Faking It

Chapter 8

I laughed out loud, at her boldness and at my initial reaction to her words. I asked if that is what she thought of me, that I just expect that.

“I don’t know, you seem pretty well-known around here,” she said. My heart dropped to my toes. What had she been catching onto? “How do I know this isn’t a ruse that you pull every weekend? That Vainer is probably in on it, too. Quite the pickup technique, I would say.”

I felt exposed, somehow, although I knew as well as she did that her accusations were a joke. Was I tricking her? I had begun formulating a plan in my mind that included her, but I had not asked her to get a drink with me for that purpose.

I smiled and took a drink, trying to appear as smooth as possible. I assured her that I just wanted to show her around the city.

After the third old fashioned, her Southern accent was thick and she had grown more comfortable with me, giggling and teasing me openly. Her black dress had slowly begun to rise up her thighs. I felt warm and happy after the drinks, too, and I wanted to reach between her legs and run my fingers over the warm crotch of her panties. I wanted to push my face between her legs and breathe in her smell. I found it increasingly harder to focus on the conversation.

“Do you ever get lonely, traveling by yourself?” I asked. I knew that I wasn’t going to have her tonight, but I wanted to set up the foundation for another date.

She ran her finger along the rim of her glass slowly, biting her lip as she thought about the question.

“Sometimes,” she said finally, choosing her words carefully, “But the fear of being held down outweighs any loneliness I might feel.”

Her words rang true to me, too. Alone with freedom was better than with someone and imprisoned. Her eyes snapped up to meet mine.

“Why, are you on the hunt for the one?” She asked sarcastically, almost bitingly.

“No, not at all,” I chuckled and took a drink. She watched me with her Bambi eyes. “I feel the same way. I enjoy my freedom.”

She watched me quietly, obviously expecting me to continue.

“But…?” she pressed.

“But what?”

“You were going to continue that sentence with a ‘but…’,” she pushed, “remember, you said we weren’t going to hide anything!”

I smiled and looked away. She had a way of crawling under your skin and poking at you with such delicacy that you almost didn’t notice.

“Come on, Nathan,” she whined, pushing her shoulder against mine. Hearing my voice come out of her mouth sent a jolt of pleasure through my body. “I’m only going to be here for three months, and then we will never see each other again. If there is something you need to get off of your chest, wouldn’t I be the best person for it?”

I looked at her, trying to hide my shock, but she just smiled at me with raised eyebrows, awaiting a response. She was right—she would be gone in three months and I would never see her again—but suddenly the reality of it came crashing through me. Why did I care, though? I had known her for all of two hours.

She did suggest, at least, that she would see you again before she leaves, I told myself.

“I enjoy my freedom, but my parents have been pressuring me to settle down,” I said finally. She was right—I felt a weight lift off my chest when I said the words.

“Ugh, it’s exactly the same thing for me,” she admitted without skipping a beat, leaning against the leather booth. I looked at her, astonished.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. My parents are pretty traditional people. They have a big dude ranch where they breed racehorses and act as a resort for rich families to spend a week pretending to be cowboys. They wanted me to stay there and run it with them. They were never happy about my choice to travel, and they are especially unnerved by the fact that I want to do it more than I want to get married and have babies and stay there with them,” she paused for a minute, but I knew that she wanted to say more. “Honestly, it’s a big reason why I don’t talk to them much anymore. I feel guilty, but we can’t have a ten-minute phone call without them making me feel bad about it.”

I could relate.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I really was sorry. She was quiet, and when she looked up at me again, I could see that she was in pain, but she was doing her best to cover it.

“My mom accused me of wanting to just sleep around the last time we talked. Obviously, it’s not true, she just doesn’t understand that there is more to life than getting married immediately after high school and staying in the town you were born in forever,” her voice was low and charged with emotion, “That was two months ago. We haven’t spoken since.”

I felt immediately indignant for this girl, who had done so much for herself, created an independent life, followed a set of moral codes she had created for herself, had paid off her student debt, had bought (she told me) two properties from her own earnings, and was doing what she loved. How could that all be overshadowed by the lack of a husband?

“Jesus,” I said softly.

“They wanted me to marry my ex,” she continued. This was a confession, now, I could tell. I had the feeling that she hadn’t shared these things in a long time, perhaps ever. It seemed that she was taking her own advice and using the opportunity to pour these feelings into a stranger without the fear of judgment, or of having to maintain a certain façade.

“He was abusive, though. He would berate me, he would send me into panic attacks, he would say anything that he could to manipulate me, he would make me feel like I could achieve nothing without him. He made me feel so, so small,” she looked up at me, watching my expression with a hint of embarrassment in her eyes.

My heart thudded and I felt that familiar, hot anger drip into my veins again. Just the thought of tears rolling out of those big, blue eyes put a knot in my throat.

“Did your parents know?”

She looked at me as if the question had confused her.

“Of course they knew. But they didn’t care. They said it was just something we had to work through,” her voice was shaking, but she had stopped trying to conceal it. “I tried to work through it with him, too, but I knew that he was never going to change.”

“I’m sorry, May,” I said again. She took the final sip of her drink and set the empty glass on the table, shaking her head as if she were trying to physically dispel the thoughts,

“It’s okay, though, because my life is better that way. If we had worked things out, I wouldn’t have had this life or these opportunities,” the optimism in her voice was real, even if it was shadowed by just a hint of sadness. “I just know now what I definitely don’t want out of my life.”

She looked over at me, smiling, but I could still see a glimmer of anguish in her eyes.

“Wow, I am sorry for that tangent,” she laughed at herself, “Now, you have to spill your heart out to me. Sorry, that’s the deal.”

“I don’t remember making that deal,” I laughed good-naturedly. I caught the attention of one of the servers and motioned for another round. She nodded a response and dipped behind the bar to make the drinks.

“Come on, now is your chance to get everything off of your chest to someone you won’t ever see again,” she bumped my shoulder with hers, “I know you’re holding back about all of this money and power you have.”

My neck flushed. I looked at her face, which was expectant but naïve. I could sense that she really knew nothing of my family or of the area in general. I had the urge to lie, but I hesitated. Revealing my background to her could cause her to change into the power-hungry and greedy women that I had met before, who seemed well-intentioned enough until they realized who I was. I realized that I was scared to forfeit the innocence we shared.

“My father is a major investor in the city,” I said slowly, trying to choose my words precisely. “He worked with a start-up hedge fund in the 90’s and got lucky with the technology boom. He has spent the rest of his career investing those earnings and gaining capital from that.”

Our fourth round arrived and I thanked the waitress. I could feel the warmth of the alcohol sitting behind my sternum, and I had to work my tongue delicately to not trip over any of my words, but I was confident that I had not slurred.

“I see,” she took another sip of her drink contemplatively, “And where do you play into all of this?”

“I’ll take over the company when he retires,” the words fell out of my mouth like a recited line—I had said the same thing again and again throughout my life.

“And is that what you want?”

I looked at her, stunned.

“What?”

“Is that what you want, like with your life? To take over your dad’s company?” The question confused me, even after it was repeated. I decided that she must just not understand how expansive the company was and how much money it entailed.

“Of course it’s what I want. He has built a very wealthy enterprise.”

She raised her eyebrows at me and took a sip.

“That’s not what I asked. I asked-- is that what you want to do with your life. Or is that just what you have always been told you are going to do with your life?”

Was she being serious? She had to be f*****g with me.

“It is one of the most lucrative business opportunities in the country, May,” I was starting to get pissed.

“Again, not what I asked,” she looked at me from under her long eyelashes with a smirk. I realized I was growing angry with her, but something in that rage made her appear almost erotic. I wanted to do something to wipe that look off her face. I could think of a few things.

“I don’t have the privilege of thinking about if I want to do that. It’s just what I am going to do.”

“Of course you have the privilege to pick. If you wanted to pursue another career, would your father chain you to his desk? I’m sure you have a choice.”

She was right—my sister was a freelance corporate business analyst and she lived in France with her wealthy husband. She had cut all ties with the company to no one’s disappointment. It would be a little different with me, but my father had made it clear many times that his dream was not necessarily mine.

“Yes, it’s what I want,” I could hear the irritation in my own voice. There was something in her expression, just a little gleam of satisfaction, that told me she liked seeing me react to her.

“Well, that is good. I am glad you are doing what you love,” her sarcasm was as thick as her drawl. I glared at my glass for a moment, trying to formulate a comeback of some kind.

“Yeah, it is good,” I said, stupidly. She almost laughed out loud, but contained herself.

“After these drinks, I want to take you to another bar,” I said suddenly, in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

“Ooo, you are really giving me the runaround, huh? Are you trying to get me to change my mind about sleeping with you tonight?” she leaned forward and touched my thigh, just for an instant, with the tips of her fingers. I could sense a change in her, too, after seeing me get angry. She wanted to keep pushing.

“Oh please, I am a gentleman. I told you I was going to show you downtown Tucson, and I plan to do that,” I looked at her sideways, “Now finish your drink, little girl.”

Her eyes flashed, but she finished her drink in three large gulps without saying a word.