The Absolutely True Story of Us by Melanie Marchande Page B

eating organic raw-food diets prepared by world-class veterinary nutritionists, to make their coats all glossy for TV? I'm not talking about presentation, or putting your best foot forward. They're showing you 'results' that have nothing to do with the products they're pushing, and they're allowed to do it - as long as they put a tiny disclaimer in the corner that nobody reads."
    "Everybody knows that ads aren't real," he insists. "I might as well say that your books are irresponsible, because they give people unrealistic expectations about love."
    "That's not the same thing!" I shake my head at him. "I'm not saying 'buy this book and you'll have this kind of relationship in your real life.' I'm just saying 'buy this book and enjoy the fantasy.' There's nothing deceptive about that."
    "There's nothing deceptive about hair extensions," Dean replies. "No one actually thinks their hair is going to look like that if they buy the shampoo."
    "Of course they do. Maybe not consciously, but..."
    "Please tell me you're not going to get into subliminal advertising." Dean holds up his hand. "Because if you do, this conversation is over ."
    "I'm not talking about subliminal, I'm talking about subconscious. It's like what you were saying at lunch the other day. Our brains draw a connection between the model's amazing hair and the shampoo she's talking about, without any conscious thought on our parts. It's just how it works . The whole point of advertising is to hack into that connection and use it to sell stuff. Bottles full of chemicals that are probably actively damaging your hair, but hey, Tina Fey's wig sure looked luxurious on TV!" I let out a sharp sigh, hating the argumentative version of me that always rears its head when Dean is involved.  
    "That's just the business." Dean leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "If my guys don't hire the production company that provides the stylist that clips in Tina's fake hair, then somebody else is going to."
    "You could use the same logic to just throw all your garbage on the street, because hey, there's going to be litter no matter what you do."
    He shakes his head. "That was always your problem, Lissy. Nobody can live their lives with one hundred percent integrity. It doesn't work that way. It's just not possible. We're all hypocrites, in one way or another. We all lie, we all hide things, we all obscure the truth. If you keep going around expecting people to act like Captain America, you're going to be disappointed for the rest of your life."
    "This isn't about you and me," I mutter, staring at my lap. "But of course you'd think that."
    "I promise you I'm right," he says. "There's no such thing as integrity, only the people who've done a really great job of hiding their lies."
    "Liars always say that." I glare at him. "Did you ever even love me, or was that just business , too?"
    Oh boy. Where did that come from? I stare at the empty wine bottle next to me.  
    Damn it, this is your fault.
    "Lissy." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Don't do this."
    It's a valid question, it's just that I sound like a crazy person bringing it up out of the blue in the middle of a fight. And worse than that, I sound like I'm not over him.
    "You seem to think the answer is obvious." I grab another bottle of wine and wrench it open while Dean looks on, wincing slightly at my clumsiness. "It's not. It never was. What happened the other night..." Damn it, now there's a lump in my throat. This isn't how this is supposed to go. "...that was the first time I felt like you really wanted me."
    Then, he says something I don't expect.  
    "I know," he says. "It was different." He shakes his head slowly. "Of course it wasn't the first time I wanted you. You were beautiful when I met you."
    He sounds remarkably calm, considering how I just snapped on him like an overstretched rubber band. I don't know what to say, so I just let him keep going.
    "But you're even more beautiful now," he says, his eyes locking