“I did. But that son of mine has to make this up to me.”
“Yes, he does.” I help her with her shawl, and she seems stronger tonight, buoyed by excitement and whatever is happening between Sydney and me. If this lie is what’s giving her the strength to fight, how can I regret it?
But as Sydney slips her hand into mine—warm, small, fitting perfectly—I know I’m playing a game where everyone stands to lose.
“Let’s go,” I say, managing a smile for Meema’s benefit. “Can’t keep your adoring public waiting.”
As we head out to the SUV, Sydney’s hand still in mine, I make a silent promise to myself.
I will keep my distance. I will remember this is fake. I will not drag Sydney into the mess that is my life.
Even if it’s already too late.
14
The Performance
SYDNEY
Igrip the cake box like it contains nuclear launch codes instead of three tiers of vanilla buttercream as Brooks navigates the SUV up my parents’ driveway. Balloons dance against the twilight sky, tethered to the porch railings. Mom’s transformed the place into what looks like a party supply store explosion. Cars are already lining the street, which means we’re walking into this lion’s den of nosy neighbors, my pissed off brother, and friends from all over town who think we’re madly in love.
After we park behind Jonah’s rental car, the front door flies open, flooding the yard with light and noise.
“They’re here!” Mom calls over her shoulder before bustling downthe porch steps. “Maisie! Come in, come in! Everyone’s waiting!”
My father is right there to usher Maisie inside, and off the three of them go while Brooks and I collect ourselves.
“Ready for this?” I steal a glance at him in the rearview mirror to see his jaw muscle twitching.
He grunts—so different from the articulate sports commentator who shocked me on air this morning. The pills for his shoulder, I realize. His eyes have that slightly unfocused quality, the pain lines around his mouth softened but not erased.
“Use your words, Brooksie.” I aim for teasing but land on nervous. “Remember our cover story. Happy couple. Madly in love. Try not to look like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“I know the drill. Just... processing.”
Great. Processing. Just what every woman wants to hear before entering a party with her fake boyfriend. I adjust my dress—blue to match Brooks’ shirt, because Maisie insisted we coordinate.
“The cake looks amazing,” Brooks says, clearly trying. “Did you make it? Just kidding. I remember how you set your microwave on fire trying to heat soup.”
“That was one time!” I say, although warmth spreads through my chest. “And it was your fault for distracting me with that hockey play-by-play.”
His almost-smile grows into something genuine, and for a moment, I forget we’re about to perform for an audience. It’s just us—Sydney and Brooks, sharing a moment that feels unexpectedly real.
I hold up the cake. “It’s from The Baking Beavers.”
“Perfect.” Brooks is out of the SUV before I can blink, opening my door with an enthusiasm that would be impressive if I didn’t know it was part of our act. His hand finds the small of my back as I carefully maneuver the cake box out of the door, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Nice touch.” I bite my lip.
“Gotta sell it.” His breath is warm against my ear.
Once we’re on the porch, Mom engulfs us both in a hug somehow, despite the cake box between us. “You two look absolutely gorgeous together!”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “Where should I put the cake?”
“Kitchen table for now.” She points inside. “We’ll bring it out after dinner. Oh, Brooks, warning: Tom is on one. He’s already told the story about your college hockey championship game three times.”
“Nice.” Brooks has a genuine smile, and I’m struck again by how easy he is with my parents. Always has been, even when we were at each other’s throats. It’s like he reserved all his brooding just for me.
