Blank slate
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AIDEN
I swivel in my office chair, staring at the screen. After lying to Linnea, saying I needed to do something, I’ve been trying to do anything that would seem urgent enough to justify breaking her trust like that.
Fuck, I saw it in her face, she sensed something was up.
But having the Aurato man come to my door, asking for me to come see the family like that, it was upsetting. And I’m not ready to tell her about it all.
I don’t know how to get the words out.
What if she thinks ‘like father, like son’ as I’ve heard throughout my life.
From Mum mostly, but the Beckers too. They all mean well…
Mark and Sebastian have also been compared to their dads their entire lives—by mothers, teachers, friends of the family.
Which I’m well aware Sebastian hates even more than I do. His dad is a cold fucking arsehole.
I loved being compared to my dad when I was little, until I learned what I learned at twenty-three. Since then, I’d rather someone said I’m just like my mum. Which I know is true in so many ways.
Maybe Linnea wouldn’t compare me at all. She struggles with her parents too, clearly, although I’m not sure why. I should’ve asked. So many times I’ve had the chance to ask about her past, to learn more about her. But I’m scared she’ll ask me back.
I’m failing Linnea.
“Fuck!” I throw a pen across the room and it hits the front of the bookshelf with a clack, and lands somewhere behind the half-circle green couch that, together with the round coffee table, takes up the centre of the room. I hate that couch. I hate the boring table.
This is not a Linnea design, that’s one reason I don’t like this room.
And because this is where I do the part of my job I don’t enjoy, like reviewing budgets.
I don’t hate it because the numbers are bad.
My company’s doing well, but I detest the time-suck of it because it’s not about the money. I don’t care about it.
For me, all this is not some clever strategy and grand plan to take over Mayfair the way I sometimes portray it.
It’s a thrill. And I just happen to have a knack for it.
That’s what this room reminds me of. The things I’m pushing away while keeping the noise up around me.
Here, it’s just me and the room.
It’s too quiet here.
So quiet I can hear my thoughts, and often they veer into Dad-territory.
To all the unanswered questions. And the uncertainty around why he visited Italy without Mum, if he really cheated on her, or if I’ve misinterpreted the letters and their mention of the woman he was meant to marry.
And worst of all … in the quiet, I dwell on not knowing for sure he loved Mum the way he told me.
Whether it was true that he was happiest with us. With me.
I’ve been escaping from this. From all the questions I don’t have answers to. But lately, Florence has been pulling on me. It hit me hard today, and I couldn’t figure out how to tell Linnea.
The man, the Aurato messenger boy. When he said my family was thrilled to hear I’d been in the shop, and that I’d shown interest in reuniting, I couldn’t breathe from the shock.
That’s not what I did, though. Was it? That’s not why I took Linnea there.
We just happened to need to go shopping.
But of all the places we could’ve gone… I chose Casa Aurato.
I defied the screaming in the back of my head, and I went there.
Even though I was aware of the history. Maybe I was hoping for something.
Fuck, I wish I could talk to her about all this. But I wouldn’t even know how to start. It’s been a fucking mess in my head for thirteen years and now adding the idea of meeting my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins…
They’re strangers, but a part of me longs to see how they are.
If I could belong with them. With a large family.
Like Mark’s. He has devoted parents and four younger siblings.
I’ve always had just Mum, and although she’s been the best Mum I could ask for, and the Beckers and the Beauchamps always welcomed me with open arms, it wasn’t the same. But could this be?
I’m scared, though.
Terrified it will just be a painful reminder that they knew a side of Dad I never did. The side of him that makes my lungs constrict and my fists itch with the need to punch something. I did that the one time. Won’t do that again.
Maybe they could fill in the blanks. They could tell me what the letters I read from them to my dad never elaborated on. I’ve tried to make sense of it, but all I gather is he lied to Mum. He lied to me. And I’m not sure who he was.
“Fucking shite,” I breathe and lean my forehead onto the desk a bit harder than intended. “Ouch.” I stare at the off-white carpet, willing it to tell me what to do. What would Linnea do?
If the roles were reversed, she would tell me. I’m sure of it.
She definitely wouldn’t be lying to me.
It’s not that big of a deal, though. Is it? It’s just about my dad. It’s not like I’m doing what he did. I’m not sneaking around, leading a double life.
Oh, except I do have the one secret. Le Lounge.
Shit.
I had the chance to tell her when she asked about my past in the car that day, but it would’ve ruined the moment. It wasn’t the right time.
Thinking of Linnea, her trusting eyes on me—I know I need to stop all of this.
I have to resign from Le Lounge.
As for the family… I don’t want them confirming my worst fears about my father. It’s easiest and best to leave them in the past. All done and dusted, and I’ll focus fully on her.
I sit back up in my chair, fuelled by the decision.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
Blank slate.
Although, I will tell her about my dad. Soon. But after the wedding, just in case it blows up.
It won’t.
I roll my chair closer to the desk and shake my mouse to wake the computer. It takes only a minute to flick an email to Le Lounge telling them I’m resigning from the club.
Easy. That was easy. No more Le Lounge.
That should make me feel better than it does, but at least I’m not lying to Linnea by omission anymore. I can let this all go and find Linnea and enjoy her.