Page 56 of Brazen Deceits

He drags me along, still staring at his phone. “I knew you needed a fake, and for some shitty reason, I never made it for you. I started it, I just…didn’t finish.”

It’s my turn to stop him. “Is the fake ID mission critical or something?”

“No. I just didn’t do it. It’s literally what I do, and I dropped the ball.”

I watch the cars inching down the street next to us, trying to figure out how to react. This is the apology I’m getting? And it’s not even an apology—he’s just pissed at himself—thishas nothing to do with me. I’m just an, I don’t know, accessory to his own problems.

Pulling my hand out of his, I wish I were anywhere else besides standing on a sidewalk in downtown Chicago with Walker. “Fine. I’ll just go back to the hotel or something, if getting drunk is this important.”

“Damn it, Clara, that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

I glare at him. “I know you’re mad at yourself over some stupid mistake you made. But it has nothing to do with me. And then you drag me away from food, because, what? You have a hankering for a gin and tonic? Walker, I don’t get what’s going on here. Have we stopped talking about boring shit, too? Are we avoiding all kinds of communication now?”

“You tell him, girl,” a woman yells as she passes.

Walker tsks at her back. “No. I bribed the restaurant to give us meals to go. We have to be back in fifteen minutes to pick them up. There’s a liquor store another block down. I thought we’d pick up drinks for the weekend.”

“I don’t have to drink.”

“I know. I just, I wanted you to have the option.”

“Oh.”

We stare at each other, neither of us willing to back down.

Are we just moving on? No apologies? No fixes? So far, not a damn thing that’s come out of Walker’s mouth has felt all the way true. He’s not trying to protect me. And as much as I have no desire to be contained, I’m not even sure he’s trying to take decisions from me. There’s something else, something bigger, deeper, messier at play.

But without him telling me? We’re just playing emotional whack-a-mole. Yay for psychological arcade games.

I look at this man, this beautiful, talented, kind, caring man, and I just can’t see how to get back to that night in my bed, that moment where everything coalesced, where I finally felt free to hope for something more, something better.

I swear, I see the same desire reflected in his gaze.

But how?

I’m not apologizing. Not for that night.

But now? Did I overreact?

“I didn’t mean to get mad, Walker. Next time, could you, I don’t know, tell me what’s going on?”

He watches a car inch past us. “I’ll try.”

Good God. Not another half-assed “try.”

“Okay,” I say, refraining from letting my disbelief color my tone.

I must have succeeded, because he offers me a smile, tugging me up beside him, wrapping his arm around my waist. And it feels so good. Why is this so easy, but everything else is so hard?

An hour later, Walker and I have claimed the hotel’s rooftop courtyard for ourselves, feasting while overlooking the lake. We stole spare blankets from the room, and we’re both bundled up, giggling over a bottle of wine and some pork shoulder.

“So,” he asks, “what’s your favorite place you’ve evervisited?”

I shake my head, the alcohol already buzzing in my veins. “You first.”

He sips the wine, his cheeks rosy. “Hmm. I think New York has been my favorite so far, but I can’t wait until I visit Europe. The museums there, Clara! I can practically smell them! Mmm…they smell like dreams and beauty. But until that halcyon day? New York is the winner.”

I laugh, high on good food, good wine, and finally,finallygood company. “So it’s all the art, all the time with you?”