Page 2 of Love Beyond the Illusion
I sigh. “No, I felt guilty.”
“She does have a conscience!” Lina smirks.
I’m the product of an affair and have been aware of that most of my life. My father was no more than a stranger to me. He was a simple man who paid his mistress to keep herself and his daughter a secret.
My father saw me as a burden—he’d already had hisrealfamily, so why did he need another? This was something that never bothered my mother as long as he kept the checks coming. Everything is about money with her. My mother has always been hyper-focused on how fast she can make a quick buck. She has freely discussed what she is entitled to from her lovers to our family. Willthisrelative die so she’d get her small windfall? When wouldthatfamily member pass so she’d finally get the inheritance she thought she deserved?
The realization that my father paid my mother to keep me away became an unwanted passenger through every relationship I’ve had. It didn’t help that my mother only looked at me as her potential income. My parents used me like traded goods. Growing up in that environment left me untrusting, hyper-independent, and unable to feel like I deserved love.
“Don’t act so surprised.” I roll my eyes. “What about you?”
“No, I wasn’t in the mood.” Lina frowns.
“You, not in themood? Me, havingguilt? What the hell is wrong with us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’re both tired of these lackluster men with their inability to use their penises properly?” The side of her mouth quirks up. “Just kidding. I’m flying into Boston next week, and you know what that means? I get to spend my overnight with Boston Jeff, and he’s about a seven out of ten with his natural abilities.”
“Mmm.” I giggle. “Good in bed, but a little more emotional for your liking.”
“Yes.” She runs her tongue along the outside of her teeth. “Now he gets the job done well.”
“He reminds me of Chris. You know, the one I met at the Pike Place Fish Market in Seattle last summer?” I ask.
Lina smiles. “Yes! I remember you were so disgusted by the fish smell everywhere.”
“It was bad.” I giggle. “We should grab a cab soon before Landon and Finn notice that we’re gone,” I interrupt her, suddenly realizing how long we’d been standing in the lobby.
Lina and I were dropped off at the hotel the airline booked for us a short time later.
“I’m starving. Let’s get some pancakes,” I say, gesturing toward a small cafe to the left of the check-in counter.
She arches an eyebrow. “It’s three in the morning.”
“It’s not like we’re going to sleep anytime soon anyway.”
She clicks her tongue. “Fine.”
We walk over to the twenty-four-hour bistro to order pancakes to go. The woman behind the counter looks like a college student hopped up on too much coffee.
While we wait, I glance over at Lina. She’s leaning against the pastry display case, letting out a wide yawn. My best friend is exhausted and should be in bed. We aren’t required to report back to the airport until ten in the morning, which is plenty of time for me, but she’s not a night owl like I am.
I lower my eyes, playfully glaring at her. “Don’t act like you don’t have fun with me whenever we’re on the same flight crew.”
“Oh, I have fun with you.” She takes a finger and rubs the side of her eye. “I just always go home with less sleep than usual.”
Unlike Lina, I’m not tired. My mind is restless at night, and if I were to give in to my urges entirely, I’d hit the hotel gym for a good workout preceding my sleep.
Chapter Two
Jack
AsItravelupthe long, windy driveway to our family property, a rush of fear strikes me that I will be moving back here for the first time in almost ten years. I head up the hill with the windows down, breathing in the scent of the fresh vineyards. I pass the tasting room and parking lot toward the base of the hill, then the wine cellars, barrel rooms, and the sorting and crushing stations. Further, I reach a second gate that leads onto our private property and directly to my parents’ house.
I slow the car to a roll outside the double-swing security gate, punch in the code, and wait for what feels like an eternity to open. The pointed roof of the large rustic country house I grew up in peaks over the incline.
I pull around the circular driveway, park in front of the entrance, and then wave to the gardener, who’s half into the branches of a tree he’s trimming. I stroll around the car, removing the bags from the trunk. It’s not that I don’t want to be home, but I’d rather not be under these circumstances. The finality of everything has weighed on me for almost three months.
“Hello, is anyone home?” I call out, walking into the foyer. There’s no answer. My mother is probably down in the tasting room. I glance at my watch and notice that it’s almost closing time. She should be heading back to the main house any minute.
