Chapter 72
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I know that, but the lines still blur horribly, making me wonder if that is part of the allure of her knowing she isn’t mine.
But part of me tried to blame my attraction to her on the adrenaline of hiding from my mother, and that was there, but this girl has wormed her way into my subconscious since I met her. Now sharing a room with her, a bed, everything is becoming too real, too tempting to make it real.
Everything about her challenges me and enthralls me in a way no one has before. Her raw and untamed laugh echoes in my ears. Even though I changed, the smell of her–a mix of spring rain and her distinct scent–still remains on my clothes. I know I will miss her scent when we call this all off. My mind is a continuous reel of her, which is starting to scare me.
Get Max, I tell myself. Get Max and get ready for dinner. I tell myself, reminding myself that I am supposed to be looking for my son, not fantasizing about my fake fiancé.
I walk down the familiar hallways of our castle, the pictures that decorate the walls barely catching my attention. It’s strange how something so routine could suddenly feel so foreign. That awkward encounter in the shower has shaken me more than I thought.
I need to find Max. That thought circles in my mind like a stubborn bird refusing to migrate.
I glance at my wristwatch. It’s nearly dinnertime, and the boy has a knack for disappearing when it’s time to eat. He’s
Chapter 72
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probably holed up in his room, lost in one of his video games, or sketching on his drawing pad.
As I approach his playroom, I hear faint music from some cartoon song playing, seeping through the door. It’s that strange song about gremlins and these strange paper people, a cartoon he watches in the morning. I knock softly before pushing the door open and sticking my head in.
Stepping into the room, I finally find him surrounded by action figures and Lego pieces strewn about the floor. He’s wearing a worn–out Superman T–shirt. My father has fallen asleep in the armchair; his glasses are crooked on his face, his mouth gaping as he snores like a chainsaw in the playroom. My son sits on the floor with his back leaned against the wall, engrossed in some colorful picture book. A small smile tugs at my lips as I approach him.
“Max,” I say softly, watching his head jerk up in surprise before a broad grin spreads across his face. He tosses the book aside and gets to his feet, barreling toward me.
“Dad!” He exclaims, throwing his arms around my legs.
His enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I manage to forget about the uncomfortable situation just minutes ago. My father jerks awake, looking alert when I take in his appearance. I try not to snicker as I glance down at Max, who holds a finger to his lips. Max has colored my father’s lips purple with a marker and drawn whiskers on his cheeks.
“I must have dozed off,” he grumbles, stretching and yawning when I notice his eyelids are bright pink.
“Where’s your mother? You didn’t bring her, I hope,” he blurts, looking around, his eyes stopping on the open window like he
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is about to shimmy down a drain pipe if it means escaping
her.
“We have to get you ready for dinner, bud,” I say, ignoring my father’s words and looking at Max while fighting not to laugh at my father.
“It’s not Brussels sprouts, is it?” Max pulls a face. I shrug, unsure, and my father pulls himself out of his chair.
