The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer md-1 Read online

  “Are you afraid of anything?” I asked.

  His smile evaporated. He nodded his head once.

  “Well?” I prodded. “I showed you mine …”

  “I’m afraid of forgeries.”

  I turned away. He couldn’t even reciprocate. Neither of us spoke for about a minute. But then.

  “I’m afraid of being fake. Empty,” Noah said tonelessly. He released my fingers and the palm of his hand rested on the back of mine for a moment. My entire hand would fit almost completely into his. I flipped mine over and laced our fingers together before I realized what I was doing.

  Then I realized what I was doing. My heart skipped a beat. I watched Noah’s face for something. A sign, maybe. I honestly didn’t quite know what.

  But there was nothing there. His expresion was smooth, his forehead uncreased. Blank. And our fingers were still entwined. I didn’t know if mine were holding his in place by force and if his were just resting or—

  “There’s nothing I want. There’s nothing I can’t do. I don’t care about anything. No matter what, I’m an impostor. An actor in my own life.”

  His sudden candor floored me. I had no idea what to say, so I said nothing.

  He extracted his hand from mine and pointed to an enormous gold dome across the water. “That’s the Miami Seaquarium.”

  Still nothing.

  Noah’s free hand searched in his pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, exhaling the smoke through his nose. “We ought to go.”

  He wanted to take me back home. And to my surprise, I didn’t want that. “Noah, I—”

  “To the Seaquarium. They have a killer whale there.”

  “Okay …”

  “Her name’s Lolita.”

  “That’s …”

  “Twisted?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know.”

  And let the awkward silence ensue. We turned off the highway, in an opposite direction from the Seaquarium, and the street curved into a busy neighborhood filled with peach, yellow, orange, and pink stucco boxes—houses—with bars on the windows. Everything was in Spanish; every sign, every storefront. But even as I looked, I felt Noah sitting next to me, inches away, waiting for me to say something. So I did.

  “So, uh, have you seen—Lolita?” I asked. I wanted to punch myself in the face.

  “God, no.”

  “Then how’d you hear about her?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and a few strands fell into his eyes, catching the mid-morning sunlight. “My mother’s somewhat of an animal rights activist.”

  “Right, the vet thing.”

  “No, from before that. She became a vet because of the animal business. And it’s more than that, anyway.”

  I knit my eyebrows together. “I don’t think it’s possible to be any more vague.”

  “Well, I don’t know how to describe it, honestly.”

  “Like animal rescue and stuff?” I wondered if Noah’s mother had pulled any dog theft capers like mine with Mabel.

  “Kind of, but not what you’re thinking.”

  Ha. “So, what then?”

  “Ever hear of the Animal Liberation Front?”

  “Aren’t they the ones that let all of those lab monkeys out of their cages and they spread this virus that turns people into zombies …?”

  “I think that’s a movie.”

  “Right.”

  “But that’s the general idea.”

  I conjured an image of Dr. Shaw in a ski mask freeing lab animals. “I like your mom.”

  Noah smiled slightly. “Her primate freedom fighting days ended after she married my father. The in-laws didn’t approve,” he said with mock solemnity. “But she still gives money to those groups. When we moved here, she was all riled up about Lolita and she had a few fundraisers to try and raise enough money to get a bigger tank.”

  “What happened?” I asked, as Noah took a long drag on his cigarette.

  “The bastards kept raising their price with no guarantee that they’d actually build the thing,” Noah said, exhaling the smoke through his nose. “Anyway, because of my dad, she just gives money now, I think. I’ve seen the return envelopes in the outgoing mail.”

  Noah took a sharp right, and I reflexively glanced out the window. I hadn’t been paying attention to the scenery—I was sitting inches away from Noah, after all—but now noticed that somewhere along the way, North Cuba had transformed into East Hampton. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the enormous trees that lined both sides of the street, dappling our faces and hands through the glass of the windshield and sunroof. The houses here were experiments in excess; each one was more ostentatious and absurd than the next, and there was no uniform look to them whatsoever. The only thing the modern, glass house on one side of the street had in common with its opposite, a stately Victorian, was the scale. They were palaces.

  “Noah?” I asked slowly.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “And who is this friend?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  Then, after a beat, “Don’t worry, you’ll like her.”

  I looked down at the shredded knees of my jeans and my worn sneakers. “I feel ridiculously underdressed for a Sunday brunch scenario. Just saying.”

  “She won’t care,” he said as he ran his fingers through his hair. “And you’re perfect.”

  27

  ROWS OF PALM TREES SPRUNG UP FROM THE sides of the narrow street, and the ocean peeked out from the spaces in between homes. When we drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, an enormous automated iron gate opened for us. A camera was perched at the entrance. The day was getting weirder.

  “So … what does this friend do, exactly?”

  “You could call her a lady of leisure.”

  “Makes sense. You probably don’t have to work if you can afford to live here.”

  “No, probably not.”

  We passed an enormous, garish fountain in the center of the property; a muscled, barely clothed Greek man clasping the waist of a girl who reached into the sky. Her arms transformed into branches and spouted pale, golden water in the sunlight. Noah pulled all the way up to the front entrance, where a man in a suit was waiting.

  “Good morning, Mr. Shaw,” the man said, as he nodded to Noah, and then moved toward the passenger side door to open it for me.

  “Morning, Albert. I got it.”

  Noah exited the car and opened the door for me. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he avoided my stare.

  “You must be here often,” I said cautiously.

  “Yes.”

  Albert opened the front door for us and Noah breezed right in.

  As extravagant as the landscaping, fountain, driveway, and gate were, nothing, nothing could have prepared me for the mansion’s interior. On either side of us, arches and columns towered into a double balcony. My Chucks squeaked on the flawless patterned marble floor, and there was another Greek-inspired fountain in the center of the inner courtyard, with three women carrying watering jugs. The sheer enormousness of the place was staggering.

  “No one can possibly live here,” I said to myself.

  Noah heard me. “Why’s that?”

  “Because this is not a house. This is like … a set. For some mafia movie. Or a tacky wedding venue. Or … Annie.”

  Noah tilted his head. “A scathing, yet accurate analysis. Alas, I am afraid people do actually live here.”

  He sauntered carelessly to the end of the courtyard and turned left. I followed him, wide-eyed and wondrous, into an equally expansive hallway. I didn’t notice the small, black streak of fur hurtling in my direction until she was only a few feet away. Noah whisked the dog into the air just as it charged me.

  “You little bitch,” Noah said to the snarling dog. “Behave.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Mara, meet Ruby.” The squirming mass of fat rolls and fur strai
ned for my jugular, but Noah held her back. The pug’s smushed face only magnified the sounds of her fury. It was disturbing and hilarious at the same time.

  “She’s … charming,” I said.

  “Noah?” I turned around to see Noah’s mother standing about twenty feet behind us, barefooted and impeccably dressed in white linen. “I thought you were out for the day,” she said.

  Out for the day?

  “Like an idiot, I left the keys here.”

  Left the keys … here.

  That was when I first noticed the fawn-colored dog trying to hide behind Dr. Shaw’s knees.

  “Is that …?” I looked from the dog to Noah. His face broke into a smile.

  “Mabel!” he called loudly.

  She whined in and stepped backward, farther behind the fabric of Dr. Shaw’s dress.

  “Come here, gorgeous.”

  She whined again.

  Still looking at the dog, Noah said, “Mum, you remember Mara?” He tilted his head in my direction while he crouched, trying to call the dog over.

  “I do,” she said, smiling. “How are you?”

  “Good,” I said, but I was too absorbed in the scene unfolding before me to really focus. The vicious pug. Mabel’s terror. And the fact that Noah lived here. Here.

  He walked over to where his mother stood and reached down to pet Mabel, with Ruby still struggling in his other arm. Mabel thumped her tail against Dr. Shaw’s legs. It was incredible how much better she looked after just over a week. Her spine and hip bones still protruded, but she was already starting to fill out. And her coat looked impossibly healthier. Amazing.

  “Would you take her?” He offered the little dog to his mother, who held her arms out. “Since I had to double back, I thought I’d let Mara and Mabel get reacquainted while we’re here.”

  Mabel wanted no part of that plan, and Dr. Shaw seemed to know it. “Why don’t I take them both upstairs while you two—”

  “It’s Ruby fussing that’s making her nervous. Just take her, we’ll be fine.” Noah crouched down to pet Mabel.

  Dr. Shaw shrugged. “It was nice to see you again, Mara.”

  “You too,” I said quietly, as she walked out.

  Noah lifted Mabel in a football carry before she could bolt after Dr. Shaw. The poor dog’s legs paddled as if she were running on a phantom treadmill. A memory of a hissing black cat flared in my mind.

  “You’re scaring her,” Joseph had said.

  Mabel was scared too. Of me.

  My breath caught in my throat. That was a crazy thing to think. Why would she be scared of me? I was being paranoid. Something else was freaking her out. I tried not to let the hurt leak into my voice when I spoke. “Maybe your mom’s right, Noah.”

  “She’s fine, Ruby just made her nervous.”

  The whites of Mabel’s eyes were visible by the time Noah carried her over to where I stood. He looked at me, confused. “What did you do, bathe in leopard urine before you left the house this morning?”

  “Yes. Leopard urine. Never leave home without it.”

  Mabel whined and yelped and strained against Noah’s arms. “All right,” he said finally. “Mission aborted.” He placed Mabel on the floor and watched her scramble out of the hall, her claws clicking on the marble. “She probably doesn’t remember you,” Noah said, still looking in Mabel’s direction.

  I dropped my gaze. “I’m sure that’s it,” I said. I didn’t want Noah to see that I was upset.

  “Well,” he said finally. He rocked back on his heels and studied me.

  I willed myself not to blush under his stare. “Well.” Time to change the subject. “You are a lying liar who lies.”

  “Oh?”

  I looked around us, at the towering ceiling and sweeping balconies. “You kept all of this a secret.”

  “No, I didn’t. You just never asked.”

  “How was I supposed to guess? You dress like a hobo.”

  At this, a mocking grin crept over Noah’s mouth. “Haven’t you heard not to judge a book by its cover?”

  “If I’d have known it was Trite Proverb Day, I would have stayed home.” I rubbed my forehead and shook my head. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

  Noah’s eyes challenged me. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like, ‘Mara, you might want to wear some makeup and put on heels because I’m going to take you to my family’s palace in Miami Beach on Sunday.’ Something like that.”

  Noah stretched his lithe frame, locking his fingers and raising his arms above his head. His white T-shirt rose, exposing a sliver of stomach and the elastic of his boxers above the low waistband of his jeans. Button fly, I noticed.

  Well played.

  “First, you don’t need makeup,” he said as I rolled my eyes. “Second, you wouldn’t last an hour in heels, where we’re going. Speaking of which, I have to get the keys.”

  “Oh, yes, the mysterious keys.”

  “Are you going to go on about this the entire day now? I thought we were making progress.”

  “Sorry. I’m just a tad rattled by the pug attack and Mabel’s freak-out. And the fact that you live in the Taj Mahal.”

  “Rubbish. The Taj Mahal is only a hundred eighty-six square feet. This house has twenty-five thousand.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “I was kidding,” he said.

  I stared at him blankly.

  “All right, I wasn’t kidding. Let’s go, shall we?”

  “After you, my liege,” I said.

  Noah gave an exaggerated sigh as he started walking to an enormous staircase with an intricately carved banister. I followed him up, and shamefully enjoyed the view. Noah’s jeans were loose, barely hanging on to his hips.

  When we finally reached the top of the staircase, Noah took a left down a long corridor. The plush Oriental rugs muffled our footsteps, and my eyes drank in the detailed oil paintings that hung from the walls. Eventually, Noah stopped in front of a gleaming wooden door. He reached to open it, but we heard the careless slam of a door behind us and turned.

  “Noah?” asked a sleep-ridden voice. Female.

  “Hey, Katie.”

  Even with pillow creases on her face, the familiar girl was absolutely stunning. She looked as otherworldly standing there in a camisole and shorts set as she had in her fairy getup. Without the costume and the pulsing lights in the club, it was obvious that she shared Noah’s extraterrestrial beauty. Her hair was the same dark honey brown color as his, only longer; the ends skimmed the lace bottom of her camisole. Her blue eyes widened in surprise as they met mine.

  “I didn’t know you had company,” she said to Noah, suppressing a smile.

  He shot her a look, then turned to me. “Mara, my sister Katie.”

  “Kate,” she corrected him, then gave me a knowing glance. “Morning.”

  I couldn’t manage much more than a nod. At that moment, a perky, blond cheerleader was doing cartwheels in my vena cava. His sister. His sister!

  “It’s almost noon, now, actually,” Noah said.

  Kate shrugged and yawned. “Well, nice meeting you, Mara,” she said, and winked at me before heading down the stairs.

  “You too,” I managed to breathe. My heart rioted in my chest.

  Noah opened the door all the way and I tried to compose myself. This changed nothing. Nothing at all. Noah Shaw was still a whore, still an asshole, and still painfully out of my league. This was my inner mantra, the one I repeated on a loop until Noah tilted his head and spoke.

  “Are you coming in?”

  Yes. Yes I was.

  28

  nOAH’S ROOM WAS STARTLING. A LOW, MODERN platform bed dominated the center of it but otherwise, there was no furniture except for a long desk that blended inconspicuously into an alcove. There were no posters. No laundry. Just a guitar leaning against the side of the bed. And the books.

  Rows upon rows of books, lining built-in shelves that stretched from the floor to the c
eiling. Sunlight spilled through the enormous windows that overlooked Biscayne Bay.

  I never imagined what Noah’s room would look like, but if I had, I wouldn’t have imagined this. It was gorgeous, definitely. But so … bare. Unlived in. I circled the room, trailing my fingers along some of the spines as I went.

  “Welcome to the private collection of Noah Shaw,” he said. I stared at all of the titles. “You have not read all of these.” “Not yet.”

  I cracked a smile. “So it’s a tail-chasing tactic.”

  “Pardon?” I could hear the amusement in his voice.

  “Vanity books,” I said without looking at him. “You don’t actually read them, they’re just here to impress your … guests.”

  “You’re a mean girl, Mara Dyer,” he said, standing in the middle of his room. I felt his eyes on me, and I liked it.

  “I’m wrong?” I asked.

  “You are wrong.”

  “All right,” I said, and pulled a random book from the shelf. “Maurice, by E.M. Forster. What’s it about? Go.”

  Noah told me about the gay protagonist who attended Cambridge in turn-of-the-century Britain. I didn’t believe him, but I hadn’t read it so I moved on.

  “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man?”

  Noah belly-flopped on to his bed, affecting a bored tone as he rattled off another synopsis. My eyes followed the thousand-mile stretch of his back and my feet itched with the confusing impulse to walk over and join him. Instead, I pulled out another book without reading the spine first.

  “Ulysses,” I called out.

  Noah shook his head, his face buried in the pillow.

  Satisfied, I smiled to myself, put the book back on the shelf and reached for another. The dust jacket was missing, so I read the title from the cover. “The Joy of … crap.” I read the rest of the full title of the thick, nondescript volume to myself and felt myself redden.

  Noah turned over on to his side and said with mock seriousness, “I have never read The Joy of Crap. Sounds disgusting.” I blushed deeper. “I have, however, read The Joy of Sex,” he continued, a mischievous smile transforming his face. “Not in a while, but I think it’s one of those classics you can come back to again … and again.”