Page 53 of Pretending I'm Yours

I’ll have to deal with the team at Baxter and Holloway later today—I need to send in my recommendations for my replacement and answer roughly two dozen emails from former colleagues, asking if I’m having a mental breakdown—but for now, we’re safe.

Safe…

I’ve never really considered “safety” all that much. Yes, I grew up in a rough neighborhood, but I had older cousins and friends who ruled our block and always had my back. As I grew up, I learned to be that tough older family member, protecting the younger kids with my fists, if necessary. I’m a naturally big man, and I put in the work at the gym to ensure most people thought twice about starting something with me or the Pissarro clan.

Physical safety is something I’ve been lucky enough to take for granted in my life, but I’m coming to realize I haven’t felt “safe” in other ways for a long time.

Not since my marriage ended, in fact.

When the person who promised to love you for better or worse turns out to be a pathological liar, with no real investment in her vows or in you, it takes a toll. It makes you doubt your capacity to know what love is, whattruthis. Your capacity to feel safe making authentic, vulnerable connections with other people unravels from there, leaving you isolated and alone.

But with Maya…

I’ve never felt so safe, and I’ve never wanted to keep another person safe the way I do with her. I’m so glad her inspector turned out to be someone I don’t know from the neighborhood. If I were sitting back at the apartment while she went to Red Hook alone, I’d be climbing the walls with worry.

Instead, I’m at my favorite deli with my favorite girl, feeling no pain.

“I hope you’re considering extra bacon with whatever you order,” I say as Maya studies the sandwich menu above the counter. “I encourage extra bacon. Two pieces is good, but four is better.”

“Some might say twice as good.” She grins up at me. “And yes, I will be going for extra bacon with my avocado and cheddar cheese on a plain bagel. A girl needs extra protein for surviving her first big city property inspection.”

I hum beneath my breath. “Damn, that sounds good.” I step up to the counter, where one of the new hires, who doesn’t know me as well as Tim, is waiting, proving the universe is on my side this morning. “Two avocado and cheddar cheese with extra bacon on plain toasted bagels, please.”

I pass over my credit card, she rings me up, and Maya and I step away to clear the counter for the next customer. She stands close, pressed lightly to my side as we watch the early morning bustle on the sidewalk outside.

The morning feels golden, perfect. The sky is clear and sunny, the snow drifts are softening as the temperature creeps into the low 40s, and even the commuter rush seems less hectic than usual—probably thanks to the holiday lull that’s kept half of Manhattan home in their pajamas for the week. I’ve certainly enjoyed the time Maya and I have spent huddled indoors, but it’s good to be out, too.

I’m excited to be a part of her first major step as an entrepreneur and relieved I’m able to do the walk-through with her. She’s prepared—her binder full of paperwork and list of renovation-related questions are impressive—but I have more experience buying distressed businesses and properties. I want to help her approach this project with the same rigorous cost-benefit analysis that’s been the cornerstone of my career and ensure her first investment is a success.

Success breeds more success and that’s all I want for her.

As we collect our sandwiches and head outside again, subway bound, I ask, “Should we grab pastries from the French place on the corner, too?”

She arches a brow. “Just how much food do you think I can handle, my friend? I mean, I like to eat, but those bagels are the nearly the size of my head.”

“It takes fuel to build a real estate empire,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all I’m saying.”

She gives my arm a teasing bump with hers. “My one-building empire?”

“For now. But I have a feeling you’re just getting started. I see great things ahead for you, kid.”

She loops her arm through mine, affection in her voice as she says, “Right back at you, old man.”

“Hey,” I say with a faux scowl.

She giggles. “I’m kidding. Obviously. You’re not old. And I know you’re the world’s best pretend boyfriend, but you have somany talents, Anthony. If you ever decided to change careers, I’m sure you could be anything you wanted to be.”

“Yeah?” I ask, touched by her sweetness, the way I always am. It never gets old, how purelygoodshe is. And no, I don’t need the faith of a good woman to help me turn my male gigolo life around, but I appreciate her support all the same.

“No doubt in mind,” she says without a beat of hesitation. “And it’s never too late for a fresh start.”

“Thanks, Swallows,” I murmur.

“You’re welcome, Clark,” she shoots back with a wink.

Clark.Not Pissarro.

The reminder of my lie makes my stomach cramp, but I ignore the wave of guilt. I’m going to tell her the truth in two days, a mere forty-eight-ish hours, the moment we arrive at Twyla’s New Year’s Eve party.

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