“Make a wish, Meema,” he calls over the applause as the song ends.
Maisie closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and blows. She doesn’t get all seventy candles—no one could—but the effort is valiant, and the remaining few are blown out with help from the crowd.
“What did you wish for?” someone calls out.
Maisie’s eyes twinkle. “If I tell you, it won’t come true. But I will say it involves these two—” she points at Brooks and me “—and perhaps some great-grandchildren that I get to cuddle.”
I choke on air, my face flaming as Brooks actually laughs beside me. “No pressure, Meema,” he says, pulling me closer, his hand warm on my hip.
“Just something to consider.” Her innocent smile fools exactly no one. “Now, who wants cake?”
The moment passes in a flurry of cake-cutting and serving, but Maisie’s words linger.
Great-grandchildren. A future. Something permanent between Brooks and me. The thought should terrify me more than it does.
As the evening winds down, Mayor Martinez raises his glass for a toast. “To Maisie Kingston,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “Seventy years young, and still the heart and soul of Dickens. Your wisdom, your kindness, and your legendary poker skills have touched all of us. That last one bankrupted many of us.” Laughter ripples through the crowd. “To many more years of your vibrant presence in our lives.”
“To Maisie,” everyone echoes, glasses raised.
The sentiment is beautiful, but I feel a pang of sadness. That this celebration feels more precious because of what could be lurking on the horizon.
Brooks’ arm tightens around me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing.
As guests begin to leave, Brooks and I move into our well-practiced routine of the happy couple saying our goodbyes. His hand remains at the small of my back as we thank people for coming, accept good wishes, and promise to visit soon.
“You two take care of each other,” Mrs. Johnson tells us, patting my cheek. “It’s so wonderful to see you happy, Sydney. After everything—your ex, you deserve this.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. These people—my people—are thrilled for us. So invested in our fictional happiness. Each sincere wish adds to the weight I’m carrying.
By the time Brooks and I make it to the SUV, I’m exhausted from the constant awareness of Brooks beside me, from navigating the minefield of my brother to the town’s expectations.
Brooks slides into the driver’s seat, but doesn’t start the SUV immediately as we wait for Maisie to take her time with goodbyes.
“That went well.” His voice is quiet in the darkness.
I laugh, the sound brittle. “Did it? Jonah basically called you a slut.”
“But no one else caught on. And Meema was happy. That’s what matters, right?”
“Right. That’s what matters.”
My dad escorts Maisie, wearing her crown, to the SUV, then gets her belted in.
Brooks pulls away, my childhood home receding in the rearview mirror. I can’t help but wonder how long we can keep this up. How long before the lines between real and fake blur beyond recognition.
How long before one of us slips and reveals a truth we can’t face.
15
The Temptation
BROOKS
The house is quiet now that Meema’s tucked in bed with her post-celebration meds. But my mind is loud—a jumbled mess of Jonah’s digs, Garrick’s voicemails, and Sydney’s hand in mine all evening. She leaves to shower, and I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling where hockey sticks still glow faintly in the dark. Twenty-four hours ago, this fake relationship seemed manageable. A means to an end. Now? Now I’m one hormone surge away from forgetting every promise I’ve ever made.
I roll over, burying my face in the pillow that still smells of her shampoo. Big mistake. Huge.
I flip back over with a groan, my shoulder revolting. The pain is almost welcome—a distraction from the more pressing discomfort growing in my dick.
