

I lift the pot hoping to find a key. When there was nothing there, I try lifting the single plant inside the pot by the stem, plastic, of course, and there a small silver key patiently rest. Charlie's neighborhood was as safe as a bicycle on training wheels but you can never be too sure. Leaving a key under the mat is like begging the old lady next door to steal your quilt set. I guess poor judgement runs in the family.

I insert the key and jostle the door open, casually breezing in. High ceilings, modern furniture, and indoor plants greet me. Again, plastic. It takes all my urge not to gape at the oxymoron of its stunning simplicity that screams sophistication. Our Michigan home could never.  The foyer is decorated with crystal chandelier, lightings, ornaments, even the living room table. I'm afraid of touching anything besides my bag fearing I might break something. God knows I couldn't be able to afford paying back anything inside this house even if I work three jobs a day. Everything looks so luxurious. Except the living room.

It was messy, no, it was trashed. The carpets were upturned, solo cups were scattered everywhere—even hanging on top of one of the artificial plants near the window—and I'm pretty sure I could dig for a dead rat somewhere around the dirt piles.

I pick up a shattered frame on the floor that displayed a picture perfect couple. The dark haired man with hard features was holding a smiling woman in her early forties in a candid shot around a garden. Looked real, unlike the ones Charlie has. Might've found it a lot of work to maintain the real thing. I guess he and Dad had the same love for artificial things.

Charlie's fiancé was this beautiful blonde woman I saw on f*******: with seemingly hollowed out cheeks that suggests she had something done on her face. But then again she wasn't the first he's dated that looked like that. He had a type and that included blondes he met at exotic places like the Caribbean. I didn't even know he had plans to settle down if he didn't mention her on the phone. Aside from his routine of three Jacks a day, he was notably known for his promiscuous mannerism.

"Hello?" I dumbly call out. If there was someone home, I'm sure they would've answered the door with my incessant knocking.

I saunter my way to the kitchen to find more solo cups and half bowls of chips at the counter top. I'd say my uncle was still the same despite his engagement. Except, Charlie had gone out of town for business with his fiancé so this can't be his mess. Finding the entire first floor empty, I scale the stairs, peeking through an office until the last bedroom. Nada. I got the house to myself.

My room wasn't hard to find, it's the only room upstairs that has a small sticky note plastered just above the door knob that said,

Make yourself at home. —C

I took the note and push the door open. The room itself lacks elaborate design with a standard bed, closet and a study desk. I notice from the fresh paint smell that the walls were colored orange. The shade I used to love.

Call Charlie many things but my uncle sure did care about me in the littlest way he can. He's got his s**t handled better than my father.

I appreciate his efforts but no amount of room altering nor kind words would ever make me feel like I belonged here. I love my uncle. It's just that I don't feel good knowing I'm scrounging off of someone's property regardless if he's family. My mother always taught me the value of depending on myself. Even our shadows leave when we're submerged in darkness. 

But I guess her words were only good for me. If only she'd listen to her own advice. Her hypocrisy led her to a life of turmoil and grief and ended without a single person outside our family to mourn for her. But goddammit if I say I didn't miss her every single day.

My room is spacious, another reminder that I was somewhat of a tenant under my uncle's roof. I shouldn't complain. The only bargain for this luxury lifestyle was that I attend Ridgewood High, my former private school. I pleaded with Charlie to enroll me to public school down in Mayfield but he refused. Said that I should have a quality education if I were to live under his roof.

Private school was okay, that is if you don't mind the infestation of rats in the form of students. I didn't have many friends growing up so I doubt they'd remember the girl who subsequently disappeared mid-school year due to mental issues. 

This I had found out through social media that was whirling around the rumor mill the week after I left Ridgewood Bay. Another was that I had died eating Tide Pods. 

And, my personal favorite, infected Jared Kroshner with cooties and moved to another state out of sheer embarrassment of having his baby. Middle schoolers have great imagination.

But it didn't bothered me as much as I thought it would. I'd be fortunate if they see me as another new girl they'll leave alone for the rest of the year. 

I notice my enrollment slip on the empty study desk. Ridgewood High in bold red letters. Last year of high school and I'm going out with a bang. I'm just hoping the nozzle isn't directed to my head.

I draw in a deep breath and sigh, first day back in Ridgewood Bay and I'm already dreading the rest of the year. Maybe it's gonna be different. For starters, Ayla, the daughter of my uncle's fiancé, goes to Ridgewood High as well so maybe she'll help me navigate the ropes. It's always a comfort to know you're not alone.

School starts in two days but I'd rather lock myself in a freezer than dig up buried memories from the grave. I groan and plop down the bed face first. 

Feel free to come alive and swallow me into a dark abyss, oh fair mattress.

The day I said goodbye to this little town was the day I locked everything behind a big red door. My mom, my best friend, Ridgewood Bay. Schofield, the school's counselor my dad paid for extra hours to counsel me, kept in touch for the most part of my transition to Michigan, but that relationship ended in a quiet split. I ponder whether to reconnect with him, after all, despite hating our sessions, he felt like a friend to me. Though, I don't think he feels the same way since I was a kid at the time, so I voted against it. 

His relationship with my family was strictly professional. Inviting him back into my life meant digging up bone remains buried deep in the Mariana Trench. I'm not sure if he was still teaching at Ridgewood High but I doubt it, he was too good a teacher to be stuck in some snobby high school who repays his words of wisdom with a note on the back that says "kick me."

Out of the corner of my eye, a small plastic bag sits on top of my bedside drawer. I take it, noticing the small familiar logo of a local diner. I carefully inspect the small note attached to it.

I remember this used to be your favorite. I don't know if you still like 'em now but I think you could use a refresher, might remind you of home. Anyway, we'll be back before dinner. Love you, kiddo.

Welcome home.

Charlie.

That's one way to a girl's heart.

I munch on a piece, immediately remembering how much I missed this. "Good God," I mutter with a mouthful. How have I been without this all these years? I could almost hear my Dad's wife, Meredith, ridiculing. "Ease up on the dessert, sweetie, or you'll end up looking like a pig on a bad day more than usual."

God, I hated her.

I quickly shoot a text to Charlie telling him I'm at the house with a quick thank you for the cookies.

Tucking away my phone at my jean pocket, I hear the front door slam shut. They're early. I race down the stairs only to be greeted by a woman with bright blue hair. Really bright blue hair. Unless my uncle had morphed into a teenager's body, I'm guessing this was the daughter.

"Hey," I call her attention. From afar, I can see the resemblance to her mother. The same pinched nose, slender build, pale skin, with the only difference is her curved mouth. Her hair was ruffled as if she had slept on the grass and didn't bother to look presentable.

She gives me a transient look, short enough that I don't think she even saw my face. "You're early. The living room needs cleaning, obviously. I already gave you the old man's credit card info so knock yourself out. Buy yourself something nice for all I care."

I let my hand resting on the railing drop to my side. "Um, what?" She ignores me and instead makes a beeline for the kitchen. I follow her. "Are you Savannah's daughter?" I ask, letting her assumption slide.

She stops abruptly. For a second, her face drops like I said something unpleasant then as quick as it appeared, it dissolves into a frown. Her hands instinctively fold across her chest in a defensive stance that set the atmosphere of mild hostility around the room. 

Well, I guess I have her attention now.

"Who are you? How the f**k did you get inside the house?" Her demeanor didn't change. She was eerily calm considering she thought I was an intruder. Ayla's standing in front of me as if she was ready to wrestle. "She owe you money or what?"

If that doesn't send a clear message of Savannah—

"No, I'm Sierra, Charlie's niece?"

She doesn't relent. "Doesn't answer the question of how you got in." 

From this position, I notice her bloodshot eyes.

I took the silver key out of my pocket and held it up high. "Flower pot. Not really the safest way but it's convenient." For me anyway. I offer her a smile trying to be friendly. I can tell this one's a hard ass.

"Right." Her frown disappears but I can still feel the tension around the room. She veers back toward the kitchen without giving another thought.

Isn't she welcoming.

Ayla stumbles lightly but tries to act as if it didn't happen. "I swear his idiocy would kill him someday and he'll bring us down with him," she mutters under her breath but loud enough that I could still hear her. "Sorry, ran a little late. Didn't know you'd crash land into our lives this early."

I furrow my eyebrows. "It's ten in the morning," I point out.

Ayla deposits her small bag on the island top and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator, holding out one for me to take. I kindly decline. "How's the flight?" I'm about to answer but she continues, "Don't be pressured for a fancy ass response 'cause I wouldn't give a s**t either way. Figured you'd want some excuse to talk while I finish this." With a tilt of her hand, she downs the liquid in three big gulps like she just walked a mile in the desert.

My soon-to-be cousin in law—or step-cousin, if that's even a word—proceeds to draw the white cupboard open revealing a full stash of Jack Daniels, Henessy, and a couple of unopened wine bottles that could mirror half of a drug lord's stash of weed. 

That's one way to feed an addiction. 

I bite my tongue making sure not to point out the potential rehab the cupboard could infuse in front of Ayla. The last thing I wanted was to seem censorious.

"What'd you want? Vodka? Gin? All? Pretty sure the old man won't notice."

"Don't you think it's too early for drinking?" Not that I think she'd care considering she was already drunk, the least tipsy. I just hoped she didn't drive home.

Taking out a glass from the drawer, Ayla groans, "Ugh. Tell me you're not one of those innocent church going girls who scorns at normal teenage stuff." Pretty sure drinking at daylight does not fall under the category of normal teenage stuff.

I cross my arm. "Tell me you're not one of those addicts who peaks in high school," I fire back.

She smiles while pouring a glass of bourbon. "I could be. Who knows? Maybe that's why you're here, to stop me from making bad decisions."

I eye the glass on her lips. "More so than before?" 

She downs another refill and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Again, she does not spare me a glance and darts for her bag. She stumbles on her boots and my body jerks to her direction to try and help her but she rejects it by holding a finger up while her other hand finds support on the countertop.

"Are you okay? You want me to help you to your room? I don't think you should—Oh my God!" I cover my eyes, not fast enough, seeing a pink nub peeking its way from her tube top. How she managed to show some indecency while wearing jeans and a jacket is beyond me. "Can you put that away."

She laughs. "Yup. Catholic schoolgirl," she mumbles. Thankfully she tucks it in back into her top and zips up the stylish jacket, for my benefit no doubt. And I appreciate it. I'd very much like to hold on to what's left of my sanity, thank you.

"I love your hair, by the way," she compliments my platinum locks with my roots showing. Mindlessly, I touch it. "It reeks wannabe Kristen Stewart post crisis. Minus the short hair."

"You're one to talk Kai Anderson." She lets a small smile and I pride myself for being responsible.

"I like you," she snaps her fingers repeatedly while in profound thought. "What's your name again?"

"I'm Sierra." I point a finger to her. "And you need to sober up."

"Not yet." She smiles and takes a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and downs half of the content into her system.

I snatch the bottle away from her lips. "I don't think that's a good idea." With a groan, she spits the alcohol on my shoes. "Dude, what the hell?"

Jesus. Does she have any manners? "If you wanted some you could've asked nicely," she sneers.

Something tells me my stay is gonna be one I'll never forget, and not in a good way.

My lack of sleep is catching up on me and I feel my shoulders bag down. I slam the whiskey on the table and Ayla reached for it in a heartbeat. Who broke her heart this early?

"If you want to drink yourself to death, be my guest. Don't say I didn't stop you."

"Gee, thanks a lot, cous. Make sure to say that in your eulogy."

I give her a sardonic smile. "I'll make sure to bring roses."

She laughs mockingly. I can tell we're becoming best friends fast. "Out of all the people, your Dad had to drop off a bitch."

My heart sinks at the mention of my Dad. Something in me snaps. The hot feeling of rage is back. I have to leave before I do something I would regret. 

It's always the sad and tiresome days that makes us realize to what extent our willpower expands. I worked my ass off far too hard not to revert back to the scheming quick tempered little child that I had become and I wasn't going to let her back out again. She'd done far too much damage than I could ever admit.

I turn around to leave but Ayla calls out, "Sarah."

"Sierra," I correct, frowning.

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes. "Can you maybe, like, not say a word to your uncle or my mom? I'm treading down enough rough waters with them already and I don't want to stress my mother out. It's the last thing she needs what with all the wedding plans." To her credit, she had genuine worry written on her face. "And maybe I might like you more then."

I know I shouldn't ignore this, shouldn't walk away and let her go down this dangerous road that might get worse, but who was I to tell her what to do? Some stranger with a hero complex? I suspect she's just gonna let the words I'd throw at her out the other ear so I save my energy and gave her a hesitant nod.

I leave her alone drowning in the kitchen just like how my dad left my mother drowning in the sea of sorrows getting caught in a wicked undertow.

Screw him. Screw Ayla. Screw everything.

"I mean it, Sarah." Sierra. "If you tell them I'll make your life miserable here at Ridgewood Bay," she promised. I walk away.

I ignore the little pang in my chest at the familiar threat from years ago, right off the highway with the car bearing the weight of our luggage and my heavy heart. 

I hoped he wasn't still attending Ridgewood High.

I don't want to see him. Not anymore. Julian Pavlov had found an enemy in me and I wasn't sure why. My best friend. My only friend.

Life was good when I had him. But then I lost him.

He was the person I'm dreading the most.

What I did that night before the move wasn't for him, anyway. But my heart was pounding furiously in my chest. Remember why you had agreed to move back, Sierra.

I close my eyes trying to forget, but it only intensified the memory of that gloomy day in the car with the opened text message, the last I ever received from him, that had my heart in needles:

"Go back to Ridgewood Bay and I swear hell will reign over your presence, bitch."