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I supposed that was good advice. Only I hated it, and decided right then and there I wasn’t going to listen to it. What was more, even though I had no business whatsoever thinking I knew anything at all, everything inside of me was screaming that Zeke shouldn’t be living like that either. “What about authenticity?”
“We’re pretending to date to piss off your father. What about it? Should we really be speaking about being authentic right now?”
He was right, and it killed my mood. Plummeted it right to the ground. I took another bite of my cheese, and it did nothing to make me feel better. I was a liar. I’d always been truthful. Lied to myself? Sure. I hadn’t known until I absolutely did how much I hated Kit, but the second I did? I’d done something, albeit a dramatic over the top something, about it. Hell, I’d been a liar before this even started. I did it every time I went out the door dressed from head to toe in an outfit I hated just because it was expected of me. Play the part of the socialite. Or maybe it wasn’t playing a part. Maybe I was lying to myself by thinking there was any chance that I could be something else.
At least if I’d married Kit, it could have continued. I’d have done what I should have, and sure, he would have been half out of his mind and inattentive, but that was what regular trips to rehab could have been for. There would have been children at some point, and despite the fact that Zeke scoffed at them, they were something I wanted more than anything. Although that could be a mistake, too.
I might be the worst mother there ever was. I had no example of one to draw on. Not even a bad one. Totally absent from my life because she took too many pills.
“Layla.” His voice was low. “I…”
I waved my hand. He was right. One hundred percent that way. And he wasn’t the only one who could pull off a fake smile. I was horribly good at it. But then again, I was a practiced liar. And I’d do that with Zeke until I could get on with my life, whatever that looked like. He’d made me a deal, and I’d stick to it. In the end, we’d both win.
It couldn’t kill something inside of me that was already dead or had never lived to begin with.
“This is a lovely wine. You do seem to like red wine. Is that your favorite?” Benign nothing conversations were easy. I barely had to listen to his responses. I’d float away to la-la land like I always did.
“Layla.” His voice was gruff, and I ignored it. Men could be managed. I’d learned that early. I just had to stay pleasant.
“Maybe when you retire, you should open a vineyard. Don’t a lot of ex-businessmen do that? Not that you yourself would be out there growing the grapes. But you put your name on it. The marketing. I can really see it for you.” I sipped the wine again. It was lovely. Not as fierce as the last one, but still very tasty. “Or will you be the yachting kind of retiree?”
11
“Okay.” He set down his glass with a clunk. “Normally,
I’d have more wine right now because you’re right, this is quite good. But I never have more than one if I’m driving my motorcycle. So you drink more, since you’re playing pretend-like-you’re-not-pissed-at-me. It helps.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know that I have any interest in being pissed at you. We might want to get the check. It’s going to take me most of the afternoon to look right for tonight.”
“No, it won’t. You’re stunning. I bet it takes you under an hour to get ready.” He didn’t seem thrilled to be delivering that statement by the way he spoke with his jaw clenched. “Finish your cheese. You like it. And we have a salad coming, so we’re not going to be going anytime soon.”
“I know I’m a liar.” I couldn’t leave it alone if we were going to be sitting here for some time to come. “But I had this idea that I could start over from a place of truth, and yes, it upsets me to have you pointing out that I’ve already failed. I’m a liar. I’ll always be a liar. And I suppose I should just get over myself and move on. Is that what you’d like to hear?” I hated my tears,and after one fell, I sucked the others back in. “Please ignore my crying. I don’t like it, and I’m just over a day from having run away from my wedding. I’m not quite myself yet. I don’t have my defenses in order.”
He was so quiet, I wondered if he’d say anything at all. Finally, he shook his head. “Just tell me to fuck off.”
“What?” I finished my cheese, barely tasting it. And the waiter came by and set down the salad.
“Tell me to fuck off. I deserve it. I ruined your lunch. I took away all that joy you had going with the cheese. Go ahead and tell me to fuck off.”
I stared at him. “I don’t tell people to fuck off.”
“You should, you’d feel better.” He took a bite of his salad. “I do think about opening a vineyard or taking over one that is failing. I do love red wine. And whisky. But I don’t want to run or own a distillery. Well, maybe I could be part owner of one. Something like that. I don’t want to have anything to do with the day-to-day workings.”
He’d clearly thought about this, and it was distracting enough to listen to him that I took a bite of my salad and was able to taste the food without choking on all the bile our fight had brought up. “When do you see yourself doing that?”
“When I retire.”
Well, that told me nothing. “You’re thirty-eight. Virile. You are fit like you could win a marathon right now. I don’t know your health history, and please, over lunch, don’t give it to me. But you could be a billionaire, right? If you get that money my dad may have hidden somewhere. You could retire right then and there. So, this could be your second act, and it could be very soon.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever retire. I like working. It’s what I do. I like weekends when I can take them, like today. Quick breaks to have fun, and then back at it. I think the vineyard thing willbe one of many things I will do in so-called retirement. I may be even busier then than I am now.”
It was really interesting how he saw his future. That wasn’t how I wanted things for myself. Sure, I was too young to worry about retiring now, but in the future, I did want someone to stay with me when we were older, raise the kids together, watch them as grownups living their own lives. Laugh. Travel—assuming the other person could manage the language barrier—and have fun with.
I did want to stop.
He wanted to know what I wanted to do with my life right now, and all I could think about was what I wanted to do with it then. What did that say about me?
We finished eating and eventually made our way to his motorcycle without any interference. After putting on my helmet, he handed me the terrible sketch we’d had done, and I held on to it while we drove through traffic. I would have loved to squeeze tight to him, to put my head down on his back and close my eyes, just letting myself feel the speed and the wind. But I held on upright instead. We weren’t in a real relationship. It was almost businesslike, and coworkers didn’t squeeze each other intimately like that.
