{"product_id":"my-name-is-a-lie-and-other-truths","title":"My Name is a Lie and Other Truths","description":"\u003cp\u003eHe lived one version of who he was his whole life. We all do. Then secrets taken to the grave stepped out of the shadows under a full moon.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch2\u003ePrologue\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe sat on the arm of the couch, looking out through the screen door into the darkness. The night air wafted into the room. The rotating black fan on the end table stirred the warm air, its hum fading in and out as it turned side to side. Its breeze moved her red curls slightly and, if only for a moment, cooled her damp skin.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWalking to the door, she still felt his hands on her body, and hers on his.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOutside in the darkness, his car engine revved, then slowed, then revved again, moving through its gears, growing fainter as it receded into the distance before finally dissolving into the still, clear night air of the West Texas High Plains. Far off, where the stars met the flat prairie horizon, she could barely see his headlights.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe held close the rumble of the car engine and the tires crunching on the dirt road, because when the silence came, he would be gone. She dreaded that silence—a stillness interrupted only by the almost imperceptible creaking of oil well pumps dotting the landscape, acting like iron syringes pulling liquefied treasure from deep under the red earth.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWith her nose pressed against the wire screen, she turned the porch light off so she could follow his headlights until they disappeared into the night. Her heart ached with the weight of a love that could never be spoken aloud.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI know this night not because I was there to witness it, but because decades later, among the yellowed artifacts of her estate, I found the poem she wrote that evening—penciled in her elegant, looping hand on the back of a plain white envelope. Holding that paper after her death, reading the longing she held inside for so long, I could see her through the lens of time: a young woman standing at a screen door in Borger, Texas, her silhouette quiet against the vast, indifferent sky.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBeyond the screen, a Chuck-will’s-widow darted through the dark sky to catch insects. It had likely just returned from its long migration south across Central America, its small, unburdened form free of secrets, tethered to no impossible truths. Her own life, by contrast, had become a quiet labyrinth of carefully kept silences.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe turned and walked down the hallway into the bedroom. Standing alone in her room, she looked at the grocery list for the couples and kids coming over tomorrow night and thought of the covered dishes the wives should bring. The sheer mundanity of it acted as a balm to keep her mind off what her heart felt.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBetter to wait until tomorrow to call her best friend to talk about what dish to bring. A sad smile slowly crossed her lips. Besides, he needed time to get home to her—to his wife, her best friend—and lay out the casual plans they had just made while he was here.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWith the warmth of his skin still fresh on her mind, she made the bed and straightened up the house before her husband and children returned. She knew—they both knew—that they were thinking about the exact same thing and nothing else. That shared awareness brought a bittersweet comfort.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe loved him. But she also knew that no matter how much he cared, in his heart he knew this was wrong. He had told her he just couldn’t help himself; there was something here that was not at home and would never be. Something that touched him in a way he just couldn’t stop wanting. Neither could she. So, she let herself believe it would all work out.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSitting down at the table, she pulled out a pen, took the nearest piece of paper—the back of an envelope—and let the truth spill out before her, leaving a hidden record of a love that could never be named in the light of day.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMay\u003cbr\u003eTo That Man\u003cbr\u003eI stood in my door tonight\u003cbr\u003eFor over the hills I saw a light\u003cbr\u003eSomehow I could see\u003cbr\u003eIt was you coming back to me.\u003cbr\u003eThough we fight this thing\u003cbr\u003eThat against our will has come into being\u003cbr\u003eAnd promise ourselves to go\u003cbr\u003eOur separate lives, it won’t do\u003cbr\u003eYou can pretend it isn’t real\u003cbr\u003eAnd tell me how you feel\u003cbr\u003eI know both your side and mine\u003cbr\u003eAfter all, my dear, I’m not blind\u003cbr\u003eI know neither of us would find\u003cbr\u003eHappiness in being in a life of the ordinary kind\u003cbr\u003eAnd yet neither can I stop this pain\u003cbr\u003eYou’re breaking my heart again and again\u003cbr\u003eEach day I tell myself to forget\u003cbr\u003eThe whole mad dream and let\u003cbr\u003eOur lives get back in the rut we know\u003cbr\u003eBut oh, my dear I can’t. I love you so.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe put down her pen and closed her eyes, feeling the strain of a life split between what was expected and what she wanted. How did this happen? With her eyes on the ceiling, she ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it out of her face. She had no answers; she just knew she was already thinking of when she could have him again.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe thought of her kids, her husband, and his wife, who was her best friend. She thought about the life she had created and the life she wanted—the life she ached for with him—and wondered: Could she have that? Because deep down, she knew that now that he was in her life, she never wanted him out. But what price was she willing to pay to get her wish?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eLike every story, this one has a beginning, but to understand its heart, one must stand at the intersection where her silence ended and my discovery began. It started in the late 1940s under the wide-open sky on the flat prairie of the Texas Panhandle, in the twenty-year-old oil boomtown of Borger, Texas. It is a true story. Or as close to the truth as I can come. A story that had to be told not because it is rare, but because it is rarely spoken about.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnce the truth steps out of the shadows, silence loses its hold. It forces the questions we spend lifetimes avoiding: What did the silence cost? What did love demand? What did the truth finally reveal?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eEvery life carries its own unspoken history—truths we lack the courage to name until time or loss forces our hand. But in the space where secrecy once lived, a quiet recognition takes root: silence takes on a life of its own, and the burden of carrying it is never ours alone.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThat realization became an imperative I could no longer ignore. Telling this story is not merely an act of memory, but an act of reckoning. The time for secrets has finally come to an end.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Pat Hicks Books","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":48270109802754,"sku":"9798995880400","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0809\/1146\/6754\/files\/3DBookonwhitebackground.png?v=1786134495","url":"https:\/\/pathicksbooks.com\/products\/my-name-is-a-lie-and-other-truths","provider":"Pat Hicks Books","version":"1.0","type":"link"}