If she was honest, there were times when she wondered about his past.
Mia looked at him now, sitting across reading the paper, a fresh wave of doubt pricked a coldness through her.
Mia and Lucas first met when she was thirteen, young and impressionable. He was twenty-four, worldly and mysterious. His girlfriend – Frances – at that time was willowy and tall. She had a wisp of dark black hair that fell over her eyes. Mia loathed her, yet strived to be just like her.
At her parents’ summer home, Mia wandered the hallways hoping to glimpse him, without Frances. She never did. Mia spied them one sultry afternoon in the gazebo. Frances was on his lap, her skirt twisted around her waist, kissing. Mia didn’t know what they were doing, but she knew enough not to approach. From her hidden vantage spot behind the oleander she watched as Frances writhed about on Lucas’ lap; Mia gasped audibly when Lucas threw his head back and groaned.
Mia stayed behind the oleander for an hour after they’d left. She had witnessed a very personal act. She felt guilty, and something else. A new feeling, a tingle as if her body had been lit.
Not long after, Lucas and Frances left the summer house and Mia was left to mourn his absence.
It was many years later when Mia and Lucas met again. She was thirty-eight, single and exceedingly pleased with herself. She was living a charmed life. A great job, a fine apartment, courtesy of her parents’ inheritance, and no shitty children. She was hosting a party at the summer house, now hers, and he’d tumbled from the back seat of her cousin’s car. This time he had no partner. Her adoration of him stirred again on sight, then seared like a branding when he took her to bed that very night.
Their life together on the surface looked wonderful. But there were all those years, years that he refused to tell her about. She was persistently curious; he persistently private. The details he did give her were scant, stories of a life in Paris and Monaco; dinners with celebrities and royalty. Was he truthful, or was it all a fable?
It didn’t matter. He was all she’d ever wanted, even it if he was the fabulist she feared.