Page 19 of The Masks We Burn
“I’m what some may call broken. My future isn’t concrete, and I’m stuck in an odd sorta limbo till I figure it out.”
“You are not broken. Don’t say that.”His mother’s voice is clear, meaning she’s right next to him, and I envy their ability to be so open with each other.
“Alright, I gotta go. Text me if you need anything else like my shoe size, or blood type.”
I grunt, rolling my eyes as I loosen my grip from around my phone.
“Okay. Thanks.” I hang up, fully frazzled from the brief conversation, but try my best not to linger on the way his words connected with me. How maybe we are two embers of the same fire and that’s why he was so easily able to read me.
But I don’t want to think about that. It will make him too human. And for this to work, I need him to be nothing more than the asshole I know him as.
I hurry back through the restaurant and to my table. “Sorry about that.”
My parents grin as I sit, and I don’t waste any time, too afraid I’ll forget everything he said. I do a quick spiel, but then get to the part where I have to fulfill my end of the deal. “So anyway, a friend of his is part of your Orlov Association and thinks William would do really well there.”
I take another bite of my waffle, focusing on the plethora of flavors to keep my shaking hand still. Vanilla. Some cinnamon. A touch too much salt.
“Really?”
Nodding, I dare a look and see my father eyeing me over his water glass. His expression is calm, his head’s tilted slightly as though he’s genuinely curious.
“I told him I didn’t know much about it, but I’d thought it would be a nice surprise if he received an invite.”
“Well, I can’t deny my daughter’s future husband now, can I?” This tone is a little more tight. “Just send me his number and I’ll have it taken care of.”
“Just like that?” The nerves in my body are working overtime, butterflies long gone and a horrid stamping sensation in their place. Today has been incredibly smooth, and I can’t shake the feeling another shoe is getting ready to drop. But I guess that’s the penance for basing everything off a lie.
Another spike of jealousy roars through my blood at the knowledge of William’s parents knowing our plan. I wonder how close they are. What they’re like.
If they’re as infuriating and arrogant as him, or if it’s a trait he acquired after becomingbroken.
But now, with my parents’ approval, and both ends of the deal intact, I guess I just might find out.
CHAPTER NINE
Twenty minutes after I got off the phone with Amora, John called me back and sent me information, as well as an NDA that needed to be signed pretty much immediately to secure a spot for a fight on Sunday. I was sure Amora would come through, but to actually receive the call was fucking exhilarating.
I rode the high the entire time I filled everything out, scanned it back, and made my way to my new apartment. It follows me around as I meet Spencer and have a few beers, laughing about some stuff we saw on YouTube. But then, everything fizzles out in an instant when Spencer drops a vicious bomb.
“Wait. Go back. Rewind all the way to the beginning, bro. You wanna do what?”
Spencer sighs, running a hand through his hair and leaning back into the couch. I’ve known him long enough to know it’s a tell, and whatever is about to come out of his mouth is a boldface lie.
“It’s Lily’s idea, William. I’m just trying to appea—”
“Bullshit.” I point a finger at him as I stand for another beer. “You know good and goddamn well you want it just as much as she does.”
His mouth pops open and part of me dares him to lie again, but instead, he grins, his dimple popping out as he holds his hands up. “Alright, alright. You got me. But look, William, having a joint bachelorette-bachelor party just makes sense. It’s only a dozen of us anyway.”
I grab my third beer from the fridge and check on the onions simmering in the pan. They’re beginning to brown and fragrant enough to stir in my garlic and shortly after, I add in my base of chicken broth, crushed tomatoes, tomato paste, and dash of sugar. It’d been a lie when I’d told everyone I didn’t spend much time in the kitchen.
I’m a farm boy at heart, and I’m pretty sure it’s against some law to not know how to cook the produce you grow. Plus, my dad would remind me about the love language, acts of service. He said one day, my wife might be too tired, or wouldn’t feel like cooking, and I needed to know how. My mom would always hit him with a retort that I belong in the kitchen helping her every day, regardless of love language.
So needless to say, between the two, I’m pretty good behind a stove.
Not as good as Amora.
I grunt at the intrusive thought, stirring in some seasonings. Her lemon salmon was good as hell, but lord knows I don’t plan on telling her that. The girl’s head is so damn big, I’m surprised she hasn’t floated away by now.
