The Perfect Illusion Read online

  “Oh, yeah?” He flips the covers back on his side before climbing in.

  “It’s great and all that you’ve convinced my parents that you’re crazy about me,” I say, “but what’s going to happen when we go our separate ways? They’re going to be crushed. I don’t like this. I don’t like lying to them.”

  He turns on his side, resting his head on his hands. His forehead is covered in lines as he exhales.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that this is the way it has to be. I don’t like it either, but would you rather have them in on the lie? Would you rather force them to lie for you?”

  “I’d rather not involve them at all.” I sigh, sinking into the covers. “Anyway, it’s too late to turn back now. I just … I don’t know. Watching them tonight and seeing how big their smiles were and how enchanted they were with everything you were saying … I guess when I agreed to this, I didn’t think about how it would affect them.”

  “I meant what I said,” he says. “I’m going to see to it that you’re cared for for the rest of your life. That money will go far for you if you invest it wisely, and I’ll see to it that you’re set up with the best financial planners in the industry. And once we go our separate ways, just say we got caught up, we rushed things, and we amicably decided to end it. That’s all. They’ll understand.”

  Rolling to my side, I face him, looking into his deep blues. “Must be rough always having all the answers.”

  “I like a good puzzle, a good challenge.”

  “You like taking things apart and putting them back together,” I say, remembering what he said earlier at dinner.

  “I do.”

  “And here I just thought you liked to design things.”

  “It’s sort of the same thing,” he says.

  I watch him, bathed in the glow of moonlight that spills in from my bedroom window. This moment is completely surreal. My jerk boss, lying in my childhood bed, moments from drifting off beside me.

  “If you could take me apart, how would you fix me?” I ask, eyelashes slightly fluttery as my body begins to shut down for the night like one of those old desktop computers that take forever. I’m fighting the spinning wheel.

  “It’s been a long day, Mari.”

  “Before we go to sleep, can you just answer that?” I ask. “Or is that what you did with the makeover and the ring and all that. Was that your way of fixing me up?”

  “Not at all,” I say. “Those things were costumes. Props. Mari, you don’t need fixing. Now go to sleep.”

  I feel my lips pull into a sleepy grin as I roll over. We’re not touching, but I can feel his body heat, and when his breathing slows, I know he’s already out.

  His kind words replay in my head just as I float off.

  Maybe … just maybe … he’s not such a jerk after all.

  The sweet chirping of birds outside my window at dawn wakes me the next morning, only when I roll over, I find the other half of the bed cold and empty. Sitting up, I rub my eyes before taking a look around.

  Flinging the covers off, I tiptoe out of bed and head down the hall to where my mother is singing some Fleetwood Mac song at the top of her lungs as she fries bacon in a skillet.

  “Where’s Hudson?” I ask, startling her.

  She whips around, her hand pressed over her heart as she laughs. “Good morning, sweetheart. He’s in the garage with your father. They’re tinkering around with … something. I don’t know.”

  She swats her hand through the air then turns back around to tend to the cooking, and I glance at the clock. It’s too early to be tinkering with anything. Plopping down at one of the old swivel bar stools at the peninsula, I watch my mom cook.

  Just like old times.

  Mom keeps singing, belting Rhiannon so loud I’m pretty sure the McKenzies on the corner can hear her, but I just smile.

  “What do you think of him, Mom?” I ask while I have her alone.

  She spins around. “Who? Hudson?”

  I laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Who else?”

  “I like him,” she says. “He doesn’t seem like a bullshitter to me. You know how much I hate bullshitters. You can tell he’s very intelligent. Very hardworking. Your father respects that. You chose well, Maribel. We’re shocked, but we’re proud.”

  This moment is more bittersweet than I thought it would be. Someday, when I’m really engaged and truly in love, someday when I tell my parents I’m actually getting married—for real—it’ll be for the second time. And they might hold back then. They might not take me seriously. Or they might not want to get their hopes up.

  There’ll never be another first time.

  “Why don’t you go tell them it’s time to eat?” Mom plates the bacon before cracking an egg over a bowl. “I’m sure they’re starving; they’ve been out there for an hour.”

  “An hour?” Where the hell have I been?

  I head for the garage, opening the heavy wooden door before lingering at the screen door, watching the two of them as they’re huddled over my father’s workbench. Hudson has a pencil in his fingers and he’s pointing. My father nods, eyebrows lifted. I can’t hear them over my dad’s oldies-blasting radio, but they seem to be deep in discussion.

  Stepping past the door, I clear my throat, commanding their attention.

  “Hey, angel,” my dad says.

  “Hi,” Hudson’s eyes meet mine.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Hudson’s trying to help me with this shed I want to build out back. He says he can design one that matches our house. Like a miniature version. Your mother always says she doesn’t want one of those kit sheds that stick out like a sore thumb.” Dad smiles when he looks at Hudson. Somehow, in under twenty-four hours, Hudson has managed to melt my father’s carefully reserved demeanor … which is completely insane considering everything I know about this man.

  “Mom says breakfast is ready,” I say, heart heavy.

  It’s one thing for Hudson to charm my parents, to convince them he’s in love with me.

  It’s something else entirely to make promises he doesn’t intend on keeping. I highly doubt he’s going to be drafting up shed plans the second we’re back in New York, not with his backlist of high profile, big-moneyed clients waiting impatiently for their turn with one of the most sought-after architects in all of Manhattan.

  Turning on my heel, I head back in, letting the screen door slam behind me.

  Chapter 12

  Hudson

  “You okay?” I find Mari on the front steps of the house after dinner that night. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

  She glances up. “Between you and my parents, I can’t really get a word in edgewise.”

  I chuckle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Your parents love me. You should be happy.”

  “It’s fine that they like you, Hudson, but promising to design my father’s shed? Promising my mother you’ll send her tickets to Hamilton?” She turns away. “You don’t have to buy their affections. And you certainly don’t have to weasel your way into their hearts with gifts and promises.”

  I take the spot beside her, the concrete cool and gravel-pocked beneath my hands.

  “I don’t understand what all of this is about, Mari. Everything’s going well,” I say, watching her from my periphery.

  “Too well.”

  “So …?”

  “Don’t hurt them,” she says. “Keep your promises. All of them.”

  I laugh. “That’s all this is? You don’t think I’ll keep my word?”

  “You’re not exactly known for being kind and generous,” she says. “At least not since I’ve known you. Kind of makes me feel like this whole thing is disingenuous.” She places her hand out. “I mean, I know this is pretend. But my parents? They’re real people with real feelings.”

  I take her hand in mine. “It’s sweet the way you worry about them. But I can assure you, Mari, I have every intention of keeping my promises to them. You don’t have to
worry.”

  “And if you don’t?” she asks.

  “I will.”

  She inhales, releasing it slowly as she peers toward the sunset as it falls beneath a playground in the distance.

  “I need a walk,” she announces. “You want to take one?”

  Mari rises, dusting off her hands.

  “You’re barefoot,” I say.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to roam the streets barefoot.” A slow smile curls her lips. “You should try it.”

  “The concrete will tear up the soles of your feet.”

  Mari shrugs. “It feels so good though. Just try it. Trust me.”

  I hesitate and she drops to her knees, pulling at my laces and forcing my shoes off. When she’s done, she tosses them in the grass.

  “Come on, city boy.” She tugs on my arm and I follow her down the driveway to a broken sidewalk laced with weed-filled cracks juxtaposed with lush, green lawns that have been tended for decades.

  “Is this the kind of thing you do for fun in Orchard Hill?” I tease.

  “Don’t make fun. It’s not polite.” She nudges me as we pad along the concrete. I won’t admit it, but it does feel nice … if only in a strange way. It’s almost … freeing. “So what else do you do around here?”

  “Um.” She swings her arms, taking long, slow strides. “We usually just hang out with each other. Friends, family. Most of my extended family still lives around here. My grandparents and two aunts and one uncle all live in, like, a five-block radius.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope.” She glances at me, smiling. “Do you think that’s weird?”

  “Not weird. Just different,” I say.

  “I never realized how different Orchard Hill was until I left,” she muses. “Nobody locks their doors around here. You could probably walk into just about any house you wanted.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I know! But there’s hardly any crime. Everyone knows everyone. It’s just a more trusting community, I guess? Now, knowing what I know and having lived in the city for a few years, I would never. But that’s how it is here. It’s the norm.”

  We turn the corner, climbing a small hill surrounded by mid-century modern homes and quaint little ranches. In the distance appears to be a block of estate-type homes: Victorians, European Romantics, and turn-of-the-century Queen Annes. I’m sure back in the day, those housed the town’s doctors and lawyers. I can only hope their current owners have restored them to their former glory.

  “Where’d you grow up? You told my parents you were born in Manhattan, but is that where you were raised?” she asks.

  I pause. “I attended boarding school in Connecticut from kindergarten through eighth grade. In high school, my parents sent me to a prep school—which was just another boarding school. Headed to college after that. I’m not sure that I was really raised by anyone other than teachers and school administrators.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” She pouts and we mull in our respective silences. “Sucks you didn’t have a traditional childhood.”

  “Yes,” I say with a bittersweet chuff. “It does … suck.”

  “Must have been awful,” she says softly, “being sent away as a child and not understanding why.”

  “My parents always said it was in my best interest. It was for my future. They were doing it for me.” I shake my head. “They weren’t doing it for anyone but themselves. They wanted to be able to go yachting in the Maldives and skiing in the French Alps at a moment’s notice. A child would’ve made their life … complicated. It was easier to send me away, where I would have round-the-clock supervision, three square meals, a world-class education, and plenty of socialization.”

  “That’s what they told you?”

  “We always had our summers in Montauk. That was our family time.”

  “That’s all you got from them? A few months of the year and then they shipped you off again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s terrible,” she says, exhaling. “Sorry. I don’t mean to judge your parents.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve judged them my whole life.” I huff. “They are who they are. There’s no changing them. There’s no taking back what they did.”

  “Is that why you pour yourself into your work?” she asks.

  I glance ahead. We’re getting closer to the street with the antique houses. They’re all I can think about. I don’t want to discuss my childhood anymore. I don’t want to talk about—or think about—the fact that I may or may not have abandonment issues as a result of never truly feeling wanted by my parents.

  It’s neither here nor there. Truly.

  “See that white house?” I point north. “It has a triangular pediment set against a hipped roof with dormers. It’s a Queen Anne.”

  “Oh,” she says. “We always called that the Pauley House. It’s haunted. Or that’s what everyone says. Some kids died there in the 1920s. Drowned in the pool when the nanny was supposed to be watching them. So sad.”

  “How tragic.”

  “What about that stone house? I always thought it looked like a castle,” she says. “When I was a little girl, I’d ride my bike up and down this street and pretend that I was a princess and that was my house.”

  “That’s a European Romantic,” I say. “You can tell by the asymmetric composition and the half-timbered accents. The light stone is fairly typical too. Sometimes you’ll see stucco.”

  Warm drops of rain begin to pepper the sidewalk, dampening our clothes in the process. A clap of thunder groans in the distance. Spring is nothing if not a temperamental woman: loving on you one minute, chasing you off the next.

  Without saying a word, we turn back, leaving the picturesque street in the distance, and by the time we’re halfway home, the rain picks up and begins to pour. Rustling leaves in the ancient oaks above us do little to protect us, and by the time we reach the front door, we’re both soaked.

  Standing in the foyer, we lock eyes. Mari laughs, her hair sticking to her cheeks and neck, and rainwater pools at our bare feet. My shoes are in the yard, but I’m not concerned with them right now.

  I can’t stop looking at her, all wet and vulnerable.

  This may be a fake relationship, but this woman is as real as they come.

  My eyes fall on her lips, my hands aching to reach for her chin and angle it just so.

  “I’m going to go change,” she says, as if she picked up on my intentions.

  Dashing up the stairs, she disappears around the corner.

  Chapter 13

  Mari

  “Mari?” Hudson creeps into my darkened room. I hear him changing out of his damp clothes and slipping into something dry, and then I feel the dip of the mattress when he takes a spot next to me.

  I don’t know what happened.

  Everything was going well until we stood in the foyer, rain-soaked and eyes holding steady. Something told me he was about to kiss me, and I couldn’t let that happen, so I bolted.

  I hid.

  I tucked myself away in my room, under the covers, nose buried in a book on my phone.

  “You just left me. I thought you were coming back,” he says. “You okay?”

  No.

  No, I’m not okay because part of me wanted to kiss him too. And part of me is starting to like him … not romantically, but as a human being.

  This entire arrangement was a hell of a lot easier when I hated him with the fury of a million Flaming Hot Cheetos.

  “Sorry. I needed to lie down,” I say. “Didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

  “It’s okay. Your dad wanted to run some more shed ideas past me,” he climbs under the covers.

  It’s dark now, thanks in part to the storm rolling through. The windows rattle, pelted by a spray of rain every odd second.

  “You wanted to kiss me earlier, didn’t you?” I ask. If I don’t come out and say this, it’s going to be on my mind all night, keeping me up, and we’
re supposed to catch an early flight home in the morning.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” I sit up, turning toward him.

  “Is that why you ran off? Because you thought I was going to kiss you?” he asks.

  “I didn’t think. I knew. I could sense it.” I visually trace the outline of his body in the dark, under the random illumination of lightning flashes. He’s handsome in a way I never wanted to fully accept. He’s chiseled. And beautiful. Long dark lashes. Dimpled chin. Deep-as-the-ocean blue eyes. Thick hair I could run my fingers through. A body built for sin. The list goes on.

  “You’re going to have to kiss me sooner or later,” he says. “Unless you want our first kiss to be on our wedding day.”

  I inhale, letting it go a few seconds later. The words are terrifying, but they’re right there, on the tip of my tongue, and I have to say them.

  “I don’t want this to get so complicated that we don’t know where fake ends and real begins,” I blurt.

  “Mari, I don’t want to be married. I don’t do monogamy or commitment. If I kiss you … if I touch you … it’ll be because I think you’re gorgeous and sexy and you turn me on. It won’t be because I’m in love with you and want to spend the rest of my life with you. You don’t need to worry about any of this becoming real. It might be really fun, but it won’t be real love. I can promise you that.”

  His brutal honesty stings, despite the fact that he’s saying the words I needed to hear.

  “I don’t do the no-strings things,” I say.

  “Have you done it before?”

  “Yeah. And it didn’t end so well for me.”

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Let me guess,” Hudson says. “You wanted no-strings, ended up falling for the guy thinking you’d be the one to change him, and he left you high and dry?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He reaches for my cheek, causing me to flinch at his touch. Just weeks ago, the sight of this man used to put my stomach in knots with anxiety, and now he’s in my bed, touching me like I’m some kind of porcelain doll, the object of his affection.