Fat Cat Liar

“Baby, you’ve got the wrong idea. Listen to me. This was not going behind your back to trick you. This was me taking care of the preparations you didn’t need to worry about. From here on out, everything is in your hands.”

“How do you figure that?”

“This place is yours. I bought it for you and our baby, and hopefully, more children in the future. The term penthouse is probably misleading. Once you see it, you’ll understand.”

“That’s a nice gift, but you should have spoken with me.”

He has the decency to look guilty. “It happened fast.”

“What if I hate it?”

“Then I’ve made a horrible investment.”

“You spoke to building management behind my back and gave my notice. I thought we decided to live there.”

Guilt changes to unease, his voice dipping low when he answers. “That was the plan. My intentions were to give my notice, which would be much simpler considering the lease was short term. Every time I enter your apartment, I’m reminded of the day you left me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t escape that feeling of helplessness. If it makes you feel better, we can stay there, but each night we sleep there, I lay awake with a knot in my stomach thinking you may disappear if I close my eyes.”

I suck in a breath, finally understanding why he watches me so closely when we’re there, holds me so tight when we’re in bed, and rarely sleeps. “Why didn’t you tell me?” My gaze falls to his.

“I just did.”

This is too much for us to discuss in front of our audience. Not once have I considered his feelings. Leaving him is something we don’t discuss anymore. During our time in the Hamptons, he didn’t shy away from sharing the darkness he felt without me. I shared the same. The morning we drove away, we swore to leave it behind, never to discuss again. There have been situations where he’s visibly struggled, but he doesn’t let it seep into our lives. My anger thaws, seeing a rare slice of vulnerability in his expression.

“Lawson, you can’t buy me a penthouse.”

“Why don’t you open your gift and then decide.”

I cast a glance to the present and back to him. His eyes brighten when I nudge my hands free. The room is eerily silent when I lift the lid and find a thick set of blueprints inside. The top page causes me to choke on a sob.

My favorite building in New York, the building on the corner of my block that houses the café and where I took Lawson on our first date so many months ago. The architecture is impeccable and recently went through a revitalization that highlighted its beauty.

“Oh my God. H-h-how?”

“I approached the owner of the building and pleaded with him. He may have a black heart, but he took pity and sold me the place knowing I’d raise beautiful children and continue to make unforgettable memories.” I catch the glimmer in his eye as he winks over my shoulder.

My head snaps to find my dad’s face twisted in disgust aimed straight at Lawson. “Dad?” I draw his attention to me. “You own the building?”

“Legally, yes. It’s wrapped up in the corporation, but I own it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wasn’t sure I could keep it. A private attorney came to me when he knew it was going on sale. I couldn’t stand the thought of what may happen if a greedy corporation got a hold of it. Your mom would have been crushed if anything happened to it. For a while, I’ve sat on it, unsure what to do. When Lawson approached me about buying a place, the decision was made. I knew exactly where you’d want to be.”

At some point in the near future, I’m going to have a stern chat with the men in my life for keeping things from me. But, right now, all I can do is stare at the blueprint.

“You two don’t play fair.” I remove the prints from the box and start to flip through. The first few pages are typical specs of the building that only an architect would enjoy. Front, back, and side facings, elevator shafts, stairwells, parking structure, rooftop dimensions with safety markings. The building isn’t a tall building by city standards, which adds to its appeal. When I get to the sheet with what I assume is our floor plan, my attention is drawn immediately to the windows in the back with an unobstructed view of the gardens. Lawson is right; the term penthouse is an exaggeration by most opinions, but for us, that’s exactly what it is.

“Turn the page,” Lawson encourages me, now standing by my side.

I do as he asks and gape at the page in confusion. “It’s blank.” Except for the barriers of the actual structure and a few columns, the page is empty.

“It’s yours to design. Dad has promised to oversee all construction. You tell me what you want, and we will customize it to your wishes.”

“Mine?” My voice cracks.

“We have to work around some interior load bearings, and the wall of windo

ws would be a bitch to change, but otherwise, yes.”