By the end of the next week, I was indefinitely exhausted of surprises. I'd attended another party next door, for only an hour or two, because it wasn't nearly as fun as it had been the first time. The celebration seemed to be missing something without the mystery of the host's identity, or Hayley's presence, or the prizes of such a simple bet being motivation for taking another bound up the staircase to the balcony overlooking the bay.

Brendon had also sent over a fairly large bouquet of colorful roses to my doorstep with a note begging me to visit soon because he was so incredibly bored. It barely wedged through the door, and I took to keeping it in my sink to assure it was nourished frequently.

The other surprise was another book, scrapped. I'd buried it in the backyard, near a sad patch of clovers nearing death. I hadn't burned it, only because it had the spark, but I'd lost it. It felt as if I'd killed somebody, and in a strange way, I had. I'd killed a whole town of characters and the paper world they lived in.

The last surprise I hoped to ever receive in my lifetime, was bearable to an extent.

I'd said I'd fallen in love with the striking blue car parked in Brendon's garage, the one with smooth leather seats and a polished dashboard; it was absolutely gorgeous.

Dallon's car was something else, though. It set the bar twice as high. It was painted a sweet yellow the same shade as the lemonade my mother would stir up over the summer, mirroring the morning sun as it rose up over the water, triumphant all on its own. If I were to have pinpointed anything that truly embodied the monstrous wealth he was surrounded with, it would've been that trophy of a vehicle. It screamed, "American Dream".

"Good morning John! I thought you'd still be asleep." Dallon hollered over the sound of the engine before it rumbled to silence, waving over the silver lining of the crystal windshield.

I did as well. I'd had an awful nightmare a few hours after midnight and I was unable to rest easy for the remainder of the night. I'd been pacing around my house since three in the morning, and it had been nearly five hours. "I'm a go-getter, what can I say?" I prayed he picked up on the sarcasm and the deep bags I could feel weighing down my eyes like anchors swaying to the bottom of the ocean.

He did, thankfully. "Hop in, then. Maybe a quick car ride will wake you up. How does lunch sound? My treat, of course."

"Oh, no, I couldn't ask that of you. I'm a picky eater, my dishes always end up being twice as expensive as everybody else's." It was all my mother's fault. She couldn't stand most foods for the simplistic reasoning being they tasted odd. The strange preferences had been passed down to me as well, and they stuck throughout my childhood to adulthood. I'd grown accustomed to preparing my own meals in the privacy of my own home, with Brendon's being the exception. He grew up visiting for lunch and dinner with the occasional breakfast, and knew what foods could never touch my plate.

I was met with a look of utter confusion as I slid into the cool passenger seat of the car. I was dramatically out of place in such mobilized wealth, but that seemed to be the least of the concern at the time. "My friend, I ordered the railings of all my staircases to be carved from solid gold because I possess more money than I know what to do with. A handful of dishes with a high price tag is the least of my worries."

"No, really, I am perfectly capable of paying for my own—" I was cut off by the deafening roar of the engine kicking to life, and a friendly slap to the shoulder.

"Nonsense," he assured me, "I'd just like to set the story straight between you and I. If you insist on paying for something, that's how it's done."

Fairly quick, I came to the conclusion that Dallon was an absolutely horrific driver. Horrific was the only suitable word that floated to the surface of my mind after slamming my shoulder on the car door, but the real adjective I was searching for was more along the lines of reckless. Down every stretch of road loomed the imminent fear of death by carelessness and a harsh turn off the asphalt. The pure terror of our speed was enough to keep me awake for nights on end.

"Now, I have to say," Dallon continued to glance away from the street every few seconds, as if he expected me to disappear into thin air at any moment, "the rumors you hear around are false; none of them hold any truth whatsoever, unless they're good ones."

I'd already taken the time to assume they were all lies constructed for temporary attention in a group setting. "I was aware, Mr. Weekes—"

"Dallon, please, John. We're friends here." He said, and swerved on the dirt path around the road to zip past another vehicle. I was forced to grip the seatbelt like a lifeline to avoid tumbling out of the car.

"Alright, Dallon. As I was saying," he seemed to accelerate to twice the speed, "I'm quite experienced in the field of rumors; I was simply drunk that night and my verbal filter had given up, and I ended up mindlessly blurting whatever I could think up at the time."

"Yes, yes, I know. You haven't ignored me yet, and I assumed as well. I wanted to tell you—" the sharp turn to the left nearly slammed the hood into a tree, but effortlessly he jerked back to the right, mere feet away from the object he'd brushed lips with death to miss, "—that there is much more to me than just riches and money. Very few people understand that, and I wanted to declare it before you had the opportunity to form opinions to stem into rumors. Not that you would, but it has unfortunately happened before and I'd like to prevent it from occurring again."

"Alright, tell me your life story, then."

꧁꧂

I realized fairly quick that the life story I had been subjected to in the passenger seat of Dallon's car was partially created on the fragile base of lies and thin supportive beams of truth barely held together with bent nails.

One of the genuine events I had been able to pick out was his serving in the ninth battalion during the war; I had only deducted so after he showed me an old photo of him and some past friends, creased white from incessant folding to occupy the mind anywhere but then, and a silver medal engraved with his name stitched on a rich purple strip of fabric.

He said he was an Oxford man. He'd paused before the title, and avoided any eye contact afterwards. Possibly, it was only a partial fib. There might've been some truth in the shallow pool of pride at the mention as well, lost and forgotten in the current of it all.

"And you might be curious as to how I acquired all the money I have, I've heard all of those rumors as well." He said, just after he'd driven on to the Queensboro Bridge. The view from so high up was the first spot I'd been able to see New York in all its entirety; it was a wild promise of mystery and everything you could ever want, just waiting below.

"I left home a couple years ago and moved out to a nice city in the Midwest, and from there I invested the little money I had into stocks. The economy worked its magic in my favor."

I turned to him, and just missed the cold blue of his eyes. "Where did you settle down? In the Midwest, I mean. It's beautiful out there, in my opinion. I love the open fields much more than the bustling city over here."

He didn't respond until the car had bumped off the rickety end of the bridge. "San Francisco."

The only thing I had been positively sure of in his retelling of his life was his time in the military, which I had deduced was true because of the proof in his pocket. It was a creased photograph, white lines through six soldiers, all dressed in uniform. Two were leaning on each other, another three were posing like bodybuilders, and Dallon sat grinning on the ground with a gun clutched to his chest. He told me how much of a pain it was to take the picture, how still he had to be and the difficulties of walking with numb legs. Besides that era of his life, everything else he told me seemed to be part of a hastily constructed facade.

"What're you up to nowadays, John? I didn't mean to make today all about me, you know. I wanted to get to know you as well." We entered the city, towering buildings looming over and ruining the dream I'd been so fortunate to catch a glimpse of from a bird's eye view.

I wouldn't have minded if he never asked about my personal life. It seemed insignificant and incomparable to his own, even if most of it was a lie. The truths were far more interesting and groundbreaking than my highest moments packed into one punch. "Nothing much. I'm trying my best to settle down, you know, pick up writing again. It was a simple hobby for a while, but my mother still insists that I try to continue with it. She always said I have my future cut out for me with silver scissors, at least when I was a child. It was a time when I genuinely thought I could rule New York City like royalty."

He smiled only faintly at that, as if he wanted to maintain a serious composure. The lightheartedness and innocence had made a sizable dent though, and I could see a smile from behind his hand. "That's fantastic. What've you written so far? I just might happen to have connections to various publishing companies."

"Not much, I'm afraid. Inspiration hasn't struck yet, I suppose. It's part of the reason why I moved up here. This is the land of opportunity, after all. Everybody wants a taste of the American Dream."

"Cheers to that."

He'd pulled up curbside and tossed the keys to the valet standing behind me like a phantom clad in suede. I was severely underdressed for such a restaurant. Women in slick dresses with sparkling detailing danced around the floor carrying plates on their shoulders piled high with delicacies my mother would've swooned at the sight of. I wished she were there to see them.

Dallon said it was classy, gorgeous and upscale, but not worth much time or money in comparison to other fine establishments. In the midst of crystal chandeliers that sparkled like lively sunlight on the dark ocean, silk tablecloths, and fine porcelain dishes, I could only let my imagination wander to what lived up to his definition of somewhat fancy and worthwhile.

Lunch was filled with lies, lies, and more lies. By the time I'd cleared my plate, I wasn't sure the restaurant really existed. He told me about the businesses he worked so hard in to gain such power and wealth, a stark contrast to his supposed upbringing from the generosity of the midwestern economy.

At some point, he'd said, "John, if you're in dire need of a job around here, I am right next door."

I'd told him I wasn't interested, that I was perfectly stable and content with my living conditions. He shook his head in disapproval and leaned in close. "If you need one, or if you find boredom scratching at your door, I have a job for you. The catch is, you're not allowed to speak of it. It's an odd business, see. I'm pals with a handful of the officers around here, but not all of them."

Then I insisted everything in my life was fine. He pushed it a few more times, as if he thought such a thing would've been beneficial for me, but I refused each word, and he gave up.

It made sense, why he always had so much alcohol to pass around at his parties.

I'd quickly lost who I was sitting across from in a pool overflowing with false statements and an odd vibe of humbleness. He was rich behind anybody's wildest dreams, but he lived kindly, and I'd learned of the items of guests broken carelessly that he replaced without a second thought. It crossed my mind for a split second that he was in no way wanting to be on anybody's bad side, but if everything he'd said was a lie, I wasn't sure what I could trust. He was involved in illegal business, after all.

I declined a ride home, even though it was late since we'd stayed for longer than anticipated. I told him I was meeting up with a friend I'd met a few days prior. That was my first and last lie of the night; it's an odd thing, when you can't bear to be around someone you thought you knew. The disheartening sense of betrayal and deception sat in my chest like fire and smoke.

I'd started to hate New York again. There was no explanation, but hearing the name as I walked back home stirred anger in my stomach. The flashing lights and whispers of celebration nearby didn't aid the situation. For the first time since I'd arrived, I felt truly alone.

"John? Is that you?" I turned around in time to see Hayley rushing over, only a few quick paces away. She was clutching a fur shawl similar to Taylor's to her chest, and running down the sidewalk in sharp stilettos.

"Do you follow me everywhere I go?" I asked as soon as she had caught up and hooked her hand through my elbow to keep me at her pace.

"Of course, John, all I can think about is where you are, what you're doing, if you've eaten recently, or whether or not your last bowel movement was particularly pleasant."

I stopped walking for a second. Hayley paused as well, and instead began searching for a taxi to wave down. "Do you really?"

"No, I can't believe you'd be so conceited! I have better things to do than to worry about a man."

"Well, Hayley, you had asked—"

"Have you seen Weekes lately? Spoken to him at all? Anything? He lives next door to you for Christ's sake, you have to have at least greeted him kindly. Unless you don't leave your house, which seems very possible as well, because I haven't seen you in quite a while. I thought you had died in your bed."

I told her we'd just gone out for lunch and got caught up in a conversation, though I kept to myself the blizzard of lies he was stuck in. I also felt obligated to inform her I had not croaked in my own bed, and that I frequently left the comfort of my home.

[Start the song if you wanna. It's called You Are The Reason by Calum Scott]

"Did he say anything to you? About me, I mean. Or about him — oh, just tell me what he said!" She was suddenly handing her attention to me on a silver platter, but I didn't want it.

"Nothing really, we just held causal conversations about recent happenings. It wasn't much of a big deal, honestly." A taxi pulled to the curb, and she pulled me in behind her and reached over to slam the door shut. She gave the driver my address. I didn't think she knew it.

She said in a low voice, "He hasn't told you anything yet? I swore he would've by now, this wasn't supposed to all fall on me—"

By that point in the night, I was growing frustrated at the thought of so many secrets and lies being costumed as truths right before my eyes. "Tell me what! I'm exhausted of things being kept from me, Hayley! Is secret-keeping a regular practice around here?"

"He's in love, John. That's what I couldn't tell you at the party, I haven't been able to tell you until now. God, I feel like I'm stuck in a cliché novel. This is pure torture — you're so stupid, I swear."

A man like that must've at some time, but the connection hadn't sparked. Maybe it was from the day's events, waking up to surprise after surprise. "With you?"

Hayley stared for a second, searching for any type of realization on my face. Finally, she smacked my shoulder. "Are you daft, John? How much have you had to drink tonight? Did you hit your head on something?"

"Not enough to drink, apparently! Tell me what's going on. I'm just about half a second away from losing my marbles."

She pursed her lips and balled her hands into fists at her sides, and I was afraid for a minute that her ring on the middle finger of her left hand would shatter my cheek. She only seemed to relax after drawing in a few deep breaths. "He wants you to invite Brendon over."

Then it hit. It hit like a train would run over a small animal, like a lightning strike would crack a tree in two. My mind couldn't help but wander to the possibility that his life story filled with impressive but false information was in the hopes I'd pass some of it on to my cousin. "Brendon? But why? I-I mean, I know why now, but him? Of all people in the world, my cousin? When he was younger, he would collect rocks and keep them in jars as pets. Are you sure it's the same Brendon?"

"God, I'm sure it's the same person! Why in the world would you know that about him? It's so specific." Hayley pinched the bridge of her nose and counted to ten under her breath rather quickly.

"We grew up together. Now, would you mind telling me the reason behind his request? That's all I want to know."

"I don't know where to begin..." she sat back and closed her eyes, searching her eyelids for the right words to phrase the situation with. "I didn't realize it until the other night, I'd met him before. Five years ago, it was. It was the day I'd bought a new swimsuit and wanted to test out the feel of it all, and the whole morning by the poolside, they sat side by side on the same lounge chair and talked. They talked for hours and hours, long after I'd gone inside to wash up. I was too oblivious to realize it until now. They'd stare at each other, and every time they did I swear time would stop."

It made sense, why Brendon had paused when he heard Dallon's name. They didn't seem like the compatible type, but opposites tended to attract in some occasions. "If they were so close then why did they ever separate?"

"You're asking the wrong person," she said, "I only know fairly little, little snippets of the story here and there. Weekes was drafted because he couldn't afford to avoid it, even though it was just for a short while, but by the time the eleventh month was over, Brendon was already gone off with somebody else — Ryan. Dallon had nothing but himself and a cute little apartment in Maine, and Ryan was, well, himself. It's sad, if you ask for my opinion on the matter. Brendon gave it all up."

Brendon was a selfish person. He settled for the now, whatever money and fame could bring him at the moment to replace the one thing he needed that he didn't realize was right in front of him. The complacency in such hasty decisions was pathetic.

I couldn't help but wonder if my neighbor had built the life he lived in hopes he could bring Brendon back and give him what he didn't have. He must've. It must've been why he was swept up in illegal business; that's where the money and fame stemmed from.

"I can't even begin to tell you whether or not I've never seen two people so in love before," Hayley shook her head, and fixed her hair slightly to rest on my shoulder, "but he sent him a letter from overseas, I was there. Brendon had just sent one announcing he was already moving on, and a few hours later he'd received the one regarding someone returning home in just around eight days. I watched his heart break that night, I swear on it. You could see it in his eyes. He wouldn't speak to anyone for at least twenty four hours."

"What happened then?"

"Weekes never came around again. Only Ryan did. And on their honeymoon-esque vacation, I'd thought I'd witnessed the couple of the decade match up perfectly, and that my suspicions were false. But a week into their getaway down the coast, I was told by a friend that Ryan had found himself in the middle of a nasty car wreck — with another woman sitting in the passenger seat of his car. She broke her arm and the only way anyone found out was because of the paperwork. I forget her name, but it was just awful, John. Brendon refused to tell me any part of it, he was so embarrassed. He'd paid off the papers to shut down every last article regarding it, but he couldn't stop them all."

She was silent after that for a while, as if she was letting the events of the past all sink in, allowing herself to accept that she'd seen it all before her eyes and had failed to form any connections. I thought she'd fallen asleep on me after a bit, and I'd just gotten used to it when she sat back up and stared out the window like she was searching for something. Searching for a grip on the city, the only escape from reality, from slipping through her fingertips. I was at a loss for words.

"It's so sad," she whispered, voice quivering like an earthquake rocking through the ground, "so sad. I pity the whole lot of them for being so foolish."