Page 14 of Charming Deception

But I’ve held it together this long, I’m not about to cry now over luxurious bedding.

I wonder what the man who lives here is like—this “best friend” of Cole’s—besides having great taste in decor. And why Cole never told me much about him. I’m pretty sure he vaguely mentioned a Jamie he’d been hanging out with a while back, but that was it.

I wander over to the curtains. Soft and white, they cover one whole wall, the muted light of evening glowing through. I draw them open and find tall glass doors that open to a balcony over the lush backyard.

Below, several stone paths meander through the gardens, connecting the patio that wraps around the pool to what appears to be a private path down to the beach. Beyond, I can see the dark waters of Burrard Inlet. And along the far shore, at the base and a little way up the mountains that erupt to the north of the whole Vancouver area, homes glitter as the sun begins to set over the water.

Wow.

I step onto the balcony for a better view of the pool I glimpsed below. My brother is there, settling onto a lounge chair on the poolside patio, talking on his phone. I can barely hear his voice, he’s so far away, but I can tell he’s laughing.

I just hope he’s doing as well as he seems to be. Trusting men is sort of a sore spot, and unfortunately, my brother helped form that wound.

I pull out my phone and take a photo of the view, shirtless athlete included. Then I post it to my Instagram with the vague caption: Room with a view.

I know Troy will be looking at my account, somehow, even though I blocked him, and asking around to try to figure out where I went. But I’m not about to live in fear of him.

This is my life, starting today. It’s not ours anymore.

In truth, it never really was.

Cole’s back is to me, and he’s small in the photo, so you can’t tell who he is. I never post about him. No one who follows my account knows that I’m the little sister of a famous hockey player.

They just know me—or at least my pseudonym—as what I am: a fledgling author who knows a lot of random stuff about plants, voyeuristic sex, and how to survive an apocalypse.

Most of my readers are women who, according to their emails, read me for the sultry postapocalyptic world I created, the gripping survival-struggle story arc, and the hot sex scenes. They’ll eat up that photo, for sure.

Then I text the photo to my friend Nicole, the only other person I know here in Vancouver.

Me: Home sweet home? Temporarily.

I know she’s waiting to hear from me as soon as I arrive. Her response comes in like lightning.

Nicole: Fuck yes! Where the heck are you? Are you okay?? And who’s the hottie?

Me: I’m okay. And there’s no hottie. It’s just Cole. LOL. How are you?

Nicole: Oof. He’s looking good. Call me when you can! I’m on my way to work :(

Me: I will. Let’s chat tomorrow. Enjoy your night!

Nicole: You too! Can’t wait :)

It occurs to me that I could go see her, right now, though I’m relieved she doesn’t ask. I know she’s waitressing at a hot nightclub tonight, out there somewhere in the sparkling city. But I’m emotionally drained, probably still halfway in shock, and sticky with two days’ travel sweat. I’m in no way ready for a night out on the town.

I go find a large towel in the bathroom, and lay it out on the bed, then heft my suitcase onto it. I don’t want the wheels to get dirt on the lovely bedding. I unhook the bungee cords and spread the whole, broken thing open.

Even in my hurry to leave town, the leaving itself was so deliberate, so final, I’d lovingly selected the few things I felt I couldn’t live without and packed them with care.

But I’d jammed them back in so haphazardly after they tumbled out into the street, mostly because that sophisticated, drop-dead-gorgeous man in the expensive suit was watching the whole thing. My life had poured out in front of him, and I’d felt naked, exposed. Pathetic and sad.

I pick through my things now, taking inventory. I’ll have to make the few outfits I brought last awhile. I didn’t bring a swimsuit; it didn’t really seem like a dire necessity when I was trying to fit my entire life into a suitcase and split town.

I find a tank top and shorts I can wear poolside and lay them out on the bed for after my shower. I figure I’ll feel a lot better after I wash up and put on fresh clothes.

But as soon as I strip down and get into the shower, something shifts. I let go of all the composure I’ve gripped so tightly since saying goodbye to Mom yesterday—for her and for my brother and for me—and I break down in tears.

Under the stream of hot water, in total privacy, I let it all out.

---