Sweet Liar, Page 6

  He handed me a pen from inside the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “And the terms of the contract are…?”

  He used the pen to point to the paragraph answering my question. “Six months or until the unit is sold. If you’re planning to purchase outright—”

  “I am.”

  “—then you’ll just want to make sure the sale goes through before the lease expires.”

  “I’ll do that straight away.” I took the pen and signed where he’d indicated.

  When I was finished, Audrey sidled up next to me and clutched onto my arm. “Is it ours now?” she asked coyly.

  I narrowed my eyes in her direction but didn’t dispute the pretense that we were buying the flat together. It didn’t feel necessary to confuse the agent any further, and besides, I was quite comfortable with the man believing Audrey was unavailable.

  “Not quite yet, my dear, but we do get to have the keys now.” I let the agent hand one to her so as not to destroy the latest ruse. I pocketed the duplicates. “Mr. Jones is going to put together an offer for us so we can buy the place outright.”

  “Sweet!” she exclaimed gazing up at me, and her eyes twinkled so spectacularly that I couldn’t help imagining for a moment that we really were purchasing the place together. A pied-à-terre where I would teach her everything she wanted to know about her body and mine. As though she were a student, perhaps. The fantasy was “sweet.” Delicious, even.

  Too delectable to keep thinking about for too long.

  I cleared my throat, forcing the fancy to dissipate from my head. “Do you need anything else from us?”

  We briefly discussed an amount to offer the seller and decided the agent would pull up a few comps and get back to me before we confirmed the final number. I shook hands with him, watched with ire as he kissed the back of Audrey’s hand, and then walked him to the door.

  Once he was gone, I turned back to my companion and realized my mistake—I was again alone with Audrey. And this time there would be no one coming back to interrupt us.

  Her expression said she’d realized the same thing. She didn’t seem quite as upset about it as I was, though.

  I thought quickly. “I shouldn’t suggest this, but—”

  “Yes. You should,” she encouraged, stalking slowly toward me.

  “Perhaps you’d like to join me somewhere for lunch.”

  Her face fell. “Oh. Then you aren’t going to help me out after all?”

  Jesus, she was enchanting. Magnificently so. The pout of her mouth, the way her top lip formed a sharp V, the liquid almond of her eyes—it was impossible to deny her. I’d be a liar to say that I could.

  “I’m not saying that. I just think this might be a task best suited for a different time. I’m picking up my son this afternoon, and I need to stop by the office to chat with Nate and Weston and Donovan about a few things while we’re all in the same place. Also, I have to bring my belongings from the hotel to the flat. Surely you have plans with Sabrina.”

  She let out a loud sigh, not unlike the teenage sighs I heard often enough from Aaron. “We’re seeing a Broadway show tonight. I’m supposed to meet her at the office around four.”

  “Good. That leaves us time for lunch.” I pulled her coat from the cupboard and helped her put it on. “We can work out an arrangement for the, er, the other thing from there.”

  She linked her arm through mine and beamed up at me. “Sounds like a plan, professor.”

  My trousers tightened at her newest title for me. Daddy? Professor? Did she know she’d hit the bullseye on my hot buttons?

  If she didn’t, her naivety certainly added to her allure.

  And if she did know, as I expected she did, I had to wonder—what exactly could she possibly learn from me?

  “I knew it would happen one day, honestly. He’s a teenager now. He wants to spend his school breaks on skiing trips with his friends and playing marathon sessions of Fortnite, or whatever the game is he’s into at the moment. He doesn’t want to waste half of his holidays stuck in an aeroplane traveling to visit his boring old father.” I paused to take a swallow of my champagne. It was early for alcohol, but Audrey had said the finding of my apartment had warranted a celebration, and as I’d already discovered, it was impossible to deny her whims.

  Which was also why I’d spent the last ten minutes waxing on about Aaron. What a boring subject for a young female companion. Nothing could bring out the old man in me like reminding me of my teenager. I knew better than to bring up the topic, but as soon as the waiter had taken our order, she’d asked.

  And she was compelling, that one was. She didn’t have to ask twice.

  To her credit, she’d remained engaged throughout my indulgent rant, asking questions, adding commentary. “He’s so young,” she said now—ironically, I thought. “This is just a phase of growing up. I remember feeling the same way at that age—not about my father. He died when I was thirteen. And then Sabrina left school to look after me, and I remember feeling so smothered. Like, I knew she’d sacrificed for me, and that should make me more appreciative, but I was a total pain in her behind. I resented her, for some reason. I didn’t want her around. I mean, I did, but I didn’t act like I did. I grew out of it—mostly. Aaron will too.”

  She really was lovely. Giving me advice on my son, who I felt more and more out of touch with as the years went by, was not something I expected at all in exchange for my help with her situation.

  No, my reward for that was simply being the man she’d chosen as her tutor.

  “He will. I know he will,” I agreed. My stepdaughter had been the same way. At the time it had been hard to distinguish whether it was an age-related behavior or if it had been caused by my intrusion into her life. Amanda and I had gotten along well, but a new stepfather is always an adjustment.

  I tapped my finger along the rim of the champagne glass. “Why do you think children resent the elders caring for them? Is there some secret club that requires that as an initiation into adulthood that I don’t remember?”

  She laughed. “Actually, sort of yes. You hit puberty, and your body is suddenly an adult body, which doesn’t mean you make adult choices yet, but you think you do. And here’s this person who—in my case—isn’t much older than you, and she’s in charge of all the rules, and some of them are ridiculous, and you know that she’s wrong about everything, even if she did set her future aside to be there for you, and how can you not resent that? Then you grow up a little more and realize, oh, fudge. She was right about almost everything.”

  She ran her tongue over her bottom lip and brought her point back to me. “In your case, you don’t live with Aaron every day. Yet you still have automatic authority over him, and he has to believe he knows better than you. And maybe he does sometimes, but he can’t possibly realize all the times he doesn’t. All you can do is give him lots of space to express what he feels. And then more space to let him feel it. And all the while you’ll be there, hanging back, but close enough to protect him if he needs it.”

  “Sage advice.” I meant it too. She was as wise as she was dear, it appeared. “I hope that’s exactly what I’m doing with buying the flat. I don’t want to force him to be with me, but I still want to be near him, when I can. I’ll come for Christmas and spring break, and I’ll spend as much of the summer as I can over here. It’s only three years until he graduates from high school, and if he decides he really wants to go to NYU like he says he wants to, then he’ll have a place to live that isn’t with his mother. It would be cruel to expect him to live with that monster a minute longer than he has to.”

  Usually I wasn’t that awful about Ellen to other people, particularly people who were practically strangers, but Audrey was a good listener, and I was not on the best terms with my ex as of late. The chance to be honest was simultaneously refreshing and concerning.

  Audrey’s eyebrows rose. “A monster? So she’s the awful creature that poisoned you into believing you had to be a pessimist
to survive the world.”

  “I’m not a pessimist—I’m a realist. I’m sure it’s difficult to tell the difference when you’re as unrealistically optimistic as you are—”

  “Hey, now!”

  I smiled to let her know I was teasing. Mostly. “But I promise you that the glasses I’m looking through are quite clear. There was no poison except truth.”

  “The worst poison of all.” Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright, and I suspected she was yanking my chain, but it was hard to care. Her attention was pleasant enough to make up for any mocking.

  She must have felt guilty for it, though, because she grew serious then. “I’m sorry. I don’t know her at all. Or your situation. She’s probably a terrible beast. I can’t imagine any other reason a woman wouldn’t get along with you.”

  And now I felt guilty.

  “No, she wasn’t a terrible beast. Not really.” Even with her affairs, even though she’d stopped loving me long before I’d stopped loving her. “She was broken and in grief, and it’s easier to believe that she was a shitty human being rather than facing the fact that I couldn’t make things better for her. That I wasn’t a strong enough anchor to hold onto her. That I hadn’t loved her enough to replace the things she’d lost.”

  I’d never said that before. Not out loud. Not really to myself, even, except in the wake of consuming several glasses of bourbon.

  Audrey blinked at me sympathetically. “Wow. That’s heavy. Does it feel good to be able to admit that?”

  “No.” It didn’t feel good. It felt extremely shitty, but it did feel authentic, and that felt meaningful. “I’m glad I said it, though.” I threw back the rest of my champagne, hoping to cover up the awkward aftertaste of my confession.

  When that didn’t work, I deflected. “And now it seems you know the source of my bitterness, what’s the source of your not-bitterness?”

  “My parents,” she said quickly.

  This surprised me, mostly because I hadn’t expected she’d have an answer at all.

  “My father, actually,” she corrected herself. “I was only nine when my mother died, so memories of her and them together is a bit hazy, but what I do remember is how much he loved her. How he doted on her and took care of her and adored her, even after her death. He had such respect and devotion for her ghost that it almost felt like she was still there when she’d gone. He kept her present. He didn’t date after her, and he had every reason to be sad and miserable without her—raising two girls on his own, especially—but his love for her kept him happy and upbeat right up until he passed himself.”

  I scrutinized her as I carefully framed what I wanted to say in my head. How could I present my view while still being delicate about treading on her childlike notions about what went on in someone else’s relationship? “You don’t think that you could be romanticizing their relationship? As you said, thirteen is awfully young…” I knew it came out patronizing even when I’d intended it not to.

  Or, perhaps that’s what I’d exactly intended. Whether her parents had actually had a magical marriage or not, she obviously believed that it was the ultimate goal. She didn’t realize those relationships were not typical, and that she could love and dote and devote herself to the man of her dreams, and he would still shit all over her.

  She needed saving from her fairy-tale notions.

  But was I the hero for being the asshole who exposed the reality of her sweet memories?

  She didn’t fall for it for a minute.

  “There he is!” She pointed at me while giving me a toothy grin. “There’s the man I met last night. You’ve been almost likable all afternoon. I was beginning to wonder if your curmudgeon behavior had all been an act.” She clapped her hands together suddenly. “You know what it is? I’m good for you! I bring out the best in you. How lucky you met me!”

  How lucky I met her? “Humbug,” I said. But it was impossible not to smile.

  And as long as I was being authentic, as long as I was being honest, she did bring out the best in me. She reminded me of that pure passion I’d felt for life so long ago. It was nice to remember that man I’d once been, even if it wasn’t a man I ever wanted to be again.

  But she was wrong on one point—it wasn’t good for me. She wasn’t good for me. To believe she was would be an absolute lie.

  Eight

  Audrey

  Dylan: Are you still awake?

  My pulse picked up at the message from Dylan when it arrived. It was half past midnight, and I’d texted him hours ago during the intermission of Waitress. I’d been antsy waiting for a response, afraid he was bailing on me, so obviously, I was relieved to see his name, to say the least.

  Now was a better time to talk to him anyway. Sabrina was already asleep, and I wasn’t as into my reading of A Curator’s Handbook as I should have been.

  But I was into Dylan Locke. More than I should have been.

  Audrey: I was beginning to think u’d gotten cold feet.

  Dylan: Ha ha. No. Not particularly. It was a lot of rigamarole to get the flat ready for habitation, even though it came furnished. Then Aaron and I had to battle through Latin homework. After that, we ordered pizza and played a rousing game of Risk.

  I giggled. He was so formal and long-winded in his messages. No one spoke like that in text. No one used proper grammar. But he did. He texted like he talked. I’d probably make fun of him about it someday—I was known to tease—but secretly I loved it. It was old-fashioned and charming.

  I curled my feet underneath me in Sabrina’s guest room armchair and typed out a response.

  Audrey: Risk, huh. He let u win, didn’t he?

  Dylan: Now that you mention it...I really think he did.

  I could picture it—a baby teenage boy, awkward and gangly after a recent growth spurt, chocolate eyes like his father, a dry but still underdeveloped sense of humor. The two would crack witty wisecracks while forming armies and taking over the world, and Dylan would be so enamored with the idea of connecting with his son, he wouldn’t see that the same son was throwing the game.

  It was a sweet image, and even if it was inaccurate, I liked imagining it that way. It made me miss my dad who’d died ten years ago this holiday season. I had fond memories of nights when it was just the two of us. Years after my mother had died when Sabrina had gone off to school at Harvard. Nights playing Rummikub past midnight. After I’d win a handful of games, I’d start losing on purpose so my father would stay interested in playing.

  Those were good times.

  These were beautiful moments Dylan was creating, too. Did he know that? He had to assume they had some meaning. Why else be so engaged? Why else buy an apartment he only planned on using a handful of times a year? He was a very wealthy businessman, a man I suspected that could afford staff and “people” to look after all his needs. He probably lived quite a different life when he was back home in London, but here, where his son was concerned, he seemed very ordinary. He was just like most dads. He cared about his kid, and it showed.

  It made me want to care too. It made me want to ask too many questions and get involved.

  But that was always my problem—I cared too easily. And this wasn’t a situation where caring helped me.

  I blew the air from my lungs and shook my head free from sentimental thoughts. Yes, Dylan was a good dad. But I needed to focus on the kind of “daddy” he could be to me.

  This was a conversation I decided would be best voice-to-voice.

  I hit the phone icon next to his name and put the receiver up to my ear.

  And then I waited.

  And waited.

  He made me wait four flipping rings before answering. Four long rings where I pictured him staring at my name on his screen and panicking, trying to decide what to do.

  Answer it, you nincompoop! You were just texting me! I know you’re there!

  “Audrey,” he said in a stern bass when he finally picked up. It made my stomach buzz deep and low, as though trying t
o match his pitch and resonance.

  “Dylan,” I said, in kind.

  Then neither of us said anything and silence stretched out between us.

  It wasn’t awkward silence, really, but it was noticeable. Noticeable enough that my lips went dry, and my hands began to sweat. It seemed to me it was his turn to say something since I’d just spoken, whatever it was that I’d said. I’d already forgotten. I was too consumed with replaying the way he’d said my name. How beautiful it sounded when he said it in his very British dialect. It made me feel regal and classic and adored, which was crazy since we were practically strangers.

  But I felt that way all the same.

  And I sat there without speaking as I soaked it in. I didn’t know what his reason was for not talking, but that was mine.

  “You called me,” he said eventually. “I believe you have the obligation to do the talking here, Audrey.”

  That answered that question. And he’d said my name again, and I felt heady.

  But I got my act together, somehow. “Yes. Right! I wanted to tell you that I can be there in half an hour. Sooner if you don’t mind getting me in my pajamas. What I wear shouldn’t really matter since the clothes won’t be on long anyway. Unless that’s not how you do things. Do you keep your clothes on and just uncover the necessary part? That does sound hot, in a way. Maybe the secret to all my bad sex was getting naked?”

  “Bad sex from getting naked? No. I don’t think that’s it. I’ve done both with the same results. I expect we’ll see what...hold on. Hold on. What am I even saying?” He sounded flustered, like he always was when I threw myself at him. I found that part charming as well. “Audrey, it’s nearly one in the morning. And Aaron is still here. He’s sleeping right now, but I don’t think it would be appropriate to have a late-night visitor of the female persuasion.”

  Yeah, probably not.