Take that, Fallon. I’m the MOH who doesn’t even care that her ex is in a photo with her.
I’d like my A-plus right now.
* * *
Once the pics are done, it’s time to eat. Lake and I slide onto a bench at the picnic table across from my parents and near my sister and Parker. The photographer circles, taking pics of the meal, the laughter, the vibe.
As I reach for some spring salad to spoon onto my plate, my mother shoots me a thoughtful look, her light brown eyescrinkling at the corner in curiosity. “It’s such a treat to sit with you, Lake,” she says.
Lake flashes her a smile that surprises me with its size, its wattage. It’s warm and bright, and he’s not really a smiley guy. But evidently today he is. “And you as well, Mrs. Hatmaker.”
Mom tilts her head, studying us once more, her dyed brown bob barely moving. She’s a put-together woman who does cardio every day, who plays brain games each morning, who misses nothing since my mother doesn’t permit failure. “So this all happened quickly?” she asks the two of us, and I’m not sure what she’s getting at.
But I’d better answer quickly.
“Sure did,” I reply, like the speed of my response will hide the way my pulse kicked up just there.
Mom shakes her head, like she’s trying to work something out. After a beat, she swings her shrewd gaze back to me. “Remy, I’m just surprised you never mentioned anything about Lake even though we talked nearly every day for a couple of weeks there.”
Oh, shoot. She’s right. Why didn’t I mention Lake to her then? I gulp, then try to improvise. “Oh, I thought I had.”
“No,” she insists, and she’s a lot like Caroline, strong-headed—no surprise. My mom stood by my father’s side while he battled some mental health demons while I was a kid. She was fierce, resolute, and determined to help her man. She’s still that way. No wonder she became one of the country’s most sought-after wedding planners before her retirement—she believes in theI dowith the power of a thousand suns, and if she had to be the glue in their marriage, then dammit she’d be sticky. “I even asked if you were ready to date again,” she points out.
“Can confirm,” my dad puts in, with a flash of a smile for her, always for her. “Well, she told me about every call assoon as she hung up. She said you were taking some time off from dating.”
Mom pats his hand as if thanking him for backing her up.
I rub my palms along my khakis, trying to figure out how to explain this discrepancy. “That was the plan at the time,” I say evasively, hoping that throws them off the scent.
I steal a glance down the table at Jameson, and he’s watching us like it’s a tennis match.
Great. Just great.
I’d assumed his presence might dent our fake dating armor today, and I was ready for that interaction. But I wasn’t prepared for my parents to give me the third degree, while my ex watches…like he’s eating it up.
As I picture my spreadsheet and the details Lake devised about how he asked me out every day, Lake reaches for my hand under the table, threads his fingers through mine, and squeezes. It’s like a balm. More so when he cuts in with, “But it’s a good thing plans change. Because I was determined to get Remy to go out with me.”
He gives my hand another squeeze under the table. It’s like he’s sayingremember, we planned for this?
And…I do. “He kept asking me. He was very persistent.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?” my mom presses, like she can’t quite believe I’d leave that out of a check-in call.
“A lot was going on,” I say, hoping that covers it for her.
“The thing is, she didn’t think I was serious,” Lake supplies, talking to my mom. “All the times I asked her.” He pauses, giving a self-deprecating grin. “I kept leaving these little stuffed foxes on her desk.”
“Like the ones you hit on the ice?” my mom says, enthused. But then she stops, like she’s embarrassed now, or maybe secondhand embarrassed at the mere mention ofthe incident.
But Lake doesn’t give in to that lore. He barrels forwardlike the foxes were always part of our story. “Yup. Any kind of stuffed fox. I’d leave them with little notes. Sometimes with cookies. Other times with cupcakes. Sometimes, even a plant. A succulent, of course,” he says, and holy smokes. This isnotwhat we planned. It’s…better.
It’s fun.
It’s delightful.
The pressure in my chest eases. The blaring in my brain dissipates.
And I want some fun in the middle of this tense picnic, so I jump into the fray. “My favorite was the one that saidFor fox’s sake, will you have coffee with me?” I say to Lake, smiling dopily, like I’m recalling that imagined moment perfectly.
