Laken
At this point, all I can safely say about how I handled the situation is that I have some sort of deep-rooted death wish. The ability to stop myself from landing my ass in a whole lot of trouble rerouted from my brain to my mouth. It’s the only way to explain walking away from Niall Mackay and not correcting him about Preston.
Being dick glamoured by way of a sexy Irish accent is no excuse for lying. That’s exactly what you’re thinking, and you’re right, it’s not, even if we’re concocting one big lie together in the first place. But more on that in a minute.
After dropping Preston off on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, I make my way back home to Bed-Stuy after spending a good half hour arguing with Lady Hammerle over the ice cream stains on Preston’s shirt. The only time the woman gives a flying shit about her son is when it benefits her to use him as a prop in public. She may have given birth to him, but she’s no mother.
I can feel judgment here, and if eye rolling burned calories, you’d all be a size double zero. I know you’re all thinking,
“If it’s so bad, then quit. No one is forcing you to work for a bitch.”
Watch Preston and his mother together for five minutes, and you’ll know why I do it.
After realizing she’d be no help in getting my foot into Tate & Cane, I was immediately fed up and ready to quit within the first couple of months. It was like trying to work a miracle with Rachel Cane all over again at NYU, except at least Rachel had been pleasant.
I’d even typed up my resignation letter and carried it around with me every time I showed up at the estate to pick up Preston. But the way that little boy clung to me—even going so far on his sixth birthday as to tell me his wish was for me to take him home and be his mom—how do you walk away from that?
I’ll tell you how—you don’t. Preston needs me, so I stay and just avoid the bitch to the best of my ability. In a year and a half of working for the woman, I’ve had exactly four run-ins with her. Two of which, now, have happened in the same day.
Throwing my shit on the couch, I plop down and run a hand over my face. Why does the universe hate me? There’s no good reason for doing what I did. Why in the hell did I let him think Preston was mine? Correcting him would’ve been so easy.
“While I will agree to lie to the very people I’m trying to work for, Preston isn’t my kid. I’m a twenty-four-year-old grad student, presently involved in the destruction of my own life.”
What made me shut my mouth and pretend to be a struggling single mom while accepting the most asinine proposal of a lifetime? Who the hell does that?
Me, that’s who. He’d said the magic words that caught my attention and stomped my conscience into a pile of dust.
“Hell, I could ask a lot of other women and they’d do it just for the opportunity to walk into a Tate & Cane party.”
Telling me he was European royalty, or that he had a freezer full of blonde co-eds with big mouths would’ve shocked me less than knowing he worked for Tate & Cane.
Niall Mackay is myin. Three rejection letters would only lead to a fourth, and The Bitch would sooner wrestle in a cobra pit than help me. My one option left had sat across from me, dangling opportunity like a carrot.
Knowing what I’m about to do, I start rationalizing my actions to myself. Sure, it’s technically a lie of omission, but it’s not like I’m willingly deceiving him, and it’s not like he’s a shining rose of innocence in all this. I never told him Preston was mine; he’d just assumed. It’s his fault for assuming, right? I never actually verified his assumption, I just didn’t deny it.
Technically, that isn’t a full-blown lie. It’s more like a lie-ette. You can’t come back from a huge lie, but lie-ettes are explainable. Besides, this isn’t all about my career gains. Niall’s getting something out of this charade too, and despite our unconventional meeting, I kind of like the guy. I’m interested in what he has to say, and not just listening to that sexy Irish accent—although Ireallywouldn’t mind hearing it while horizontal and sweaty.
I don’t even recognize myself around him. I smile. I lean into him. I bat my freaking eyelashes. When was last time I batted anything at anyone? Did I even do it right, or did he think I’d lost a contact lens?
No, this is wrong.
I know it’s wrong. As I squeeze the life out of my phone, staring at it like it has all the answers in the world, I know it’s wrong. A decent person would call him and cancel the date, blurt out the truth, and then change their number.
That’s brave, right? Certainly not the chickenshit way out.
But if he knew how hard I’d worked—how one word from someone on the inside could change the rest of my life—he’d understand. He seems sympathetic to my plight as a single mom, and this ruse of ours hurts no one. Honestly, what’s the harm in it?
I know I’m notreallya single mom. There’s no plight. Okay, there’s a plight, but it’s me and my aversion to panhandling for crusts of bread.
I sit and mull it all over. The longer I hold my phone, the more I know what I need to do. I’ve waited too damn long for this and worked too hard to ignore an opportunity when it falls into my lap.
I’m going to accept the invitation to attend a Tate & Cane gala with Niall Mackay as his fiancée. It’s a win-win. Niall needs me on his arm to keep the vulture lady away. I need to be on his arm to get a foot in the door to my future. I’ll figure out the rest along the way.
I hope.
***
The next morning, I stare at the text, my toothbrush hanging out as paste foams around my mouth
