The Perfect Illusion

by Winter Renshaw

  Serves him right.

  And he should be there. At the hospital. Not sitting at his desk making phone calls.

  That poor woman.

  I felt sorry for him yesterday on the plane. He didn’t say more than a handful of words, and he sat there staring ahead with his legs crossed and his ankle bouncing for damn near five hours.

  The coffee was a peace offering. For whatever reason, I felt sorry for him, which in retrospect was a huge mistake.

  When I return to my office, I check my phone for the millionth time. Jeremiah still hasn’t called me back. It’s not like him. Break or no break, he’s not the type to ever ignore someone.

  Especially not me.

  I fire off an email to Dane and Beckham with a link to the preliminary website and ask for feedback. After that, I return a call to the Charity Falls Register to confirm the interview date and time. Yanking out a fresh legal pad, I jot down some key statistics and points I want Beckham to hone in on during his interview.

  An hour of immersing myself in work leads me right back to where I started: worrying about Jeremiah.

  Dragging in a defeated breath, I check his blog. The interface hasn’t changed. We did a good enough job with it, that the show’s branding has been coordinated around it. I click on the latest blog post: a recipe for sweet potato pie tied in with some pie crust sponsorship. He didn’t write it. Those aren’t his words. Some intern must’ve put that together for him.

  I’d be lying if I said picturing him swarmed with college interns and industry executives all day didn’t hollow out my heart.

  Scrolling through pictures on my phone of better days, I stop when I get to the one of me sitting on his lap last Christmas at my parents’ house in Minneapolis. We wore matching cable knit sweaters and Jeremiah donned a Santa hat my nephew had given him the previous year.

  The Jer and Sam in that picture are content. Carefree. Living for the moment. Excited for the future. Our relationship was easy and effortless. We used to be so happy.

  “I’m heading out for a bit.”

  Startled, I glance up and see Beckham in my doorway.

  “Going to the hospital?” I ask.

  “Absolutely not.” His face scrunches as if my question insults him.

  Maybe it’s residual resentment still coursing my veins and mixing with the flood of nostalgia and insecurity, but I feel the words rising in my throat before I have a chance to stop them.

  “That’s shitty, don’t you think?” I can’t believe I just said that. A fresh batch of sharp opinions form fresh in my mind, snapping to the surface before I have a chance to stop them. “Shouldn’t you be with your family right now?”

  Beckham’s usually relaxed composure tightens, starting with his mouth and followed by his jaw, trailing down his shoulders until it gets to his clenched fists.

  “Please tell me you’re going to man up and take responsibility,” I say. I regret the words the second they come out, but I’m powerless. All my fears, apprehensions, and anger swirl together and cloud my better judgment. “Maybe the universe is trying to tell you it’s time to stop screwing around and settle down. Have to grow up sooner or later.”

  Beckham’s eyes darken. “You. Know. Nothing.”

  Shit.

  In an instant, he’s gone. And now I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Running after him, I grab his arm by the time he’s halfway down the hall. He stops, jerking his elbow from my grasp, and turns to me.

  “I’m sorry.” My palm covers my heart. “I mean it. I shouldn’t have said those things, Beckham. I…”

  He studies my face, staring down his nose and breathing hard.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat again. My mother once told me tacking on a bunch of excuses to an apology does nothing but dilute it. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”

  I feel the need to apologize twenty-five additional times, slathering him in apologies until he assures me it’s okay.

  There’s no acceptance in his stern gaze, only a bitterness that chills me.

  “I don’t know your situation,” I add. “I shouldn’t judge.”

  “No, Odessa. You shouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I heard you the first three times.”

  “If there’s anything you need…” I sound pathetic. I know that. He’s probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I’m starting to wonder the same.

  “I need you to stop groveling,” he says. “I don’t like this version of you.”

  Me neither.

  He steps toward me, and I amble backwards until I hit a nearby wall. I shut my eyes, breathing in his clean scent. It transports me to that night when I was just a girl in a bar and he was just a guy with every promise of wicked intentions.

  “Today, of all days…” Beckham leaves his thought unfinished, his face twisted.

  “I know,” I say, my eyes protesting and apologizing all at once. “You’re going through some stuff. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “No, Odessa. I want you to treat me the way you did before.” His hand cups my jaw. “Don’t bring me coffee and act like we’re best friends all of a sudden because you feel sorry for me. And fuck, don’t you ever accuse me of being a shitty person because I’ve been nothing but honest with every woman I’ve ever taken home.”

  His thumb traces my lower lip, leaving a trail of tingles. I offer an understanding nod, scared to breathe another word.

  “I want everything to go back to how it was a couple days ago,” he sighs.

  “I don’t understand.”

  A couple days ago we did nothing but bicker, and my intentional thorniness was like emotional pepper spray between us.

  “You want me to be rude to you?” I ask.

  His hand leaves my jaw, trailing down my arm.

  “Two days ago, my biggest problem was figuring out how to convince you not to hate me. Two days ago, my main priority was seeing how long it would take for me to fuck that hard-to-get pussy of yours again because not having the upper hand with you is the most infuriating thing I’ve ever experienced.” His eyes roll before he looks to the side. “Until yesterday.”

  My mouth falls, my head and heart trying to reconcile the squall of emotions coursing through me.

  “Fuck, Odessa. Life was easy then.” Anger abandons his expression, though pain wasted no time replacing it. His tongue glides across his bottom lip. “You threw up barricade after barricade, and I spent my time plotting ways to break them down so I could have you one more time.”

  I knew it.

  “I had no intentions of sleeping with you again,” I say, keeping my voice low in case Julie hears us.

  “But I had every intention getting exactly what I wanted from you,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

  His thumb grazes my cheek, sending pinpricks down my spine. My chest rises and falls. When did I lose my breath? A tingling sensation washes over my palms as they rest flat against the wall behind me. The ache in my hands urges me to grab onto something, preferably him, but I’m safely frozen in place.

  “Unfortunately.” He frowns. “I’ve got a mess to clean up, and I’m quite certain by the time I’m done, you’ll be back with that jackass.”

  A sliver of me doesn’t want him to give up that easily. The rest of me scolds that sliver for entertaining such an inappropriate thought.

  “It was fun while it lasted, huh?” My voice breaks, but my gaze holds steady, locked in his.

  Beckham pulls away, and I exhale. “For the record, you didn’t stand a chance.”

  He flashes a smirk. The Beckham I first met is still alive and well in there somewhere, hidden behind the fact that life as he knows it has just come to a screeching halt.

  “Likewise.” The corner of my mouth pulls. My eyes trace the perfect shape of his mouth, sending heat to my lips. I wonder if it’s possible to miss a kiss you never knew you wanted.

  Beckham’s everything I never wanted and nothing I need. He should b
e with his new family, and I should to try to fix things with Jeremiah.

  It’s just the way it has to be.

  Chapter 19

  BECKHAM

  I walked around most of the Upper East Side this morning. No destination in mind. I couldn’t stand another minute trapped behind concrete walls. In the last twenty-four hours, my life – and my mind – have become a prison.

  Just before lunch, I hailed a cab to New York General.

  “Eva.” I stand in the doorway of her hospital room. Dr. Brentwood told me not to come here, not to engage her, not to give her what she wants. But I’m a man with limited options and the stakes have been raised. I’ll be damned if I sit back and ignore her because she’s not going away.

  And it’s not about us anymore.

  Bringing a baby into this changes things, especially if she’s my baby. I’ve never been paternal. I don’t know the first thing about being a father. I’ve never pictured myself coaching soccer or strolling around Central Park Zoo with a kid on my shoulders and a camera around my neck, but if she’s mine, I’ll try my hardest to be everything she deserves.

  I’ll be the father Dane and I never had.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Eva’s face lights, the baby snug in her arms sleeping. She grins, her hair piled high on her head. As I get closer, I see she’s wearing makeup. Eva wanted to look her best today because she knew I’d be coming back.

  If she were any other normal person, I’d be asking how she’s feeling. I’d refill her water or hold her hand, but that’s not why I came here today.

  “We have to do a DNA test, Eva.” I keep a safe distance. “Just to be sure. Before any arrangements are made. Before we can move forward from here. I have to know.”

  Her smile fades, her eyes dimming. “Why would you say such a thing, Beckham? She’s yours. She’s all yours. She has your chin. Your ears. Your dimples.”

  I try not to look, not to give in and let her think she’s winning.

  “I had a vasectomy, Eva, before we were together. There’s no way this could’ve happened.” I swallow the hardness in my throat but it returns. “I don’t want to believe you could’ve tampered with anything at the clinic, but…”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” Her eyes glass over until large tears fill at their brims. “We’re a family. You. Me. Our baby. To suggest that this wasn’t in God’s plan…”

  She glances down, stroking the baby’s cheek.

  “She’s beautiful, Beckham. We created her. She’s here because of our love.” Her voice is strained.

  My stomach churns. Eva is not well. She hasn’t been for a long time.

  “How are you going to take care of her?” I ask. “When you leave here. Do you have someone?”

  Eva whips her attention toward me. “I thought we could come home with you. You have space for a nursery. A couple phone calls and we could have one set up within a day.”

  She’s clearly fantasized about this a hundred times before.

  “Eva…” Pressing my chin against my chest, I squint across the room at her. “Did you really think it would happen like that?”

  “You’re a good man. I know you’ll do the right thing. I know you’ll come through for us. It’s not in you to walk away from family.”

  She doesn’t know me. At all. I’m not some valiant prince. I’m a man with minimal responsibilities, reigning over a kingdom of beautiful women with my mighty cock in hand. I’m a playboy. My only commitment is to a life of debauchery.

  “Remember what Dr. Brentwood said? About projecting?” I remind her. “I’m not a family man, Eva. I told you that from the beginning.”

  “Then why were you at a fertility clinic?” she snaps back.

  She has a point; a tiny point that doesn’t help my case.

  “You knew you wanted to be a father, just not yet. Not now,” she says, her tone rushed and excited. “You knew there was a chance you might change your mind someday.”

  “My mind was made up, Eva,” I groan. The sperm-freezing was nothing more than an insurance policy to keep me from backing out of my decision to get snipped.

  “Sometimes we don’t know what’s best for ourselves,” she says, glancing down at the baby again. A tiny fist rises above the blanket and stretches out, grabbing onto the flannel fabric of Eva’s gown. She hums a little tune, something sweet and unfamiliar. I’m guessing it’s an Argentinian lullaby.

  “I can’t be in your life, in her life, until we get the results of the test.” A sear of something sharp flashes across my chest. The thought of leaving the baby in Eva’s care for God knows how long unsettles me.

  “She’s yours, Beckham. I would never lie to you, mi amor.” The humming continues.

  Convincing Eva to agree to this is a tight walk along an unstable balance beam.

  “And if you don’t think she’s yours, I have no problem moving back to Argentina,” she says a minute later, lightly raking her fingers through the baby’s jet black hair. “Raising her in my homeland.”

  My fist clenches. The thought of the baby being whisked overseas despite not knowing if she’s mine was a possibility I hadn’t yet entertained. I wouldn’t put anything past Eva.

  “Did you decide on a name yet, baby?” Eva smiles, looking up at me like we’re not locked in crossfire. “Something pretty for our pretty girl?”

  Dr. Brentwood would be waving a checkered flag, telling me to abort the mission. Shut it down.

  “You have to name her. It’s tradition in the Delgado familia. The fathers choose the names,” she says.

  “I haven’t given it any thought.”

  She holds the baby up, grinning ear to ear and examining her. “You’ll think of something for our little angel.”

  “The test, Eva.” I clear my throat, crossing my arms. “There’s a clinic uptown that does them. Results come back in two-three days.”

  “No!” She holds the baby against her chest, patting her back vigorously.

  “I hoped we could do this the easy way.” I grab my phone, dialing my attorney.

  “What are you doing?” she spits.

  “Getting a court order,” I say. Roger answers. “Roger, I talked to her. Make it happen.”

  “You’re making a huge mistake.” Eva shakes her head, bouncing the baby in her arms. “She is our daughter.”

  “I’ll file the petition,” Roger says. “Beckham, this won’t be quick. A judge has to determine if there’s sufficient evidence before he can order the paternity test, and even then Eva can hire an attorney. She’ll have thirty days to contest it from the time we serve her.”

  “What choice do I have here?” I fire back. “Get it done.”

  I hang up and step toward the door, watching as Eva sits up and places her hand out. She pleads with me to stay a while longer before slick tears slide down her cheeks.

  Hate doesn’t usually reside in my heart, but right now, I hate Eva for doing this, for creating a self-serving, chaotic mess.

  “I don’t love you, and I never did.” A furious burn fills my chest. I want to look at the baby, but I can’t bring myself to. “I will never be with you. And if she’s mine, God help us all because you’re not fit to care for her. You can hardly take care of yourself.”

  I’ll never forget finding a medicine cabinet full of sedatives and benzodiazepine in her bathroom. Tranquilizers. Prescription sleep aids. Anything a person might need to forget about life for a while. None of it was in her name. I set her up with Dr. Brentwood immediately after that. She needed managed care not black market Xanax.

  Her lips tremble as she squeezes the baby tight. Maybe I’m an asshole. Maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut and walked away, but it’s all I can do to maintain my composure. It’s building, burning inside me. It has to come out.

  “We could be happy. Just give us a chance.” Her voice is tired, small. I won’t stand around and listen to this anymore. When I storm out the door, I hear her say, “I’m not lying, Beckham. She’s your
daughter...”

  I don’t want to believe her, and I fucking hate the fact that part of me does.

  “You’re back.” Odessa glances up from her desk when I return.

  I’m not sure why the first place I went was to her. I’m standing in her doorway. Not talking. I don’t know what to say. In the blink of an eye, I lost all control over my carefully crafted, painstakingly perfected bachelor life.

  My hands ache for something real. Fuck, if I could feel those sleek auburn locks through my fingers and press my lips against hers, maybe I’d taste a bit of calm again.

  “Hey, you okay?” Odessa raises an eyebrow, shutting the lid to her computer. “You’re freaking me out here.”

  She comes to my side with hesitant steps, her sweet perfume filling my lungs. I’m in a mood. Fuck, am I in a mood.

  I’m in a mood to burn everything to the ground.

  “Say something.” Odessa laughs, not because it’s funny. She’s nervous. She winces, slightly, as if I scare her. “Where’d you go?”

  She rises on her toes, brushing a rogue strand of hair off my forehead. I close my eyes, pulling another lungful of Odessa in. I have to have her. Fuck Dane’s rules. Fuck the consultancy. Fuck mind games.

  “Odessa.” I swallow, eyes still closed.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t touch me again.” My instructions are concentrated, clear as day. I peer down at her now, catching a slight shake in her chest when she breathes.

  She backs up, her hand resting across her chest. “I-I’m sorry.”

  “If you touch me again, I’m going to touch you back,” I say. “And I can’t promise I’ll stop once I start.”

  “Beckham, you need to sit down.” She reaches for my hand and stops, heeding my warning. “Let me get you some water at least.”

  “Stop being so nice. Thought I made myself clear this morning.” Her kindness confuses me, and I sure as hell don’t deserve it.

  “Maybe I should leave for the day. I can’t do anything right around you.” She zips around her desk and gathers her things, shoving them into a bag and muttering under her breath. “God forbid I try to be a decent human being.”