He looks startled—like I’ve caught him at something he wasn’t ready to admit. His mouth opens. Closes. Then he seems to consider it, really consider it, and something shifts in his expression.
“Yeah.” Finally. Honest. Direct. “I need help.” His mouth makes a tight, perfect line. Good grief, even his lips are perfect. “It’s complicated.” He takes a breath that clouds white between us. “But it sounds like you need help too. With your family. With”—he gestures vaguely—“all of it.”
“So we help each other.” My voice sounds strange. Distant. “A fake date. For the meet-and-greet party.”
He lifts a shoulder.
“And then what? We have a fake fight and fake breakup?”
His mouth opens, then, “On second thought, I probably need to be your boyfriend through the entire wedding.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s a contract thing.”
And I don’t know why, but those words have the power to spear through me, take me out, right there on the grimy sidewalk.
Still. “There are five big events—the meet-and-greet party, the couples shower, then three events over the weekend wedding in Maple Lake. You’d have to go to all of them.”
He nods, grimacing as though I’m the one proposing this grisly idea but he’s up for it. What a champ.
“And then what? Part ways like it never happened?”
“If that’s what you want.”
The bus pulls up with a hydraulic hiss. Brakes squealing. Doors opening with that pneumatic sound. The older woman gathers her bags, stands slowly—arthritic joints, careful movements—and gives me one last look that might be sympathy or might be judgment. Hard to tell in the harsh fluorescent light.
“Wait. Are you taking the bus?” he says, as if just figuring it out.
I glance up at him, my chin tucked into my jacket. “One too many shots to the head there, hockey boy?”
“Let me drive you home,” he says, ignoring the jab.
I should say no. I should get on this bus and go home and forget this entire insane conversation, crazy fake-relationship plot and all.
But then I think about showing up to Maya’s party alone. About my mother’s pitying smiles. About being the overlooked sister at five different wedding events while everyone else is coupled up.
And I look at Mr. Candy, standing there in his expensive leather jacket with his blue eyes, those broad shoulders, and suddenly all I can think is…
This is completely insane, but also?—
It might be exactly what I need.
“Come on, Chloe,” he says, those blue eyes catching in the light. Oceans again. “It’s just a ride. Let me help you.”
A teenage boy has run to catch the bus and now stomps up the stairs, hood up, backpack, that particular smell of teenage body spray and weed and winter sweat. He looks at me. Looks at Brody. Recognition flashes across his acne-marked face. “Hey! It’s Candy Kane!”
Brody—er, Candy smiles and nods.
And that’s enough for my pride to find its feet, even though my brain is screamingJust say yes. It’s subzero. You’re going to freeze on this bus.“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” His voice is gentle. Matter-of-fact. “But you don’t have to.”
“Lady?” The bus driver sounds impatient. His voice carries that end-of-shift exhaustion. “On or off?”
I look at Brody. At the warmth and ease he’s offering.
Then I look at the bus. At my escape route. At my dignity.
