“You’re the expert.” She takes another sip before setting the teacup on her nightstand and climbing out of bed. Stretching her arms overhead, the hem of her nightshirt rises, revealing the soft flesh of her lower belly. She doesn’t have washboard abs by any means, but she’s sexy just the same.
Sauntering to the dresser, she pauses before the mirror, finger-combing her hair into place.
“You just going to sit there and watch me get ready?” she asks, glancing up in the reflection to meet my gaze.
“Isn’t that what couples do?” My mouth pulls into a teasing smirk, and I rise off her bed. “Anyway, I’ll leave you now. Come downstairs when you’re ready.”
“That’s right, I said fifty guests, not fifteen. Five-zero.” My mother places her hand over the receiver of her phone, rolling her eyes. “On the phone with the venue for the engagement party. They can’t seem to comprehend that we’re going to need their largest party room plus full access to the private rooftop patio.”
“I thought you said it was going to be a small gathering?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Fifty people is a small gathering, Hudson.”
Moving to the hearth room just beyond the breakfast nook, I take a seat in an overstuffed chair with a sweeping view of the morning tide as it crashes on the rocky shore. One day this house will belong to me, though I haven’t the slightest clue what I’d do with it. I won’t have children to fill it with laughter. I won’t have “couple” friends like my parents do, at least not ones I’d want to cohabitate with for a solid month straight.
I truly won’t have any need for a place like Sea La Vie, and letting it sit empty for months upon months would be a travesty.
There’s a melancholy sadness yet at the same time a quiet emancipation that floods my senses when I let that reality sink in.
“Good morning, darling.” I hear my mother’s voice from the table, and I glance over expecting to see Mari, only it’s Audrina. “Did you sleep well?”
“Always, Helena.” Audrina kisses my mother’s cheek before turning my way. “Good morning, Hudson.” She slinks toward the hearth room, taking a seat across from me.
Dressed in a short yellow sundress that contrasts against her tan skin, she crosses her legs, letting the hem of her skirt slide up her outer thigh, but I refuse to play her little game. Instead, I focus on the rising tide past the picture windows.
“What are you and your lovely bride-to-be planning for the day?” Audrina asks, lashes batting.
“I’m taking Maribel to the market,” I say, still avoiding eye contact.
“Ha.” Audrina rolls her eyes.
“What?”
“That was always our thing,” she says, pushing a quick breath through her nose. “The Saturday morning bazaar.”
“Hey.” Mari places her hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”
“Absolutely.” I rise, taking her hand in mine but keeping my eyes locked on Audrina’s suspicious glare.
“I want to know more about your childhood.” Mari thumbs through a postcard rack beneath a vintage letterpress company’s white tent. Turning to me, she adds, “I just feel like I’m seeing this side of you I never knew existed, and it makes me wonder what else is there.”
“And my childhood has to do with it … why?”
“That’s where it all begins. That’s where you learn how to love and how to be loved. How to treat people, that sort of thing.”
“You know I absolutely hate it when you try to psychoanalyze me.” I pluck a postcard from a nearby rack and read the inscription on the back. It’s used. Why anyone would want to buy an old, used postcard is beyond me.
“I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you,” she says, holding up a card covered in lighthouses and bringing it closer for inspection. “I want to know what makes you tick. I’m beginning to think I had you all wrong from the start.”
“In what ways?”
Mari places the postcard back and secures her bag over her shoulder. I follow her to the next tent, where she proceeds to buy a homemade cinnamon roll from a woman in a white apron.
“We’re splitting this, by the way,” she says, handing me a second fork as we walk away.
“In what ways did you think you had me wrong from the start?” I ask again.
“I don’t think you’re an asshole … on purpose,” she clarifies. “But I don’t think that’s who you are. I don’t think it’s inherent. I don’t think you get off on being a jerk, I think it’s just this suit of armor you wear because you’ve been hurt.”
Clenching my hand over my heart, I chuckle. “Yes. Poor, broken me.”
“I’m being serious,” she says, shoving the cinnamon roll my way. “Hey, you’re not eating enough of this.”
I take a forkful just to appease her and we continue strolling past stand after stand, weaving through heavy morning crowds.
“I’ve seen this softer side of you, Hudson,” she says, chewing. “I want to know where it came from. And why you try to hide it so much.”
I chuff. “I wouldn’t call myself soft.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” she says. “But you are. You have this kind side. You care for others, I’ve seen it. You don’t make it into a big thing, but you’re a good person—when you want to be. You’re a good son. And you’re a good fake fiancé.”
“I know.”
She laughs.
“Was it hard?” she asks, smile fading. “Being shipped off to school all the time?”
I roll my eyes. “Really? We’re going to talk about this here? Now?”
“I just keep thinking about it and what that would do to a child.” She shakes her head, eyes almost misting.
“It’s quite common in our circles,” I say, posture rigid. “It’s not something I ever cried about, at least maybe not past kindergarten.”
“They shipped you off in kindergarten?” Her jaw falls. “But you were just a baby.”
“Don’t look at me like that, Mari.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel sorry for me.”
“But I do. It’s really sad,” she says, sighing. “They kept you at an arm’s length. They loved you from a distance. It explains everything.” She takes another bite of cinnamon roll, chewing quickly before swallowing it all in one lump. “That laid the entire foundation for your adult love life. You realize that, don’t you?”
I laugh. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re thirty years old and you’ve only ever had one girlfriend, right?”
“Right.”
“And you prefer one-night stands, no-strings, casual hook ups, that sort of thing,” she states it like it’s a fact. “You don’t do romance. You don’t do relationships. You don’t want to settle down or get married—at least not in the legitimate sense.”
“What are you getting at?”
She stops cold, pointing her fork at me with a smirk on her face. “You don’t feel worthy of real, true, unconditional love, therefore you push it away before you even have a chance to experience it. Boom. I’m a genius.”