Lies You Wanted to Hear by James Whitfield Thomson

ten percent?”
    “What?”
    “Ten percent of your savings. A hundred twenty bucks.” He laughed. “I won’t take a nickel less.”
    The car was worth at least four grand. I tried to say no, but not very hard. When I went home to pick up the T-bird, I told my mother I had to hock my soul to the credit union to buy it from Joe. I know she didn’t believe me. Her bullshit detector could have been certified for use in a court of law. But she didn’t ask me about the car again. Maybe it was enough for her that I’d followed her first rule about not working in the coal mines. I know she wished I lived closer to Butler, but she loved telling people I was a police officer . She never said “cop.” (I think she was one of those women who get starry-eyed over a man in uniform.) Occasionally she worried about the dangers of my job, but she knew they were negligible compared to being a miner. My father was a Marine who fought at Guadalcanal only to come home and get crushed by a coal car.
    Strangers often stopped me to admire the T-bird. I refused to listen to offers when someone asked if it was for sale. The car was a legacy I felt honored and duty-bound to preserve. I changed the oil and tuned the engine myself, rented a garage to keep it off the street. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a chick magnet for me like it had been for Uncle Joe. I wasn’t a cool guy like him. I could never pull it off. I was too sincere with girls, too eager to please.
    Actually, I was that way with everyone. When I got in trouble or mouthed off and acted like a smart aleck, my mother would get angry and dole out some punishment, but the worst punishment of all was for her to say she was disappointed in me. Mom was the bookkeeper for an insurance agency. I knew how hard she worked to raise me on her own, and I wanted her to be proud of me. That meant being good, not cool. A cool guy didn’t raise his hand in class or mow his neighbor’s lawn. Didn’t hurry or get agitated or put himself out. A cool guy would never call a girl the day after a blind date to tell her what a great time he had. A cool guy would never go on a blind date in the first place.
    ***
    Our softball team was called the Lobsters. We took an early five-run lead on the Uzis then let it slip away. The ball carried well in the thick night air, but guys looked like they were running underwater. After the game I gathered up my things and walked to the parking lot with Terry. He said Jill hadn’t come because it was too hot and she wanted to stay home in the AC. I told him I had been hoping to talk to her about Lucy.
    “Oh yeah, you went on that blind date with her. How’d that go?”
    “Good. She’s amazing. We’re going out again on Saturday.”
    Terry nodded noncommittally.
    “What?” I said. “You think I should stay away from her?”
    “Look, don’t get me wrong. Lucy’s great. She’s Jill’s best friend. The two of them would kill for one another. She thinks I’m a total stiff, but I don’t mind. All I’m saying is, caveat emptor , my friend. Women like her come with a price.”
    We stopped next to my car. I said, “She muttered something over dinner about falling in love with assholes. Can you expand on that a little? Jill said her last boyfriend was a total shit.”
    “Griffin? Yeah, Jill hated him from day one.”
    “What was he like?”
    He shrugged. “Guess it depends on your perspective. He’s a smart guy. Cocky, seems to be well connected. He’s a good storyteller. To me he’s like a character out of a Tennessee Williams play, one of those handsome rakes. Women know he’s trouble, but that’s part of the appeal.”
    “That’s the kind of guy Lucy wants?”
    “Like I said, it’s part of the appeal.” I grimaced as Terry leaned up against the Thunderbird, and he stepped away without my having to ask.
    “Maybe I’ll have to adopt a new M.O. Treat her like dirt and show her who’s boss.”
    Terry smirked. “That might work.”
    As I drove home,