The last thing I need is people pointing out how hot Ant is. I’m not blind. I’m aware he’s way out of my league. I have to remember this is all fake. We’re so unsuited, it’s not even funny. He drives me insane. Sure, on paper, it looks super sweet of him to have made sure I got to eat my pie. And the brownies. But he was also doing it to needle me, no question.
I need my brain to stop obsessing over Ant and his motivations. What’s going through his mind is none of my business. As long as he holds up his end of the bargain, we’ll go our separate ways after Hawaii, and life will go back to normal.
Pulling out my phone and plugging myself into my favourite political podcast, I find a quiet corner in the break room, pour myself a coffee and take a few uninterrupted minutes to enjoy the pie and the second brownie.
But even the podcast can’t stop me from returning to the issue of Ant Stevens and the fake dating dilemma.
The reality of what I’ve got myself into is beginning to sink in. There’s no question Grandie will have a conniption when she meets Ant, which was my intention. I do love Grandie, but I also learnt very young that it’s entirely possible to love someone without liking them very much. I can’t deny that upsetting her will be entertaining. What I failed to take into account is that I’ll have to be up close and personal with Ant for seven days—not to mention all these getting-to-know-you meetings he’s insisting on—and that’s not ideal. One, because he drives me crazy. Two, because it’s impossible not to notice how attractive he is.
And how charming in a laid-back, relaxed, nothing-bothers-me kind of way. In other words, he’s the opposite of me.
It's been a while since I went on a date. It’s been even longer since I had sex. And a lifetime since I’ve had the kind of sex I suspect Ant would offer.
I remind myself—again—that this is a fake dating arrangement. Ant has been flirty, which makes me wonder if he’s expecting a fake-dating-with-benefits arrangement. But it’s not the kind of thing you can ask. Well, maybe some people could. I can’t imagine myself saying “Hey, Ant, you wanna add some benefits to this fake dating thing?” I’d be mortified if he said no. Because for sure he’s only in this for a free trip to Hawaii. In reality, flirty is probably his default mode, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with me.
Regardless, I’m not in it for anything other than a reprieve from family matchmaking.
Whatever else I think or feel, two things remain true. Ant Stevens and I are not suited. And I don’t have time to get involved with anyone, much less someone with enough time on their hands to fly off to Hawaii at a moment’s notice.
Wiping my chocolatey fingers with a piece of paper towel, I pull out my phone and send him a quick thank you for the treats.
Before I’ve even dropped my phone back in my pocket I’m called to another emergency, and this time it’s four hours before I’m scrubbing out. Thank God for the sugar hit those treats gave me. Maybe having a boyfriend—a real one, not an Ant one—wouldn’t be so bad if he did things like that for me.
Then again, when would I have the time?
I’m eating a barely defrosted frozen dinner over the sink in my kitchen at nearly ten o’clock that night, which is a disturbingly common occurrence, when my mother calls. If I rang their house at this time, there’d be hell to pay. But Mum knows I keep strange hours. I put her on speaker and keep picking at the claggy mess of my meal.
“Darling. I was thinking …” Oh-oh. Nothing good comes of Mum thinking, especially not in that tone of voice. “It will be hard for Ant if he has to come to the wedding without knowing anyone. Why don’t you invite him to dinner on Sunday night? So we can get to know him. That way, there’ll be some familiar faces for him.”
I wonder if Mum even realises how ridiculous that sounds. We’re not seven. And I’d bet my medical school debt that Warren is not the kind of man Ant would want to befamiliarwith.
“Mum, he’s a grown man. He’ll be fine.”
“But I’d like to meet him,” she insists. “And your schedule says you have Sunday off. So you’ll have time.” I regret being guilted into forwarding her my schedule every month.
I don’t know how many times I need to tell my mother that a ‘day off’ doesn’t mean I do lunch and go dress shopping. A day off generally involves sleeping till midafternoon in a vain attempt to catch up, followed by laundry and grocery shopping. Even if most of the groceries are frozen meals and deluxe ice cream.
At least I don’t need to worry about housework. I have a lovely woman who comes in once a week and cleans the house, whether it needs it or not. Which it generally doesn’t, since I’m rarely home.
But I’m nearly there. My basic training in clinical fundamentals will finish at the end of this year. Once I’m through that and into the advanced training, my hours should, in theory, be more predictable. Then I might even find time for a life. With a real boyfriend.
“Mum, do we need to have that conversation again? I’m working eighty-hour weeks right now.”
“Yes, darling. I know. But I’d like to meet this Ant before the wedding.” Her tone tells me she’s not going to let this drop. I suspect she wants to ensure he’ll pass muster with Grandie. Which, of course, he won’t. Because that was the whole point of asking him to do this. And then she’ll start on a ‘how about you get him to cut his hair, or shave, or buy a nicer suit or cover his tattoos’ campaign. I just don’t have the patience for it.
Then again, if I don’t agree, she’ll just keep nagging. I mean, asking.
“He works a lot too, Mum.”
“I thought you said he was a barista?”
“He is.” I find myself twisting the end of my hair around my index finger. A nervous tick I’ve mostly overcome. I give my hairan impatient flick, balance the plastic tray of my dinner on the edge of the sink and dig for a scrunchie in the pocket of the scrubs I’m still wearing.
“Well, surely he can get time off making coffee to meet his in-laws.”
Christ on a bike. Give my mother the slimmest of ideas and she’s off and running. In-laws? She hasn’t even met him, and I’d bet she’s already thinking of baby names.
“We’re not getting married.” I weave my hair into a thick plait and attempt to keep my voice even.
