The cruelest lies are often told in silence. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

~`~

I don't love Lincoln.

It's the lie I tell myself when the nights lying beside him become more than I can bear. A small four word phrase of comfort to move beyond the regrets from the past...simply never works.

I stalk my memories, glimpses from days gone by, playing on repeat before my eyes. The moment when I could have turned around, dropped my bag, and kissed Lincoln like Sandra Bullock in one of her many formulaic romantic comedies. The cold night in September when I walked off a stage in Tennessee, stole the keys to a rental car, drove twelve hours, only to have my nerves get the best of me, two exits from his tree lined suburb in New Jersey.

It's a nonsensical journey that never works. It didn't then and I'm sure it won't now.

Then referring to the day my phone buzzed and I heard her voice on the line.

"Syd we're getting married," I cringed listening to the pretentious British accent mutilate the nickname reserved solely for Lincoln, "Right before Christmas, please come, Lincoln will be beyond the pale if you don't make it to the festivities."

Even now I can't comprehend the how or why until the metal on my left ring finger begins to burn. It's always been him.

We met on a stormy morning. The sky was a violent shade of gray. Large raindrops strummed an erratic beat against my skin as brown leaves whipped through the air and circled my head. He paused, feeling slightly sympathetic for me and my lack of ability to cope with the uncharacteristic winter thunderstorm. He offered his scarf first and then his coat. We talked about music while I waited outside for the chauffeured Lincoln acquired by the portly concierge at my hotel. He was a composer, a grad school dropout, doomed to produce one hit wonders until success finally graced his doorstep. His head was bald, his skin the color of Hershey's chocolate, and for two seconds I was Sydney and not the girl hopelessly in love with her best friend Lincoln Dunn.

He picked apart my first EP, with the ear of an industry elder. He loved the quality of my vocals, hated the production of the tracks, and abhorred the empty lyrics I'd been given to sing. By the time the car arrived I was enamored. Not by the man but with his knowledge. In a week's time he joined me in the studio and I had the beginnings of several tracks that promised to build a healthy foundation for my career. Gratitude led to a moment of abandon and a kiss witnessed by the ruler of my heart.

Things changed that night.

Lincoln pulled away and I moved closer to him.

For a while I pretended it didn't matter.

I masked my sadness at the lack of impromptu phone calls from Lincoln's cell in breathless giggles in response to jokes told for my benefit. I enjoyed evenings at smoky clubs listening to foul mouthed men as they plucked the strings of their bass guitars. I enjoyed the strength in tattooed arms as they twirled me around the small dance floor. I shared my body with a man I could never fully love, because my heart belonged to another.

So when I got the call from her, I did the only thing that could soothe the pain in my heart, "Congratulations, I am so happy for you and Lincoln," I lied.

That day had been a turning point; my last opportunity to right so many wrongs birthed by my hands.

I didn't.

I danced with Lincoln for the first time in years on the day of his wedding. I ignored the butterflies in my stomach when his arm circled my waist and pulled me flush against his chest. I let the tears fall with little pomp or circumstance when he whispered in my ear, "I love you Sydney Lane."

~`~

My fingers tug at the unkempt curls atop Lincoln's head as we kiss. His mind is racing a thousand thoughts per minute. His attentions have been focused somewhere or on someone else for most of the evening, however in spite of the divided consideration, his affections are searing and damn near awe inspiring, setting flames on their path of destruction that will end the so called lives our lies have erected.

"I'm sorry."

I whisper the words between pants and feverish attempts to rid our bodies of the clothes they bear.

"I'm sorry."

I repeat them again when his hands cup my face and I see the first salty trail careen its way down his cheek.

"I'm sorry."

It's an incoherent babble by the time my nails dig into the flesh of his back when his length begs for entrance at my intimate walls. I need him to feel my regret. I need him to understand, that I would always choose...even if the choice was never my own, in the end I only want my heart to belong to Lincoln Dunn.

The subsequent tastes of Lincoln's lips are a bittersweet poison, revealing the plan of my demise in each tender tingle ignited by their touch. I know that what we've done in the dark will soon come to light. My body is a traitor and unwilling to hold its silence for a moment longer. The first second of my climax is pure ecstasy before it morphs into unremitting pain.

Pleasure always followed by guilt. For now I'll endure the wrath of my judgment. I'm tired of living with the regret, "I love you," his shoulders relax with my admission, "I love you," I repeat and there's an undeniable happiness that radiates from his eyes, "I love you...I always have...I always will."

My confession is the very beginning of the end.