She dropped her fork. The metal clinked against the plate. “Umm...how do you know that? Did you have me checked out or something?”
“Even worse, but that doesn’t matter anymore.”
She didn’t touch her food or pick up the fork. “It does matter.”
“Why did you lie about your mother?”
“Because for my first book, no one believed that an impoverished community could be as bad as I said it was in Concrete Rose. The publishers and agents didn’t get it. They wanted an expert opinion, apparently, so I changed my author name and bio and resubmitted the manuscript.”
“You pretended that the character in Concrete Rose was you?”
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“How did your mom feel about that?”
“She didn’t care. The main character in that first story was her. The whole book was about her life. Mom wanted the story out there as a warning to mothers to be more protective of their children. She also hoped it would heal someone who picked up my book and was going through the same thing. Child molestation is one of her biggest fights. She couldn’t care less how the word got out there, as long as it did.”
“So Concrete Rose, the international bestseller that Ford Enterprises bought, was all about your mom?”
“Yes.”
“Fascinating.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue but closed it.
“What?” I asked.
“You don’t think I’m a horrible person for lying about my past in the media?”
“No way. My publicist says we control our public image. Sometimes the world isn’t ready for the truth. You’re forgetting that I hide my identity as Catharsis.”
“But you showed me your poetry.”
“You’ve been my muse for the past three months.”
She smirked. “Thanks for my laptop by the way. I figured it out.”
Again, she caught me off guard. “How did you figure that out?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe, it does.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Can I at least guess?”
“Nope. Why spend time worrying about the stupidity of the situation because in the end your dad is... oh, never mind.”
“No problem. Go ahead,” I said. “Because in the end, my dad is a douchebag?”
“Of course.”
And so we sat there, eating our food in silence. It was hard to swallow. The clock kept ticking. Each minute that passed meant that Carmen was closer to leaving my life. I could stalk her, but that wasn’t satisfactory. I wouldn’t be able to sit outside her apartment anymore and not feel like a scumbag.
“I know you want to pack after dinner,” I said when the staff cleared our plates. “But since it’s your last night, how about you give me a few hours of a poetry battle?”
She ran her fingers through that lush hair. “I don’t know.”
“Are you worried now that you know I’m Catharsis, you’ll be no match? Granted, this is true, but you should have faith in your own skills.”
She tossed me a wicked smile. “You love to poke at my competitive genes.”
“It would be fun.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on.”
“This can’t happen.” She pointed to her and me, “Even though I’m done with your father.” She displayed her now empty ring finger. “I can’t just start dating his son. It would be ridiculous.”
Knots tightened in my stomach. “I’m just talking about poetry.”
“I just want to make this clear. Poetry and wine won’t lead to you into my pants and...painting semen all over my face.”
I did my best to hide my grin, but nonetheless it appeared. “I don’t think I said anything about painting you with my semen.”
“You sure did.”
“And you remembered?”
“None of your business.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
I tapped the table a few times and tried another approach. “What did you write about today? You told me you were going to do a high fantasy. Gods and goddesses right?”
“None of your business.” She looked away as if I’d caught her doing something lewd.
“Uh okay. What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“You usually tell me all about your works in progress. It’s not like you had a god or wizard jacking off in the heroine’s room.”
“No…it was a forest,” she mumbled.
I laughed. “Excuse me?”
She rubbed her face with both hands. “The freaking god painted a whole magical forest with his semen. There you go. That was my work in progress today. Thanks Adrian. Your nasty mind seeped into my book.”
Chuckling, I shrugged. “Was it a good scene?”
She thought about it. “It was decent, pretty interesting in fact, yet really depraved.”
“Sounds like I would love it.”
“Clearly.”
Quiet passed through us again. There was no reason for her or me to continue to sit there. Carmen had finished several minutes ago and had no plate or anything in front of her. I had no idea why she remained. I knew why I stayed: to enjoy every last minute near her side.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay what?”
“Okay. Let’s sit by the fireplace for one last time and have our poetry battle.”
I didn’t even say anything for fear of messing it up. Rising from my chair, I walked over to her as I always did and led her to the main sitting room.