The weight of our commitment settles over me. A fake relationship with the man who’s been a permanent thorn in my side. The lies we’ll have to tell, the act we’ll have to maintain.
And worst of all, the knowledge that when this is over—when Maisie is better, God, I hope that happens—I’ll have to pretend to be heartbroken over losing someone I can barely tolerate.
“Jonah,” I mutter, and the next thought hits. “Oh! And he’s coming home this weekend.”
Brooks’ face does something complicated. “I’ll handle Jonah.”
“We should tell him together. He’s going to lose his mind over this. Fake or not.” I sigh. “We’ll tell him the truth. He loves Maisie, and he knows how much the sports anchor position means to me. He’ll understand.”
Brooks doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “We’ll see.” He checks his watch, a sleek thing that probably costs more than my car. “I should go. I’ve got physical therapy in an hour.”
“We need to tell Maisie today. I’m helping her with the albums at three o’clock, and I have the evening off.”
He turns to leave but pauses at the door. “Okay. Let’s arrive home together. I’ll come pick you up after PT. Two forty-five?”
“Sounds good,” I say, still not entirelyconvinced this isn’t some fever dream brought on by stress and lack of sleep. “I’ll be at home. And again, thank you for this.”
He nods once, then leaves without another word, the scent of his cologne—light, woodsy, fresh—lingering in the air behind him.
I sit in stunned silence for a full minute, trying to process everything that just happened. My phone buzzes with a text.
ZOE:WHAT THE ACTUAL F*CK? KINGSTON??? GET YOUR ASS TO MY DESK NOW!!
I groan, dropping my head into my hands.
ME:Come here because we have to close the door.
I have to tell Zoe everything because she’s my best friend, and she’ll know if I’m lying, anyway.
8
Sleeping Arrangements
BROOKS
Iwhite-knuckle the steering wheel after I pick Sydney up from her townhouse, the silence between us thick enough to slice with a blade. We’re heading to tell my sick grandmother that we’re in love.
Love. The word makes something twist in my gut.
I remind myself that this is about making Meema happy during her treatment, not about the way Sydney’s damn shampoo smell is filling my SUV, or how she keeps sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
“So.” Sydney finally breaks the silence, her voice high. “We should probably get our story straight.”
I grunt, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead. Snow covers thetrees lining Woodsville Road, a reminder that winter hit in early October.
When I don’t elaborate, she continues, “You know, how we got together, when it happened... the basics of our epic love story.”
The sarcasm in her voice makes me twitchy. “We can keep it simple. Been dancing around each other for years, finally stopped fighting it.”
“That’s... actually not terrible.” She sounds surprised I had a decent suggestion. “When did it start? Specifically?”
I consider this, turning onto Kingston Lane, the private gravel road that leads to Meema’s house. “Eight weeks ago. After you drove her to chemo—two months ago. You came to Boise to give me the update on her treatment progress. You were there for her, and I realized...” I pause, the words coming from somewhere genuine. “I realized you were her rock when I couldn’t be. And that meant everything to me.”
Sydney stares at me, something unreadable in her expression. “That’s... good. Very believable.” She blinks before she says, “Then, what? We had a heart-to-heart? Started making out immediately? What’s the vibe here, Brooksie?”
My jaw clenches at the thought of making out with Sydney Holt. Not because it sucks—which is the problem. “Heart-to-heart,” I say firmly. “We talked about the past, cleared the air. Then I asked you to dinner. Wait, no, we can’t use a public place where it can be verified that we weren’t there. I made you dinner.”
“Romantic.” She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight flush on her cheeks. “Fine. You made me your infamous chicken parm. I’ll say I loved it even though I don’t.”
