Liv bursts out laughing when I stand to collect our order. "Hey, I'm committed to this," I joke, setting our cups down.
"You're ridiculous." Yesterday she was defensive and on edge. Today she seems more... human.
"So, your family," she says once I'm seated again. "I assume I should know some basics. Are your parents criminals by any chance? Because if they are, we'll have to make up new parents too."
"No criminals in the family tree," I assure her. "Dad passed away when I was twelve. Heart attack. Mom lives in North Carolina with my younger brother Danny, who has Down syndrome."
Her expression shifts immediately, revealing genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry about your father."
"Thank you. It was a long time ago." I take a sip of coffee. "Mom remarried a few years later. Great guy, treats Danny like his own son. I see them a few times a year, but not nearly enough."
"Tell me about Danny," she says.
"He's twenty-three now, works part-time at a local grocery store bagging groceries. He's got this thing about organization—everything has to be just so. Makes him very good at his job." I smile as I talk about him. "He's obsessed with baseball statistics and can tell you the batting average of every player in the National League."
"That's sweet. Are you close?"
"Very," I say. "He's got a way of cutting through all the noise, you know? Doesn't care about anything except whether you're happy to see him. I keep meaning to visit more often, but..."
"But you've been busy barely scraping together rent money?"
"Right. Exactly." I force a rueful smile. "Hard to afford plane tickets when you're living paycheck to paycheck. What about you?" I ask, deflecting attention from the sudden guilt that churns in my gut. I really should visit them soon; I have all the time in the world now and zero excuses. "What should I know about your family dynamics? Any topics to avoid, relatives who'll grill me about my intentions?"
"My parents are fairly traditional," she says. "They run the family corn and soybean farm—it's been in Dad's family for three generations. Mom helps with the business side when she's not fussing over Emma's wedding plans. They're good people, but they worry about me living alone in the city, working all the time. They think I need someone to... complete me. Take care of me."
"Hence the invented girlfriend."
"Hence Sailor," she agrees. "They'll be thrilled to meet you." She pauses. "They had a hard time accepting I was gay at first." Her fingers trace the rim of her cup. "Took them a few years to come around. I crashed and burned once before, and if this falls apart, Mom will go right back to introducing me to every eligible bachelor in Maryland, convinced the right man can fix me. So please don't mess it up."
"Wow… okay. No pressure. But what do you mean by 'you crashed and burned?'"
"I don't want to talk about that," she says. "And they won't bring it up so you don't need to know. Just don't promise Mom any grandchildren over dinner. I'd like to keep this arrangement temporary."
I laugh. "What happens after the wedding? I mean, from their perspective. Do we break up? Get married? Move in together?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead," she admits. "I've been focused on surviving the wedding without disappointing Emma or giving my mother ammunition for another lecture about my life choices. They never visit me here, so I'll have time to figure it out. I won't see them again until Christmas."
"So I'm a band-aid solution."
"An expensive band-aid solution," she agrees. She pulls out her phone, then hesitates. "This might sound strange, but... could I take a selfie of us? I should probably send my sister some proof that you actually exist since you're coming to the wedding."
"Smart thinking," I say, scooting my chair closer to hers.
She holds up her phone, angling it to catch both of us. I lean in slightly, close enough to smell her perfume, and it’s delicious. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her in.
"Smile like you're happy to be here," she instructs, then takes a picture and studies the result. "Actually, this is pretty good. We look..." She pauses, looking at the screen.
"Like a couple?"
"Yeah. Like we're having a lazy Saturday together. Just hanging out." She shows me the photo, and she's right. There's something natural about it—the way I'm leaning toward her, the wide smile on her face, the casual intimacy of the moment. We look comfortable, like people who actually know each other.
Just when I'm thinking Liv’s finally chilled out, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a folder. "Before I forget."
"What's this?" I ask, though I'm afraid I already know the answer.
"Everything you need to know about me," she says matter-of-factly. "University details, family photos, friends' names,favorite foods, things I hate, places I've traveled. Study it before we fly out." She pauses, then adds with terrifying seriousness, "I'll need you to email me the same from you by Wednesday. Doesn't matter if half of it's made up, as long as we're on the same page."
I flip open the folder to find a comprehensive dossier on Olivia Barnes from Crayfield, Maryland, complete with color-coded tabs and a family tree. There's even a section labeled "Personality Quirks."
