The title and contents of the story were rather inspired by the song Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens.
Pretending was something that he could do easily. His life required it. Sometimes the pretending was extreme-shifting into a personality so far from his own that it was almost alien. But most of the time, the pretending was just slipping on a slightly different mask that didn't fit quite right, but that was close enough to himself that no one would know his false pretenses unless they were adept at analyzing or they knew him quite well.
The latter was what he was doing right now as Lizzie's phone rang out into the void with no one to answer it. No doubt it was vibrating at the bottom of a drawer, clattering against her personal items that would never again be touched by her narrow fingers. His eyes fluttered closed, cold against his palm, mind still swimming in the dim, hazy fog that he had entered since-since she had died. But in that moment, he forced his mind into a different direction, putting himself into a different reality where she wasn't picking up the phone because she was busy, pen flying over an open file of paperwork, face scrunched in concentration, eyes narrowed and glancing in irritation at the buzzing phone that was interrupting her concentration.
Or because she was upset with him at the moment.
That had happened often enough. He had said something (or had not said something), and so she would stubbornly ignore his calls. Yes, even that scenario was preferable to the reality he was attempting to transport himself away from.
Finally, the seemingly endless ringing ceased, and the second of utter silence melted into her voice mail message. "Hello, you've reached Elizabeth Keen," the message started out, voice pitched upwards, exuding the sort of forced, honeyed politeness that receptionists had to put on in order to provide satisfactory customer service. "I'm sorry can't come to the phone right now, but leave your name and number, and I'll be sure to get back to you!"
Even though the entire tone of the voice mail was gratingly false, with each word, his chest constricted and he could not help put grip the phone tighter, as if in doing so he could reach out to that version of her that had recorded that message and whisk her away from all that had befallen her since that more innocent, ignorant version of her had chirped in a recorded voice mail for her phone.
On the other end of the line, there were two beeps, indicating that he could begin his message. He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the knot that had formed there, in his mind trying to claw back to the false scenario that he had constructed in which a still living Lizzie still refused to answer her phone.
"Lizzie!" He began, forcing the mask of a smile onto his face, voice just as counterfeit as her sweet voice mail message. "I know it is a bit early to begin thinking about this sort of thing, since the Fourth of July is several months away, but I thought-what the hell, it's never too early to plan a vacation for yourself, is it? You really need one of those, you know. Anyway, as I was saying, I know of this little town in the middle of Nebraska with the best Fourth of July parade and fireworks display. The entire thing reeks of pretentious patriotism, but it's all very charming in its own way, and display is simply magnificent. There's a man I know that donates money to the display so his little Nowherseville hometown can have something to enjoy. I'm sure I can persuade him to get us the best seats in the house to watch it. Please do consider the offer and call me back soon. I-"
He paused, phone still clutched in his hand, the edges of it digging into the tips of his fingers. His little play was almost over, and the scenery was being put away, all the trappings of joviality falling apart as reality came crashing back into his mind. "I miss you."
He slammed the flip phone shut between his hand, arm trembling, inhaling a shuddering breath that tore at the back of his throat.
He would have the message deleted from her phone as soon as possible.