The Absolutely True Story of Us by Melanie Marchande Page A

spanked?

    My face starts burning. There's no way I'm ready to admit that happened between me and Dean, even without the shameful backstory and the tiny fact that we happen to be broken up.

    Not the way you're talking about.

    M: You write about it an awful lot for someone who's never experienced it.

    "A lot?" Two books. I write to the market.

    M: Right. So you only write about spanking because of Fifty Shades.

    Yep.

    M: I don't like it when you lie to me.

    Why do you care if I'm curious? You can't do it. You'll never get to even touch my ass, let alone smack it.

    M: When I've got my cock buried inside you someday, I'm going to remind you that you said that.

    I close the app quickly, my heart pounding.

    ***
    "Um, Lissy?"
    I walk towards my bedroom doorway where Dean is standing, staring up.
    "Yes?" I say, slowly.
    "There seems to be a tiny problem with your..." He steps back. "...ceiling. Situation."
    By "problem," he means a giant, sagging leak, nearly the size of my bed.
    Because, of course .
    We just managed to extricate ourselves from the all-day grasp of my parents, and now my goddamn ceiling is caving in. I don't even have the energy to be upset about it.
    I pull out my phone and call emergency maintenance, where the receptionist is the only person in the world who sounds calmer about a massive ceiling leak than I do.
    "Must be all the snow," I comment, in hopes of some human interaction with her, but all I get the sound of tap-tapping on the keyboard.
    Finally, I hang up in disgust.
    "They'll have somebody over to staple up some plastic," I mutter, tossing my phone on the sofa. "I could've done that myself. They won't be able to do the proper repairs until tomorrow."
    "Guess you'll be joining me in the living room," he says. "You can have the sofa."
    "Well, we can get hotel rooms," I muse, remarkably calm considering there's probably about to be fucking hole in my fucking ceiling .  
    "Uh, you're kidding, right?" Dean's looking at me like I just suggested building a homestead on Pluto for the night.
    "Why would I be kidding? I know it's a bad storm, but there has to be..." I glance at the window, like that's going to tell me anything.
    "It's also Fashion Week ," Dean cuts in.  
    "Fuck." I stare at him. "Seriously? How do you know this stuff?"
    "Well, I try to make it a habit to have some situational awareness," he deadpans. "Besides, we do some of their marketing at my firm. The dates are permanently burned into my retinas."
    So that's how we end up splitting a bottle of wine on the living room floor, with cheese and crackers and laughing about how insanely overbearing my family has become. I love them, I love them to death, but if I make it to the end of next week without killing anyone, it'll be a miracle.
    Halfway through our second poker game, he nudges his foot against mine. "Why the long face? I can't imagine you've got anything to be worried about."
    "No, my life's going exactly as expected. Are you kidding? I'm sitting on my living room floor, trying to ignore that sound that might be wind whistling through a giant hole in my bedroom ceiling, playing cards with my ex." I smile ruefully. "What else could I possibly want in life?"
    ***
    "Marketing is lying," I insist. "Lying by omission at best, but it's still a lie."
    I have no idea why or how we started arguing, but I'm fully committed to it now. These are, apparently, the kinds of things that happen when you think you just heard the sound of wet drywall falling in your bedroom, and you're afraid to go assess the damage.
    He snorts. "I guess if you think it's 'lying' when you go on a first date and don't tell somebody all the worst things about you immediately. Nobody expects ads to be honest. It's about putting your best foot forward."
    I roll my eyes at him, leaning back and stretching my legs in front of me. "So you don't think it's lying if all the models in shampoo ads are wearing extensions? And the dogs in all those shitty kibble ads are really