The "I" In Lie

Living in Los Angeles isn't what all these wannabe stars thinks it is. It's hot, everyone is over juiced, everything is overpriced and no one is real. Everything is fake.

I used to live in Oregon where the weather was more gloomy than sunny. I came to Los Angeles because it was a dream of mine to see the Hollywood sign. My dream is over; I see it every time I drive to work.

Since everything is overpriced I was riding the bus for the first 3 years here. Then, I bought a little used Volvo; it's red, burgundy really, unlike my hair. Gas is okay, I don't really leave my home; I only leave to go grocery shopping and work. I don't have any friends, for the simple fact that I'm a homebody and I don't like people. I think it's a social problem from my high school days.

My family lives up in Oregon, they come and visit or I go and visit every other holiday. It's simple, my family is simple, my life is simple. My only problem is Pete.

He isn't the root of my problem, I am. Or, sometimes I think his wife is. It's the worse feeling knowing that you aren't the only one.

You're probably wondering why I am with a married man, and for so long, and why I developed feelings. To be utterly and perfectly honest, I ask myself the same question, especially when I'm alone at night. I think it's because I have daddy problems.

My daddy problems are harbored, deep inside. My dad was a drinker, he abused me, my mother and my sister. I'm the oldest, he abused me in the worst way you could abuse a little girl; he beat me and he molested me. I don't like to think or talk about it, especially when I have no love for him, and I feel no pity. He died when I was 16, drunk driving, and that was probably the happiest day of my life; I felt better.

My tormentor is dead.

All I really wanted was a man to love me. I wanted a father, or maybe an older brother, even a male friend. I wasn't well liked in school, boys didn't like me because I was the freaky girl with the dyed hair and piercings. I wished, just once, a boy would've taken interest. No guy liked me until I was 18, I was in college and it was a drunken time.

I dated boys, they were shallow and immature. I didn't want a little boy, I wanted a man. I'm not gonna lie and say that I want to be independent, I want to be taken care of. I wanted a man to love and hold me; to tell me he loves me and mean it. To possibly put a ring on my finger and say "You're the only one that I want, please marry me, Alyssa."

I haven't gotten there yet. I wanted Pete to be the man to say those words. I love him, I want him, he's the only guy who was immature and mature all in one. He's my friend, he likes me, he knows me, and he's sweet to me.

Pete doesn't hold me like I wish he would. We never cuddle after sex. I told you, he gets up and leaves. I often wonder if he's afraid of me, if he hates me. I wonder if he would drop me.

I'd be devastated.


Her name is Michelle. Michelle Kane; she won't take his name. It's a family thing, he told me once. 

Michelle is gorgeous; she had big blue eyes, long, silky brown hair, long legs, and large breast. We weren't total opposites; I have a body like hers, only my breast are smaller and I'm shorter. She has a pretty laugh, but she's pretentious and rude; Pete says its because of the way she was raised.

She's a wannabe actress, she played a dead body on some CSI show once. I envy her in a lot of ways, other than her marriage to Pete. I envy her loud personality and her friendly atmosphere towards Pete and her own friends.

People say I look unfriendly, that I look standoffish. I'm not, if I scowl, it's because I can't see clearly, I can't afford glasses. People say I don't talk, it's because I'm shy, and I don't make eye contact.

I'm shy and nervous and afraid that I'm annoying people. I stay to myself, people tend to leave just as I'm getting comfortable with them. Like my dad; even if he did touch me at night, I still longed for him to be my daddy. He ran away whenever he got what he wanted from me. He never told me he loved me, unless he was touching me, and he never kissed me like a father should kiss his little girl.

I'm too defective, I think. I was born wrong. I'm not suppose to be loved or have friends.

But, I still hold out hope that Pete will love me. Especially since his wife isn't living up to her duty. Michelle isn't fullfilling the role of wife.

I could be a good wife. If he gave me a chance, I'd cook, clean, call and give him whatever he wanted. I'd have his babies, I'd raise them, I'd do whatever a housewife does, just for him.

Pete would be happy. He would fall in love. He could have all that if he gave me a chance.

I had planned to tell him this, I even wrote it down and practiced in the mirror. I put on his old t-shirt he had given me and the tight denim shorts of mine that he likes and practiced. I spoke to myself, imagining Pete was my reflection.

"Pete, this is all very hard for me to say," I say to my reflection, "I know that we got into this... Predicament-- No," I stop myself, "Relationship?"

I sighed heavily; he'd be turned off if I called our relationship such.

"We got into this predicament expecting no strings attached. We weren't suppose to feel anything," I trudged on, "But, I'm sorry, I feel something," I looked down at the notebook on my counter, "I'm in love with you, please let me finish. I love you, Pete. I've loved you for two whole years and I don't think my feelings will go away." I exhale, feeling tears, "I know that you love your wife, she loves you but I love you, too."

My heart aches and I can't continue. I pushed the notebook into the drawer under my sink and close it. I sighed heavily again, knowing that I won't ever actually get the guts to tell him the truth.


I had a day off, and I was anticipating Pete to call me and arrange a date. I usually laid and wait for his call; he, beside my sister, are the only ones who call me. I turned my iPod on to let myself drift away.

The first song that comes on shuffle is I Know It's Over by the Smiths. I smile because Pete is the one who had put the whole Smiths discography on my iTunes; I hadn't known who they were until 3 years ago.

The song is sad, at least I think so. It's slow in the beginning, Morrissey is very accusing in the song, he sings words that pertain to me and it too makes me cry. I can't help my feelings; everything makes me cry whenever I think too much and I'm alone.

As the song continues to play, I feel a presence in my room. I open my eyes, soaked in tears and see Pete. I hurriedly wipe my eyes, rip my earbuds away and smile, "Hey, why didn't you call?"

He just stares at me. He tilts his head, "Why are you crying?"

I snort and laugh, hiding, "What? I'm not crying."

Pete raises a brow, "Aly, don't lie to me, I saw you crying. What's going on? Are you okay?"

At least he's caring. 

"I'm fine. I must've yawned or something, I am not crying." I laugh, giggle.

Pete doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push it any longer. He knelt on my bed and pulls his Johnny Cupcake shirt over his head and reveals his torso to me. His inked arms, I smile and think -Of course. That's why he's here, Alyssa. You big dummy!

Desire courses through me when my bed softens and and creaks a bit when he slides onto my bed and he creeps towards me. My heart beats erratically, and I don't know why. Pete gives a soft laugh, "I can see your heart beating, what's wrong?"

It's a rhetorical question; I smiled and hook my arm around his neck and pull him to me. I lips meet his, but there's something in Pete, he kisses me hard, his lips dangerously nipping and following mine. He forces me against my bed, his lips hard against mine; I pull away and it's mine turn to question him, "What's wrong?"

His eyes square at me, "What do you mean?"

I pressed my hands to his cheeks, searching his eyes, "What'd she do?" I asked quietly.

Pete and I NEVER talk about his wife. I only heard about her in the beginning of our... Sexual relationship; our predicament. He told me the things he wanted and why and that's it. Two years later, neither of us bring her up unless need be. I was a bit afraid to ask and to find out.

"Nothing." He replied.

I shook my head, "No, honey, she did something." 

Pete turned away from me, recoiling his posture back. I sighed, "I'm sorry, it's none of my business, but I do care about you."

The words I love you were right behind I care about you. The words I mean more than life itself. He wouldn't understand or feel the intensity of those three words, so why say them?

Pete looked up at me, his arm moved up my bare leg, all the way up to my pajama short's hem. His eyes darted, then settled on my lap. He swallowed, "She wants a baby."

I stared blankly at him, "Isn't..." I tried to say the words and put them together gently, "Isn't that what married couples do?"

"Not me." He shot quickly, "I don't want that shit."

I licked my lips, "So, that's why you're upset?"

He shrugged, "Sort of."

"Well, let's not think about that mess," I tried to wipe her from his mind, even for a moment, "You're with me now."