Next Sunday: Easter with Clark’s family
Instead of texting him back, I panic and call.
In one breath, I say, “We have a dinner date. At Spaglietti’s. In public. Like a real date. At a restaurant. Where people will see us.”
“That’s generally how public appearances work.”
“I know, but—” I can’t finish the sentence. Because what I want to say is that sitting across from him at a romantic restaurant is different from hanging out with dogs at an adoption event. It’s going to be torture. I’m going to have to pretend this is fake when everything in me wants it to be real.
“Oh, and hello to you, too. I’m in Reno, by the way.”
“I know. Good luck at the game later.”
“Tell the Bacon Boys and Purdy that I love them.”
“I will,” but there is a tremor in my voice.
“It’ll be fine,” Clark says, like he can read my mind. “We’ll eat some pasta, smile for some photos, and call it a night. No big deal.”
“Right. No big deal.”
But it is a big deal. Because every event, every touch, every moment we spend together is making it harder to remember this isn’t real.
“Also, I invited you to Easter at my parents’ house. That’s on the schedule too.”
“I saw.”
“You don’t have to come if it’s too much,” Clark says as if sensing my overwhelm.
“I want to come.” Truly.
“Good. My parents would be very upset if you didn’t,” he says, relieved.
“Plus, I cannot miss out on hearing your siblings spill embarrassing stories about you or your mom’s bacon spinach dip surrounded by the pull apart bunny shaped bread.”
I can imagine him smiling when I begged him to recreate it for me, but his mother wouldn’t give up the recipe, claiming she had included a secret ingredient. “But, uh, what should we tell them about us?” he asks as if it’s up to me.
I try to release a steady breath even though that’s not quite how I feel. “The truth.”
“That you’re my girlfriend—fake girlfriend,” he corrects quickly. “My mom asks about you all the time.”
“She does?”
“Yeah. She thinks you’re—” He stops. “Never mind.”
“She thinks I’m what?”
“She thinks you’re good for me. That I’m happier when you’re around.”
The buffalo turn in excited circles. “Oh.”
“So. Easter. You’ll still come?”
“Of course.”
“Although fair warning, my mom has a tendency to meddle and if she knows it’s not real, she might try to make it real.”
“Clark Culpepper, is that a threat?”
