Page 133 of A Perfect Fit

Lies. All lies.

It turns out she’s been putting on a mask the whole time. A facade.

“How could you do that to Dad?” I ask, my voice breaking.

My suit’s too tight, like it’s about to suffocate me. I feel like the walls are slowly closing in on me, and the ground’s going to swallow me up at any second now. Even breathing hurts.

I take a step back and face Andrew. “How could you betray my dad like that? He was one of your closest friends.”

Andrew’s face sags, his shoulders slumping.

And then it hits me—the endless arguing between my parents before they got divorced, the hurt look I saw on Dad’s face so many times.

“Did he know?” I croak out, facing Mom again.

She glances down at the floor.

They say that silence speaks louder than words. I never believed it until now.

Mom sniffles. “Your dad sent you away to London because he didn’t want you to find out about the affair. Not when it was a crucial time in your schooling and when you would be preparing for college applications soon.”

I resented Dad for sending me away when he only wanted to protect me. When he was the one hurting the most.

Fuck. I was a terrible son.

Bile burns at the back of my throat. “What about Lucy?” My gaze darts desperately between Mom and Andrew.

Does Lucy know about this? Are we only half-siblings?

Mom shakes her head. “No, she doesn’t.” She swallows. “And she’s not from …” Her eyes close. “The affair …”

Her voice is distant, muffled, like she’s above the ocean while I’m drowning and underwater, brutal tidal waves pulling me deeper and deeper until there’s only darkness surrounding me. Nothingness.

Maybe I am drowning.

“I have to go,” I say, the words sounding forced.

And then I turn to leave. Start heading down the hallway because there’s nothing else to say.

“Jackson, wait!” Mom cries.

She reaches for my arm, but I shake off her grip.

“Please don’t touch me.”

Ignoring the pain filling her eyes, I keep walking ahead, hearing Andrew’s voice from behind. “Give him some time, Suzanne.”

As I head for the exit, my team members—people who’ve now come back from lunch—stare at me, wide-eyed. They probably overheard everything, and now everyone knows.

My head pounding, I brush past everyone, taking the elevator down to the lobby and heading outside the office building.

I trudge along the sidewalk, weaving my way through the hustle and bustle of the Flatiron District, directionless and lifeless, like a zombie, as Mom and Andrew’s conversation replays in my head, a broken record.

“He’s my son, too.”

Even when I bypass my favorite halal cart, the usually tempting scents of aromatic spices and sizzling meat smell like nothing.

Ironically though, when I reach the entrance to a local bar, I don’t hesitate to enter, ordering a Heineken at the bar table.