All My Truths & One Lie Read online

  I walk into the crisp evening and watch as the sun sinks in the distance. I pause and look around. The town is active, and my heart flutters at the scene of people walking about.

  Lifting my bag onto my shoulder, I make a right and decide to write in a small pub instead of at home. A change in scenery will be good for my inspiration. I hope.

  Dim lighting and sweet aroma wrap me up as I walk into the pub. I’d trade writing at Starbucks for a place like this any day. I sit with my laptop opened, skipping the beer choices and ordering a coffee, determined to focus. Bringing my phone to life, I open to the image I’m using for this chapter.

  My eyes close and I feel the breeze of the day swooshing over my skin and the tie I feel to a place like that. Peace and gratitude. It was then that I made the final decision to make a change. The image reflects so much light and serenity, exactly what I need to inspire this book.

  I begin typing and deleting. I sip my coffee, blowing the rising steam from the mug. I type again. More deleting.

  I sigh and stare at the picture. What did I feel there? As if an image would communicate a message to me. I inhale and exhale expectations, my mind is overworking this project. Let it be that I decide to finally do this after the months and years of waiting, and I freak.

  Self-sabotage at its finest, ladies and gentlemen.

  I roll my eyes at my own obnoxious thoughts and look away from the screen. Too much pressure. Too many expectations when it comes to this book. I need to release it all.

  Pretending it’s journaling just for myself, I slowly begin writing. Memories of the Celtic site provide a comforting mood as I close my eyes and type what I recall.

  I blink a few times to regain focus. Looking from my empty cup to the people around me, I’m jolted to a stop. A warm smile and eyes find me and my heartbeat kicks into overdrive. I tilt my head, gazing at the familiarity in him.

  If I told my friends this, they’d all think I’ve lost my mind. That’s partly the reason I keep things to myself. It’s also why I am no longer friends with half the people I used to be.

  Blue Eyes is now amused, and I realize I’ve been staring at him while trailing off into my mind. I offer a tight-lipped smile and look down.

  “Hi.” A deep voice pulls my gaze up.

  I smile. “Hi.”

  He takes a seat without asking and leans forward on the table. “I’m Matthias.”

  “I’m Navia,” I reply. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Lovely to meet you. American, huh?” I nod. “What brought you across the pond to our town?”

  “Adventure,” I shrug. And you, I keep this to myself. I wonder if he feels it, too—the tug that pulls us, the invisible chord that has bonded us since the beginning. I’m crazy. What if this isn’t him?

  I look into the smiling eyes and sigh. It must be.

  “Adventure,” he repeats, tossing the idea around. “What kind of adventure?”

  “A change in scenery and energy. Something that would take me closer to my purpose in life.”

  “Has it worked?”

  I nod. “So far.” I close my laptop.

  “Were you working?”

  “Kinda. No real progress, though.”

  He tilts his head and looks at me, a smile sneaking up on his face. “Maybe you need the proper motivation.”

  I smirk and nod.

  We both turn our heads when we hear his name being called.

  “Sorry about that. My mates are pissed already. We’re celebrating James’ birthday. The blond.” He points to one of the men.

  “Drunk, right?”

  Matthias cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “Familiar with British talk?”

  “Not much. I lived in Spain a few years back and worked with British English in a secondary school. Learned a thing or two. Mostly, I have an infatuation with the accent.”

  “Whereabout in Spain?”

  “Leon. North of Madrid.”

  “I know of it. Spain is beautiful.”

  I nod. “I love it. My family is from there.”

  “And you chose to live in gloomy England instead?”

  “Winter in Spain is gloomy, too. Northwest. This reminds me of it.”

  When they call out his name again, he shakes his head and looks at me. “I better get back and make sure they don’t cause any trouble. Can I borrow your mobile?”

  I scrunch my eyebrows but hand it over.

  “Great. I’ve just sent myself a message. Now you’ve got my number, and I’ve got yours. I’ll be calling you, Navia,” he promises with a gleam in his eyes.

  “Okay.” I look up at him, a calming sense washing over me.

  “Very soon.”

  I watch him return to his friends, one of them slurring something about me and open my laptop again.

  Matthias.

  His blue eyes are a beautiful contrast to his dark hair. I feel a familiar tug, a knowingness in my core of another time with the same eyes.

  I knew he’d be here. Or someone like him. I didn’t have a name or face, but I had a feeling. I had a soul connection to him. Seeing him, meeting him, stirs so much.

  I sound crazy.

  But I know it’s the truth. A truth many don’t understand or believe in, but we’re all tied to another person, beyond soulmates. The invisible cord that weaves our past and present.

  With renewed inspiration, I type the words I’d held captive for too long.

  Something inside me guided me to move here. It was a voice telling me where to go, and for the first time in my life, I listened. I put aside plans and what-ifs and left. It’s the closest thing to throwing a dart at a map, something I’ve always wanted to do. And I did it with courage instead of fear, when fear so often has ruled my heart.

  I inhale the cool morning air and lean on the railing. I look down from my small balcony at the quiet morning in this town. Chirping sounds from a nearby tree in the garden housing my apartment building. Staring at the shapes the clouds make, my mind wanders to Matthias.

  What if he was just flirting for the fun of it? Or untrustworthy?

  I don’t know many people here and with my excitement of meeting him, it’s easy to mix up true feelings with illusion.

  I shake my head and focus on the singsong of the birds.

  I’m a runner. Not in the physical sense of the word, but in the emotional. I ran when I was five when my favorite person died. I ran when I was eight and was touched inappropriately. I ran the first time a man told me he loved me.

  It’s my defense mechanism, like so many others.

  I run when things get hard, and I run when they get easy. I get bored and look away, or I shut down and become numb to feelings.

  I’m tired of running. Emotional sprints are more exhausting than physical ones, and I’m tired of the years of reversal I need to do to cut the ties from it.

  So, no more running. I look down at my chest. No more running, I whisper to my heart.

  I walk back inside, grab my phone from the couch where I threw it, and head into the kitchen to make tea. As the kettle heats, I unlock my phone and stare at the message again. I bite down my smile until I remove my teeth and allow myself to feel. I want to feel the excitement and happiness. I want to be free to enjoy this. Thoughts of an ending locked away in the back of my mind.

  It doesn’t have to end.

  I reply to Matthias, letting him know I’ll be free this weekend.

  Six words shook me with nerves and anticipation when I read them this morning. When can I see you again?

  I can’t help but wonder if he felt the familiarity I did. Or if I’m the crazy one that thinks we’re connected by souls before bodies.

  I know nothing about him except for what my mind conjured about the next man I would meet. I’m scared that his reality is not what my expectations are made of. But I’ve learned expectations are nearly a push of the ego in the opposite direction of our heart.

  His response is quick, and I smile upon reading it.

  Matt
hias: is today the weekend?

  Me: not exactly

  Matthias: guess I’ll have to spend the next 3 days getting to know you via mobile

  Matthias and I send messages throughout the day until my phone rings in the evening. Butterflies flap inside my chest when I see his name and answer. We talk about a lot of things, mainly my purpose for moving here. He has questions that I struggle to answer. He wants honesty and, though I feel like I can give him that, his direct approach causes hesitation. Self-doubt creeps in like the constant buzzing in my ear. What if he isn’t the person I imagined? What if he doesn’t understand? What if I allowed my excitement of meeting someone with beautiful eyes and a gentle smile to convince me it would be this easy?

  I’m more careful throughout the rest of our conversation, and he notices. After we hang up, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  I’m moving forward, not backwards.

  I used to be a wild child. Fearless. Brave. At what point did I stop being wild? At what point did I allow society to condition me? At what point did I start giving a fuck?

  Unfortunately, I remember what it was that caused the wild girl to become silent and hide, instead of shining bright. I wish I were her today, though, as I get ready to meet Matthias for a date. It’s helped that we’ve spoken each day, but the nerves are trying to take over.

  I used to think falling in love was for fools. I used to think people believed it to be an irresistible necessity that would blindly control them. I saw it as a weakness to allow another person to influence my emotions. People were weak and hungry for it. For someone else to tell them how to feel, someone else to accept them because they couldn’t accept themselves. It was a mirror I never wanted to look at because I was the one not accepting myself. It’s not that I believed love was for the weak, it was that I was too weak to feel it. Too afraid to hand another person the opportunity to reject me the way I rejected myself.

  I’ve left myself heartbroken as much as the men in my life have. Maybe more. I’ve lost count.

  It all started at such a young age. When you’ve been betrayed, touched, marked by people you trust, it shakes you. It creates a depth that makes you question how life can be that way. It skins you, leaving you exposed. Easily shattered. It leaves you caged to the shame, wondering if everyone could read it on your skin. So, I created a barrier that would lose my truth and live the lies of how I wished my life would be.

  Sometimes I wish my heart hadn’t learned to love. Some days it’s easier to stay closed and hard, black and bitter like the coffee I love drinking. But I was intrigued to feel it. I was curious about what it would feel like to be enchanted by the magic of love. I found out it was poison instead.

  I was born into a corrupt family, and the more I learn how deep that corruption ran, the less I remember the good of those who came before me. Their foul actions repulse me when I reach into my being and uncover the truths that were hidden from me. The less I love. The less I can forgive. The more I believe any kind of love is full of false promises. A fun game people enjoy playing because they’re masochists. Those games leave me breathless.

  This is why I began releasing what I could. I tried to shed it all. Sometimes, though, the self-loathing is nonstop. I wear a cloak of shame so no one can see what I’m trying to hide. Instead of shedding, I cover up. It’s not easy to let people see who you are so openly. I’ve been re-teaching myself that experiences guide us on a path, leading us to where we need to be, making us live through things that we need to so we can evolve.

  “So, you’re saying that we carry over loyalties through our DNA from our ancestors?” Matthias leans forward, his chin resting on his hand.

  “Yes.”

  “I could be carrying bullshit from some old geezer I never met?”

  I try to decipher if he’s teasing or serious. I don’t talk to people about this unless I know they share the common knowledge, but Matthias kept digging deeper, for more than superficial information, like how many siblings I have. He asked the right questions to lead to this point in our conversation, and I’m wishing he hadn’t. At least not on our first date.

  Better to be transparent from the beginning.

  I nod in response and take a gulp of water from my glass. Matthias didn’t question my water order instead of an alcoholic beverage. I’m glad he got a beer instead of feeling as if he had to stick to water, too.

  “What about karma then? We also create our own,” he states.

  One side of my lips lift in a small smirk. “We do, from previous lives. That doesn’t take away what we carry from our ancestors. We belong to the same soul family, whether our father is our father in this life and our sister in a past one. The souls all belong to a unit. So we carry from them, and we carry from us.”

  “That’s bloody awful. I have a lot more work to do than I thought.”

  I exhale and lean back on the chair. The smell of Indian spices surrounds us in the small restaurant. When he asked if I liked Indian food, I eagerly nodded.

  “Do you believe in past lives and that kinda stuff?”

  “Do you see where I live? It’s a mystical town in the middle of England. It’s embedded in us.”

  I laugh and nod. “That’s what attracted me to this town. The openness to the magic of the universe, and not in a trendy, new-agey kinda way.”

  Matthias nods, pensive. “Have you trekked up to Glastonbury Tor yet?”

  “No. Makenna said it’s better to wait for when the weather warms up a bit more.”

  Matthias shrugs. “With the proper coat, it’s not too bad. I’ll take you there, next time.”

  My head leans back and my eyebrows rise. Matthias chuckles. “Yeah, there’ll be a next time. We’re just getting started, Navia.” His grin is wide and honest, the kind that puts you at ease with a simple glance.

  Don’t sabotage this.

  I barely nod.

  “You know that the hill was a labyrinth. Well, it still is, but you can’t really follow the track.”

  “I didn’t know that. I only know its connection to King Arthur and Avalon. And not much at that.”

  “We’re definitely going there. And Glastonbury Abbey. I’ll need more than a few hours in the evening.” He sips his drink.

  “Okay.”

  “Are you finished?” He nods toward my plate.

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. I’ll pay, and we’ll go for a walk.” He smiles that charming smile again. The one that captured me from across a pub five days ago.

  I see women in my life go head over heels for a man, change their lives, only do things that will please them, and I don’t want to become like that. While I want a loving relationship that is a balance of giving and taking, I do believe that it goes both ways. I don’t want to become a woman who stops her life because of a man, whether he asks for it or not, and takes shit from him when she doesn’t need to. I want a man who will treat me with respect and love I witness women easily doing things for men when they won’t even do it for themselves.

  I vowed to break that pattern, from my family, friends, society. That vow has built a wall though. A guard where I give off the vibe that I don’t need anyone. It’s made me hard. And sometimes, I want to be soft. I want to be okay with allowing myself to give my all to a man. The balance of give and take got distorted, still creating an imbalance—instead of giving and giving, I take and take.

  I don’t want to do that with Matthias. I want harmony, and to have the kind of relationship that I finally know can exist between two people. I want a balanced partnership between two beings.

  So, when he grabs my hand as we walk out of the restaurant, I don’t shake it loose. When his light-hearted laugh moves through me, I don’t allow it to bounce off a stone wall that rivals those in this town. I bring myself to the present, to the reason I’m here. I remind myself I no longer have to live in doubt. I’m free of those limiting ties.

  Matthias tells me about growing up in a place like this. We talk more about wh
at I do for a living, and I mention the book I’m working on.

  “Why are you blocked?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I have all the ideas in my mind, I just can’t seem to ground them onto my laptop.”

  “You said you’ve published before?” I hear the question in his voice.

  “Yes. Mostly romance novels.”

  “And that’s easier to write than this?” His curiosity is painted in the lines on his face. We’ve stopped walking and are now standing on the sidewalk in the middle of town, hands still holding.

  “Yes. It’s fiction,” I state matter-of-factly.

  “And fiction is easier to write?” he still asks.

  “Of course. I make up stories, I write lies about difficult relationships that find perfect endings. Everything is forgivable in fiction.”

  His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me. “And not everything is capable of forgiveness in real life?”

  I simply shrug.

  “Isn’t this what you do with your clients? Guide them in finding forgiveness, among other things?”

  “Yeah.” I realize how contradictory my statement is.

  “Tell me, why can’t we forgive in real life what we’re capable of forgiving in made up stories?”

  “Because fictional hearts are more compassionate than real ones.” Even I hear the uncertainty in my words. The question I’m begging him to answer.

  “You write compassion into your characters, so you must believe the characters are redeemable. If they can forgive, then you must pull that from inside of you. A part of you that also forgives.”

  “I used to think so.” How did we get to this? He asked about my book, why did I lead the conversation down a jagged path of buried hatred?

  As if sensing my discomfort, he smiles. “You’re capable of forgiveness, Navia. You’ll get this book done, and I’m sure it will be a great success.”

  We begin walking again in silence, the chill in the night sky cooling me from the heat burning in my center. I gaze up at the sky and, although this town isn’t as isolated as the middle of a mountain, I see twinkling stars dancing in the black paint streaked across the sky.