“Being the best fake boyfriend ever.”
For the first time, I’m escaping my family drama with an accomplice. Someone who even helped orchestrate my rescue. I glimpse the corner of Brandon’s mischievous grin as we run away from the house, hand in hand, toward the twinkling beach town.
thirty-five
PRESENT DAY
BRANDON
Sheets stick to my skin as I blink awake on top of them in only my boxer briefs. Gauzy white curtains flow into view, followed by a beige-colored wall. The nocturnal sea breeze filtering through the window has been replaced by a steady stream of hot sunshine. I groan, feeling well past forty as I roll off the pillow to massage the crick in my neck. Even though I’m only twenty-nine-years young, this pool house bed sucks.
I plant my feet on the oak hardwood and slide on a pair of basketball shorts. I forego a shirt, since it’s already too hot in here. Arching my back and twisting my shoulders, I try to coax my muscles into some semblance of their usual form.
The pool house is silent, the hour only a little past seven. I wander the house, rubbing my eyes. There’s no sign of Kate yet, but there’s evidence of her co-existing in this same space. A hairbrush left on the side table. Her purse hanging from a doorknob. A smattering of loose change and a lipgloss left on the kitchenette counter.
I smile.
Frames shine from one of the living room walls, drawing me closer. They’re all in black and white, but the animated photos couldn’t be filled with more life. Candids of Liza and Kate shoving their faces full of cotton candy. Younger selfies with their cheekssmooshed together. A little girl with sleek pigtails holding hands and smiling up at her black-haired grandmother.
A warm smile spreads across my face, radiating into my chest.
Thisis Kate. The loyal, quirky, loving Kate. A woman who would incinerate anyone for crossing her loved ones in a single, fiery breath. A woman who, after her family drama hit the fan last night, thanked me.
For being her fake boyfriend.
I plop onto the couch before rubbing a hand down my stubble. Things are shifting with Kate. I sense a crack beginning to widen, exposing her softer side.
It’s everything I’ve wanted for her.
For us.
But then a kid with messy black hair pops into my brain, his seven-year-old fingers knitting sticks into nests. A boy with a dad-shaped hole in his gut.
How many times did I see a father and son in the grocery store and wonder if that was what my dad looked like? Oh, how I glared at those boys. What did they have that I didn’t?
And like passing years dull childhood innocence, the lack of a father grated at me until I was polished in a way that only painful things are.
I rake both hands through my hair and stand. Walking to the living room window, I stare out at the ocean.
My fake relationship with Kate is complicated, but this trip feels like the last leg of a race I’ve been running for a very long time. My gut tells me that the finish line is approaching, one I’ll either cross with Kate by my side, or alone.
I swallow.
My stomach growls, but there’s no sign of life up on the patio yet. I shuffle into the small kitchen and find that the slender fridge has been stocked with basics. I discover a cast iron skillet in one of the cupboards, and I set it on the stove.
After starting a batch of coffee, I scrounge up some sourdough, butter, eggs, and cheese.
Before long, the smell of buttery breakfast fills the air. I munch on a piece of fresh bread between my teeth as I flip another toasted piece in the cast iron skillet.
A creaky door alerts me that a sign of life is emerging from Kate’s room.
I swallow the mound of bread and slap on a rogue grin right as Kate peeks around the wall. Her hair is messy, piled atop her head in a bun that I want to sink my fingers into. She’s fresh-faced, unkempt, and watching me warily.
“Morning, sunshine,” I sing, even though lack of sleep has fried my vocal cords like the egg threatening to burn in the pan. I quickly flip it, then toss it onto the buttery toasted bread. Sprinkling it with cheese, I finish it off with another slab of bread and slide the plate toward Kate.
“Order up.” I wink, flipping a dish towel over my bare shoulder. I fill one of the mugs I found with a quarter cup of fresh brew before filling the rest with sweet cream. I slide it over.
“I don’t remember you being this chipper in the morning,” she grumbles, plopping down onto a barstool and swiping the plate toward her.
