As she moves to sling her arms in front of her chest in protest, our arms brush and tangle. “Clark, I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m not going to fall?—”
Our eyes somehow drift together and collide at the same time.
My thoughts slow, but before they come to a complete stop, I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking.
April’s lips part slightly and she bites the lower one before a loud bark interrupts us, snapping us both back to reality.
I say, “You tripped over a leash a few weeks ago and the other day, you stumbled, nearly taking out a mailbox.”
“That was Scout’s fault!”
We’re both laughing now, and the tension returns to the safe place we keep it, bookended by the wordsbest friends.
That night, after dinner with my family—where Dad asks about hockey and Mom asks about The Barkery and everyone pointedly doesn’t ask about our relationship—April and I lie in our respective bunks, talking in the dark.
“Your family is really great,” she says quietly.
“They love you.”
“They’re so … nice. I mean, that word doesn’t quite suffice, but it’s refreshing not to be told every single one of my life decisions is disappointing.”
“April, I’m sorry that your parents aren’t more supportive, and, uh, nice,” I say boldly.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“But I meant what I said before. I’m here for you. My family, too.”
“Thanks,” her voice is small.
However, I’m not sure she’s convinced.
“They’ve asked about you for years. Every phone call, every visit. ‘How’s April? How is her business coming along? Can I send her some of those coconut macaroons she loves?’ You’re truly part of this family.”
She’s quiet for so long, I think she’s fallen asleep. “That means a lot.”
“It’s true.”
“Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“If I were going to fake date anyone, I’m glad it’s you. Even if it’s complicated and weird and probably a terrible idea.”
I smile in the darkness. “Me too.”
“Goodnight.”
“Sweet dreams, April.”
I lie awake long after her breathing evens out, thinking about how being this woman’s best friend and now fake dating her has completely ruined me for anyone else.
20
CLARK
On Sunday morning,Mom wakes us at seven, declaring, “He is risen!” The kitchen smells like resurrection rolls. She also repeatedly announces that we’re leaving for church in just over an hour to get parking—then proceeds to count down in fifteen-minute intervals—and a reminder to wear something nice!
My twin brothers groan, but dutifully pull on their church clothes.
