Now I can’t help but wonder if he could say the same.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LYDIA
“I’m going to need an identity of some kind,” I tell Luca Monday afternoon, when he slides a fat envelope across my assistant manager’s desk. It’s a tiny office, the size of a bathroom maybe. A desk, a computer, no windows. It reeks of stale kitchen scents and could use a more comfortable chair, but I demanded, he delivered, and that’s all that matters.
“What are you talking about?” He shuts the door.
“I’d love to, you know, open a bank account to put this money in at some point.” In any other scenario, it would be wrong to accept a thousand bucks in cash for literally sitting on my ass all day browsing the internet. But given the last nine years and everything I’ve missed out on, my conscience is happily making an exception. “Kind of need that so I can get an apartment . . . a car . . . basic life things.”
His hands rest at his narrow hips. “How’ve you been getting by the last several months?”
“Oh, you mean grifting and working under-the-table jobs for pennies on the dollar? Hired by people who had no qualms about taking advantage of my situation?” I don’t blink, don’t miss a beat. “Sleeping in homeless shelters and on park benches?” I lean forward, elbows sliding across my desk. “I’m done surviving, Luca. I want to live.”
His shoulders slump, and he drags a hand through his hair, which catches on his polished wedding band.
I don’t envy this man.
Merritt is his rock, and I’m his hard place—he’s caught between us.
“Listen, I know this arrangement isn’t going to last forever,” I say. “Nor do I want to have to come in here and see your face five days a week, because it represents some life truths I don’t want to have to think about on a regular basis. But . . . this is the way it has to be. I’ve thought about this from every angle, and this is the simplest way to make this fair.”
His lack of response is a silent agreement.
He doesn’t need to know I’ve no plans to use the stolen identity I’m requesting—I simply need to buy time so I can continue to save money, and this was a logical solution given my extraordinarily unusual circumstances. It’s not like he can strut down to the big box store on the south side of town in his Italian leather loafers, slap down his black AmEx, and order me a new identity. The longer this takes, the more thousand-dollar paydays I’ll collect, and the closer I’ll be to living out the rest of my life the way it was always supposed to be.
No one ever said life was fair, and I’m living proof.
“If you don’t mind, I should probably get back to work,” I say with a wink. Pointing to the door and making a shooing motion with my hand, I add, “Close it on your way, please.”
Luca lingers, studying me with a quiet intensity as if he’s taking me in for the first time all over again.
And then he’s gone.
I can’t imagine the cocktail of thoughts filling his head. If he’d have an actual conversation with me, I’d be happy to tell him there’s no sense in worrying. Everything’s going to work out exactly the way it should.
For everyone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MERRITT
“All I ever wanted was a family of my own,” I tell Lydia over lunch Tuesday afternoon. I haven’t seen her since last week, but I’ve driven past the restaurant every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of something—though I don’t know what.
Today I stopped in to say hello to my husband and happened to catch his first wife on break in her office—alone, thank God. On a whim, I had the chef whip up a couple of lobster mac and cheeses and cozied up to her desk for an impromptu lunch date.
The baby is scheduled to arrive next Wednesday, the C-section planned for eight AM with a check-in at seven. I have a week to get to know Lydia better, to vet out what she really wants, and to show her I’m only human in hopes that she won’t do anything to tear my beautiful little family apart.
“My mother was something else,” I say. “I was always so in awe of her. She had this larger-than-life presence about her. And not just because she was gorgeous. I mean, she was, but that wasn’t where her strength lay. She was the kind of person who refused to take crap from anyone. She had this invisible steely exterior. You couldn’t offend her, couldn’t hurt her. It also made her a little distant, you know? Hard to get to know. I admired her as a woman, but I always thought I could do a little better as a mother.”
“And are you?” Lydia asks. “Are you a better mother than she was?”
“I like to think so, yes.” I dab my lips, leaving a tinge of scarlet lipstick on the napkin. “She once told me that she loved us in an obligatory way, that she was doing the best she could. Having children was fulfilling a marital expectation. Her generation was like that, I think. It’s just what you did back then. Anyway, she sent us away to boarding school the first chance she got. And I spent a lot of years hating her for it—wishing she could be a quote-unquote normal mother. Only now, I realize there’s no such thing. Only people trying their best at an impossible job.”
I pause to take a bite, hoping my words sink in. Opening up to people isn’t a forte of mine, but if this means securing the safety of my family, I’ll do it.
My mother took her own life the day after my eighteenth birthday—sleeping pills and a steady stream of carbon monoxide courtesy of her champagne-gold Aston Martin. I realized then that it didn’t matter how strong a person was, how resistant they were to criticism and judgment—life could still wear a person down if they weren’t in their own driver’s seat. At least she died in hers.
My mother had a beautiful life—but it was never one that she had an ounce of control over.
My father had full command over that ship, which is why I’ve purposely built our marital relationship on equal grounds. There’s a fine line between loving someone and submitting to them. It requires balance, intention, and action. I like to think I’ve mastered it thus far. God forbid my efforts go to waste.
“What about your mother—is she still around?” I ask, not wanting to dominate the conversation too obviously.
“She died when I was in high school.” There’s no emotion in Lydia’s voice, not even a hint of a wince on her plain face.
“I’m so sorry.” I stretch a hand over her desk but she withdraws, reaching for her water. “It’s nice to have things in common with someone, but not these types of things.”
“She was weak,” Lydia says with zero emotion in her voice. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
I don’t ask the details—it isn’t polite to pry. Besides, her lunch break is ending soon, and I need to wrap this up and leave on a powerful note.
“Luca had a terrible childhood; you know that, right?” I focus on my husband next, building sympathy for him as well. “His parents were just awful to him. He hasn’t spoken to them in years. I’ve only met them once. He won’t let them anywhere near Elsie. He’s so protective of her.”
“Yes, he’d told me all about them when we were married,” Lydia says. Her stare floats to the side, as if she’s reminiscing.