Page 18 of The Five Year Lie

Sometimes he tries to prolong my stay by asking me questions that I’ll feel obligated to answer. Sometimes they’re doozies. “How did the dinosaurs end up underground when they died?” Or “Why doesn’t Grandma like corn on the cob?” Those are both stumpers. One because I never studied paleontology, and two because, seriously, it’s corn on the cob.

And once in a while he’ll ask, “Why don’t I have a daddy?”

That question is the worst. I always answer the same way—that he died. And that not everyone gets to have two parents in their lives, but Buzz has lots of people who love him.

Yada yada yada.

But I know it’s not enough. His friends all have daddies. And I can’t believe that after years of therapy during my early twenties, most of it dealing with what my therapist and I called myparental abandonment issues, that I am destined to pass on to my son—wait for it—parental abandonment issues.

Go me.

Buzz doesn’t hit me with any impossible questions tonight, though. He relaxes against the pillows as I kiss him one more time and then leave, closing his dooralmostall the way. He likes it to stay open a crack.

He’s cautious. Like his mama.

I head down to the kitchen and rinse our dinner plates in the sink. The sound of Buzz whistling to himself floats down the stairs.

Before he could whistle, he used to buzz his lips, like a raspberry sound, but quieter. I thought it was a phase, but my mother pointed out to him that since “buzz” was his name, maybe that was his special sound.

He buzzed constantly for months after that, and my mother was tickled.

I’ve never told anyone where his name came from, though. Not a soul. It’s an inside joke between me and the father he’ll never meet.

The second night I spent with Drew was the night I noticed his tattoo. He’d left the lights on, and we were lying there, coming down from a sexual high. Drew’s gentle hands stroked my back, and a hum of joy rose inside my chest.

Even when we had our clothes on, I felt elated to be near him. I tried to hide it, though. I was afraid what Drew would do if he knew how much I liked him. It’s like I already knew I’d scare him off eventually.

It was hard work holding that in and not blowing my cover. So instead of lying there in his bed gushing about this wild connection I felt whenever he smiled at me, I went with humor instead. “Do youreallyhave a tattoo of Buzz Lightyear on your shoulder? What are you, twelve?”

He chuckled, and I felt the vibration against my fluttering chest. “That was my army nickname. Buzz.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, I have this buddy named Woody.”

I laughed, letting some of the joy bubble out of me. “Was he a cowboy?”

“No.” Drew propped himself up on one elbow, and I was briefly distracted by how attractive he was. All warm skin and smooth muscle. He was smiling again, which made me almost dizzy. “Woody is a grumpy hick from the Midwest. But we had a lot in common. We’re both nerds. Both had a rough upbringing. So we spent a lot of time together.”

“And that’s why they called you Buzz?”

“That and we managed to get left behind once—like in the movie.”

I tugged the sheet up over my chest and turned to face him. “You fell out of a moving van?”

“Nah. It was a training mission, and we were fiddling with the radio. We missed our commanding officer’s signal.” Drew rolled his blue eyes at the memory. “It was mortifying to discover that the team moved out without us. They had to double back, because you never leave a man behind. Then our opponents won the mission, and Woody and I had to scrub toilets for weeks.”

His smile told me that was actually a good memory, though, not a disaster. So I asked another question, craving more of his history, more confidences. Just more of Drew. Maybe if I kept him talking, he’d never leave me. “Where is Woody now?”

“In one of the smallest towns in Michigan. There’s a hundred and forty-two people. He says I can make it a hundred and forty-three anytime I want.”

“Sounds kind of quiet,” I whispered, tracing his Buzz Lightyear tattoo with my fingertip, just to have a reason to touch him.

“Not as fun as this. That’s for damn sure.” He leaned in to kiss me again.

Memories are such strange things. After he left, I spent a lot of time cataloging everything he ever said to me. Every compliment, every joke, every evasive answer.

At the time I didn’t even notice how little I knew about his past. But now I keep sifting through these memories, searching for clues to who he was.