Dad wanders into my small dining room to check the voicemails Avery left. I look at my mom. “I’m so sorry.”
She reaches out and smooths my hair and gives me a small flicker of a smile. “I know, baby. I’m actually slightly relieved it isn’t real. It’s selfish but I’ve dreamed of your wedding. I want to see Dad give you away. I didn’t have a dad to do that. Or a mom to cry happy tears.”
I hug her, fighting my own tears. "I want to give that to you someday. Happily. But not with Nash-Hole Westwood."
There’s a knock at the door. I get up, expecting it to be Liv or Tate. But when I swing the wood door open wide… “Speak of the devil.”
Nash is filling the space on the other side of the storm door. He looks… not like himself. His hair is wet and uncombed. He's in jeans, with no belt so they're barely clinging to his hips and an old Quake T-shirt. His hands are stuffed in his pockets. "Hey. I need to talk to you."
“Yeah,” I say with a resigned sigh because we can’t just ignore each other now.
“Can I come in? I don’t exactly want to have this conversation through a storm door.”
“My parents are here,” I explain. “It might be safer this way. With a metal door between you and my dad.”
“Let him in,” Dad calls from the dining room. “I promise not to throw a punch.”
I unlock the door and push it open. Nash steps inside. I watch his hazel eyes dart around. He's never been in my apartment before so he's taking in the modest living room with the second-hand furniture and crappy window-mounted air conditioner. Dad walks in from the dining room and Mom gets up off the couch. She tries to give Nash a smile, but it's tight. "You two got yourselves into it, didn't you?"
“Yes,” Nash says quietly. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and looks her dead in the eye before turning his gaze to my dad. “I’m very sorry for this. I know it’s a social media nightmare. We both acted like absolute idiots, which is completely out of character for both of us. We’ll make it right. Eventually.”
“Eventually?” I parrot.
“Yeah. I… Well, obviously the team knows,” Nash says to me.
“The world knows.”
"Yeah and our PR department and my coach don't think a couple days before playoffs is the best time to file for divorce," Nash says and immediately takes a step back. Clearly, he's expecting one of us to blow like a volcano. Probably me. But his eyes keep darting to my dad. "I mean obviously it changes nothing. We aren't together. We won't ever be, because your daughter hates me."
“Yeah like you think I’m fantastic.” I roll my eyes.
“We are not each other’s biggest fans,” he confirms. “But I understand my team’s point.”
“So you came here to ask my only daughter to stay in a fake marriage with you?” Mom asks, blinking rapidly at the absurdity.
He nods and Dad swears. “You two made your bed, and I guess now you have to lie in it.”
All eyes are on me. I swallow and am fairly certain what I’m about to say will make it all worse but… “The studio is going to shelve my show unless I allow them to film us.”
“What?” Mom squeaks.
“Excuse me?” Dad barks.
“Hell no,” Nash snaps.
I glare at him with the heat of a five-alarm fire in my eyes. "You need us to be married for playoffs. I need us to be married for my series while you're in playoffs. What's the difference?"
“You want to film us?” Nash’s rugged jaw unhinges, his mouth falling open in shock.
“They want to include the playoffs and a couple in the playoffs. Me. You. Us.”
“They just, like, called you and told you this?” he asks, incredulous. “After the story broke?”
“Look, we’ll still be faking everything,” I say, ignoring his question. “And I promise to limit your camera time as much as humanly possible. You’re really boring so I don’t think anyone will actually want you on screen much anyway.”
“Tenley,” my dad chides gently as he stifles a chuckle.
"Thanks a lot, Mr. Garrison."
