5. Leah #2
“It smelled like stories,” Rowan elaborates. “Like the possibility of new beginnings, mixed with espresso because the bookstore café was right next to where we were standing.”
Madeline laughs, and I smile. On the outside, I play along and pretend as if Rowan’s fictional description of how we met is a fond memory. But on the inside, my head is screaming at me as I try to remind myself that this is all just an act and not to get swept off my feet.
It feels as if I’m sitting next to the man I would have wanted to meet in that bookstore scenario. Rowan’s hand still holds mine against his lap, and when he sweeps another strand of hair from his face, the room suddenly feels too small.
When dinner is served, and everyone gathers at the table together, the dynamic changes palpably.
Madeline is still friendly and engaging, and honestly, I’m starting to feel truly awful about lying to this woman.
But with Kian and his father now sitting at either end of the table, I feel a new sort of pressure fall over everyone.
Kian is putting on an extra layer of hollow charm, as if going out of his way to act like my presence here is no big deal.
Their father is on the opposite side of the spectrum.
Instead of engaging with his family, Mr. Oliver sits there aloof, distant, and barely saying two words between sips of his drink and forkfuls of food. It doesn’t even seem like he’s listening, more like he’s a warm body filling a seat at the head of the table.
Even when I attempt small talk to break through the moments of awkward silence, it’s met with merely a nod or a dry and disingenuous “fascinating” before silence returns.
My nerves start to itch beneath my skin as Declan and Emmett talk about various business ventures, and Kian continues to empty the glass sitting in front of him on the table.
The guys’ father nods along absently, and even Madeline’s mood seems to dampen. Her body language reads more like someone sitting next to their sperm donor, rather than a husband they are madly in love with.
Honestly, I don’t blame her. If she knew what a lying sack of shit Kian is, I’d imagine his charm would have much less effect.
I glance around at everyone’s plates and realize that this dinner is far from over. I hope there isn’t a dessert to follow or more “family time” with an aperitif when we’re finished at the table. I’m not sure how much more of this I can stomach, even with Rowan still squarely beside me.
“It’s an interesting idea,” Kian says, almost as if he’s taunting his brother. “But Rowan, I’m not sure even you could pull off an architectural stunt like that.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about since I’ve been too preoccupied trying to read the body language in the room, but whatever it is that Kian is challenging his brother on, Rowan doesn’t seem to take it kindly.
Kian laughs. “I mean, not everything that you sketch out on paper can turn into a building.”
Declan says nothing. He’s the most measured one in the room, but his eyes reveal that he’s keenly attentive to everything around him, unlike his father. He pulls a pen from his suit jacket, the one that Rowan said his eldest brother might forgo for once, and hands it to Rowan.
“Perhaps if you could show us what you mean, it would make more sense to our skeptical brother,” Declan says.
Kian rolls his eyes and takes another swallow from his glass.
“Forget it,” Rowan says dismissively. “I’m not wasting my time dumbing things down for Kian.”
Both twins glare across the table at each other as Madeline reaches her hand up to touch the side of her husband’s shoulder before smoothly changing the topic. I give her credit; she’s good at de-escalating. She must have a lot of practice.
Even though the conversation moves on to something else, my nerves remain. I glance at the pen on the table beside Rowan’s plate and reach for it without anyone paying much attention. In my lap, the stiffly pressed napkin makes for an inviting drawing surface.
Is it appropriate for me to deface one of Declan’s fancy napkins? Probably not. But I’m sure he has enough money to buy millions more if he so desires.
Doodling calms my nerves. The feeling of the pen strokes against the top of my thigh as I draw on the napkin in my lap.
One little pointed ear, then another, then the bushy little tail that whisks behind it as if implying motion. I half-listen to the conversation, glancing up every so often, but most of my attention is on the little fox taking shape in my lap.
For a moment, I feel calm and collected, slipping into the little fox’s story that’s lived in my head for years. One day, this story will be on bookshelves. One day, I’ll write and illustrate children’s books of my own. And one day—
My train of thought is abruptly interrupted by the touch of Rowan’s hand beneath the table.
I glance up at him quickly and see his eyes looking down at the doodle in my lap.
His expression is curious, interested, and still quiet.
But it’s not the look in his eyes that startles me the most; it’s the way his finger traces the outline of the fox in my doodle and the reaction my body has to feeling his touch against the top of my thigh.
Warmth spreads from that one point of contact, up between my legs, and I instinctively press my thighs together.
His finger stops. Just for a second. Then it picks up the line of the fox’s tail again, as if nothing happened, and he says nothing. He notices everything, I’m learning. He just doesn’t say so.
Then he stops tracing the fox and gives my hand a squeeze before he turns his attention back to his family.
I crumple up the napkin.
After dinner, the guys have one last drink and talk business, while Madeline and I stand outside on the balcony enjoying the fresh air and gentle hum of the city below.
I don’t expect her to say what comes next.
“I think Kian is cheating on me.”
The words are as sharp as a blade and as blunt as a bludgeon. It comes out of nowhere, her private admission to another woman that she has literally just met—the same woman who accidentally kissed her husband at the gala—that she suspects infidelity within her marriage.
I stand there, completely speechless, reaching for something to say but unable to bring myself to lie to this woman.
Then Madeline makes it even harder for me to keep up this lie.
“I can see the difference in him, the way that he looks at me and talks to me, as if he’s got something to hide,” she continues. “I’m not even focused on the pain or betrayal of it; just the frustration that I’m being deceived is enough to weigh on me.”
She rubs the front of her bulging stomach as if comforting the little life growing inside, and something inside of me breaks for her.
I remember my promise to the brothers, and I agree that stressing out a pregnant woman facing a high-risk pregnancy is a bad move.
But it sure as hell seems like her own doubts about her husband are already stressing her out.
And I simply cannot keep the truth from Madeline if she already suspects that Kian is cheating.
It would be morally wrong. And there’s already someone filling those shoes—Kian.
“Madeline,” I say slowly. “I know how it feels to be lied to, and I am not going to lie to you. I think we both deserve the truth. And the truth is that I was dating Kian.”
Her eyes widen, but she says nothing.
“That kiss at the gala wasn’t an accidental mix-up.
I knew it was Kian, and at the time, I still believed that he was my single boyfriend.
I had no idea about you, or the baby, or even Kian’s brothers and family.
He lied to me about all of it. You’re not the only one who has been cheated on and deceived. ”
For a long moment, she just looks at me, and I wait for her reaction—yelling or maybe even a slap. But that doesn’t happen.
She turns to the railing and grips it with both hands. “How long?”
“Eight months.”
She closes her eyes. I can see her doing the math, lining it up against her own calendar. When she opens them again, her voice is quieter and shaking. “Longer than I’ve been pregnant.”
I nod. “I didn’t know about you. I swear to you, Madeline, I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.” Her knuckles turn white as her grip tightens on the railing. “Did he tell you he loved you?”
I hesitate, and that’s answer enough.
I think she’s going to walk back inside, but she doesn’t. She takes a deep breath, and her shoulders drop. When she looks at me again, her eyes soften. She looks hurt, but not surprised, and not nearly as angry as I felt when I first discovered that I was being lied to.
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” she says with a measured tone, as if compartmentalizing her feelings now. “But why the whole act with Rowan then?”