Page 44 of A Win-Win Situation
"Thanks, Leora. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll stay here at the hotel. Speaking of which, I’m going to go and say hi to Ammo Antoine. It was nice meeting you, Leora."
As Liam walks off, an awkward silence envelops Lucas and me. I turn to face him, our fingers still intertwined. His jaw is clenched tight, and he takes a swig of his whiskey. His demeanor has changed; the hint of warmth in his smile from a few moments ago has morphed into the pensive curve of his lips.
"Are you alright?"
Lucas grunts in response, his gaze locked on the amber liquid in his glass.
"Are you sure?" I press gently, hoping to break through the wall he's built up. With that question, he lets go of my hand, and I feel a pang of coldness where his warm fingers were.
"I'm fine," he mutters before downing the last of his drink in one swift motion. I try to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest and concentrate on the task at hand: making him relax.
We can do this.I need this to work.
This is my chance to start over, to prove that I can make something of myself. Lucas is the ticket to that future.
I take a deep breath and reach for his hand, hoping to offer him some comfort. But he pulls away, leaving me feeling foolish and rejected. I watch as he retreats further into his own thoughts, pondering whether we’ll ever manage to bridge thegap between us. Or if this is what the next year will look like, two strangers, bound together by a piece of paper and selfish desires, counting down the days until it all comes to an end.
SEVENTEEN
LUCAS
He’s actually here.
How did he even manage to show up? When did he arrive? And most importantly,why?
It's been six months since we last spoke, and I can't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards him, even though I know I should be the responsible older brother and support him. But then again, he's a grown man who claims he doesn't need anyone to tell him what to do.
After our conversation—if one can even call it that—I couldn't focus on anything else.
Not even Leora’s attempts to comfort me could break through the haze of my thoughts, so I chug what’s left in my whiskey glass. There’s a fleeting pang of guilt from when I caught the hurt in her eyes, but right now, there’s not much I can do.
Whatever it is that she wants to know, I’m not ready to talk about just yet.
For the next hour, we put on a show for our guests, as if nothing ever happened—holding hands, exchanging smiles, and engaging in light conversation. Whenever a question about how we met comes up—a conversation we’ve yet to have, mainlybecause I hadn't anticipated a wedding—Leora smiles and says something about social media and how I "slid into her DM's." Whatever that means. I’m not a big social media guy, and I’d rather live without it, but I have to say, I prefer that narrative over the truth. I’d rather be the stalker she paints me to be than the weird man who propositioned a woman to be his fake wife in exchange for money and a job.
The press would have a field day with that one.
As the event draws to a close, my attention lands on Leora, who’s standing next to my uncle, laughing at whatever he’s saying. I maneuver through the crowd, making my way towards them. Strangely, seeing her beside him almost makes me happy about the situation we’re in.
"Let’s go," I say abruptly, catching both of them off guard.
"Go where?" she says with a puzzled look on her face.
"Home."
"What do you mean? I'm staying here."
"I mean," I say, my voice determined, "that you're coming home with me." Her expression shifts from surprise to disbelief. She turns to my uncle, seemingly for confirmation, but he simply looks back at me, a glimmer of approval in his eyes.
Her arms cross in front of her chest as she retorts, "No, I'm not."
I can practically feel the stubbornness radiating off her, and a headache is starting to form, but I try to keep my tone composed, despite the need to drag her out of the hotel. "Yes, you are."
Leora shakes her head, her voice laced with a challenge. "Why can't I stay at the hotel?"
"I’m not going to argue about this. You’re staying with me." I lower my voice. "How do you expect people to believe we’re newlyweds if you stay at my hotel?"
I watch as her shoulders tense up, and her demeanor shifts as if she's about to start an argument. But then, after a second,she relaxes slightly, probably coming to her senses and realizing I’m right, or she’s simply too tired to argue. She concedes with a resigned tone. "Fine. But I need my stuff."
