Page 49 of The Masks We Burn

I aggressively tell my heart and dick when I hear her say the words. It’s been an established fact for over a month, but to hear her say it out loud does something to my blood pressure.

Her dad, who’s a few inches shorter than me, is broad, dressed in a tailored blue suit and has salt and pepper hair. He’s fit, and his handshake is firm. “I’ve heard a lot about you, William. All the guys tell me you’re a monster in the cage.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He releases my hand before holding up his. “Please, Alex. I’ll be sitting in on your next match tomorrow.”

I manage a tight smile, trying not to think of how little fighting means to me now. “It’s an honor, sir.”

Her mother steps closer to her husband, extending a delicate hand. “And I haven’t heard enough. It’s a pleasure, William.”

After shaking her hand, we all sit at the round table, a waiter appearing immediately out of nowhere. He takes our drink order and Mr. Orlov asks for brunch at the table.

I don’t realize my foot is bouncing until a soft hand presses on my thigh. My eyes flash to a grinning Amora, and I relax a little more seeing her so relaxed.

Looking around, it’s easy to see Amora belongs in a place like this. Just like downstairs, everything is fancy, designer-made, and not a hair out of place on anyone here. They all look so perfect, as if their whole lives are going according to plan without an inconvenience in sight. My lungs squeeze in my chest, remembering how easy it is for the high to fall.

“Besides wanting to marry our beautiful daughter, and fighting at my husband’s club, tell us more about you, William.” Mrs. Orlov takes a small bite of the croissant left by the waiter, her eyes a faded color of blue.

I smile, deciding to go with the bare minimum. Amora seems to think less is more, and I need to come off as some rich guy who can afford to marry her. “I’m currently a senior at Whitman, majoring in sports nutrition. While I am the co-owner of one of the largest potato and vegetable farms in Idaho, I plan to explore options in the nutritional field.”

“A farm. How quaint,” she replies, passing a quick look to Amora. I can’t get a read on either of them but it’s easy to feel the air is strained. “And what of your fighting career?”

“Well, if you’re as good as they say, I’d love to see you in a champion fight,” her father adds.

Nodding, I take a drink of water, mulling over the possibility. Maybe a champion fight would give me the feeling I’ve been missing. The stakes are higher, the reward more profound. “I think that’d be great, sir.”

I guess having decided she’s heard enough to satisfy her, Mrs. Orlov begins talking about her family. I learn they came from California about a decade ago and started making their fortune with the fighting club. I hear how it started off small, underground, and grew into the elite club it is today. They used the money from the first few big-name fights and invested in motels, and shortly after buying and building hotels all over Washington. It’s clear to see Amora’s dad worked twenty-four seven while her mom took care of her at home.

Perhaps it explains why she wants Amora to marry someone well off.

The food arrives, and thankfully it’s common practice to eat in silence. Every few moments, I glance over at Amora, careful not to let my eyes linger. She seems relaxed, but there’s something I can’t quite place, pulling down her shoulders and forcing her to keep a dull smile on her face.

“What’s in the box, dear?” Amora’s mother motions to the forgotten sweets at the edge of the table, as it’s cleared off by the waiter.

“Oh, Amora made some of her blueberry muffins. They are incredible. I may have had one on the ride over.” I give a quick wink to Amora and grin at the way her wide blue eyes are crinkled at the side from her broad smile.

“Ah, always the homemaker, my daughter. I know you’re happy she’ll keep that strong body of yours fed.”

“It’s one of many amazing attributes your daughter has,” I reply, not taking my eyes off Amora. It’s so rare I get to see a real smile from her, and I don’t want to miss a second of it.

A soft laugh comes from across the table, but I hear the edge in it. Almost as if what I’ve said was the worst joke she’s heard all year. This forces me to look at her, though I’m not happy about it.

Mrs. Orlov tilts her head to the side, a smug expression ruining her prestigious features. “I’m sure she does. But believe me, hermaritalattributes are the best.”

“No, I don’t think so.” I take a drink of the water before placing a hand over Amora’s. She tenses slightly but doesn’t move.

“What do you mean, dear? She’s well-versed in cooking, cleaning, baking, I mean, what else could you want? You have the perfect woman to care for your home and children.”

Little by little, I’m piecing together Amora’s childhood. So far what I’ve gathered is that her father is too weak, or too absent to stand up to his wife, and her mother thinks very little of her. A heavy weight settles in my chest as I wonder what Amora had to go through in her youth with her only expectation to be a good housekeeper to a man.

“We don’t know if we want children. Amora is still undecided on possible career paths, and I don’t want her to rush into a job of complacency.”

“No children? A career?” Mrs. Orlov scoffs, her pearls clutched in her hand. “What are you going on about? Of course, she’ll have children. What does she need with a job when she has you?”

“Will.” Amora’s hand slips from under mine and clutches around my knee. I don’t flinch like I normally do when someone grazes it, and I use that to fuel me.

“With all due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Orlov, Amora is not going to bejusta wife. Like anyone else, she wants to find her purpose. Find out what drives her forward. I fully support her in her endeavors whether she wants to work for the rest of her life, or sit at home being a couch bum watching anime. It’s what I signed up for when I asked her to marry me.”

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