by E. Cleveland
“What?”
“I’ll go to the wedding. Spring break in New York. Sign me up. Consider me your fake boyfriend. I think a thousand dollar bid should cover that. I mean, I wish you never bought that sofa, but what can you do?”
“You and me both,” I moan. Wiping my tears away from my eyes, I finally search his face. “Honestly, you don’t have to do this.” I say it, but hope the opposite. I hang on to a flicker in my heart that he’s not messing with me. That there’s a chance this will still work out and my sister can take her stupid snark and shove it. “I know it’s crazy.”
“I’m going. It’s a done deal,” he answers. His dark eyes settle on mine. “You have my word, and I’m a man of my word.”
11
Pop Quiz: Boyfriend Edition
Griz
Why did I give her my word?
I lean back in my leather computer chair, staring at my screen. These questions, they’re intense. There’s got to be a hundred of them. Hattie sent me an email questionnaire so she can be convincing when she tells everyone I’m her boyfriend. I get that she doesn’t want to get caught off guard with something obvious that she should know. Like, if her sweet, old grandma asks what my parents do for a living, she shouldn’t be fumbling for answers.
They start out reasonable:
Parent’s names?
Married or divorced? (if remarried, please fill out info for step parents too)
Parent’s job titles?
Siblings? How many? Ages?
In each spot she’s answered the same information about herself. When I agreed to go to New York for the wedding, I didn’t realize I was going to have to study up. It just seemed like the perfect escape from my parents and their painful pity party during spring break. This is what you call a win-win.
It was that and… I shake my head and clench my jaw, reliving her, well, I guess that was pretty much a breakdown she had after talking to her sister. It wasn’t the tears that got me. No man can stand to watch a woman cry. There’s something in our genetic code that makes us want to fix it, sure, but that’s not what tipped the scales.
It was anger. Borderline fucking rage, honestly. Hattie is funny, she’s smart, she’s sarcastic, and she’s stunning. The fact that anyone in her life can make her feel like she’s… what did she call herself? A potato with red hair? My lips press flat and my teeth jam together as my eyes narrow. Fuck that. I’m going.
There’s no backing out. Not now. I’ll just cram for this crazy spring break getaway like I would for an exam, even though it’s tedious to go through and answer things like whether I prefer baths or showers, how I take my coffee and whether I like spooning. She even wants to know if I like to be the big or little spoon. In fact, I type that one in right now.
Big spoon. Always.
It’s more than I was expecting, but I guess it makes sense. These are the kinds of things that people who live together know, right? Even with the guys in Hector House, just from our roommate situation, I can tell you that Blaze takes his coffee black. Canuck prefers baths, but rarely takes them because five guys sharing a bathroom is gross, and Player comes from hard-working but humble roots. I don’t know which guys prefer to be the big spoon or little, but I can probably guess.
Downstairs, I hear the crew laughing and shooting the shit. It sounds like they’ve cracked open some beer down there and are destroying each other in another hockey video game series. Suddenly, the noise gets a lot louder as my sister, Etta, gives one single knock and then flings my bedroom door open.
“Hey, what the hell?” I turn around in my chair and give her the double what-the-fuck palms. “I could’ve been jerking off in here.” The words come out of my mouth before I notice the phone planted on the side of her head. Shit.
She rolls her eyes and moves the mouthpiece away from her lips, “There’s pizza downstairs, dumbass.” Then she goes back to her call, “Yeah, I’m still here, mom.” Double shit. “Yeah, you’re right, that was his voice. Uh-huh.”
I start waving my hands back and forth, silently begging her not to do what I know she’s about to do. I’m not proud of ghosting my own mother lately, but there’s only so much smothering—I mean mothering—one guy can take.
“I don’t know why he’s not answering your texts,” Etta answers. My sister’s eyes flicker up to my face and she frowns, turning her back on me. She hunches her shoulders a bit and drops her tone. “No, really, he’s doing a lot better now. You don’t have to worry so much.”
There you have it. The gut punch I didn’t need. I hate how much my mother worries over me. I feel like my fuck-up last term with that bunny has caused her more pain than it ever caused me.
Etta turns back around, and I can see it in her eyes. I know what she’s about to do before she even does it. I start mouthing the word “No” when she says, “I don’t know if he’s coming home for spring break. No. Because he hasn’t told me either. You know what? Why don’t you just talk to him?” Before I can do anything practical, like jump out my fucking window, the phone is pressed up to the side of my face and into my hand.
I glare at my sister, but she just sticks out her tongue at me. I pick up a pen off my desk and biff it at her, but she easily dodges it and gives me a satisfied smirk. I give her a middle finger salute, but we both know she won this round.
“Hey mom.” I clear my throat.
I try to sound upbeat, but it sounds forced. I don’t like stressing her out, and I know she’s worried about my happiness and well-being. She’s a fantastic fucking mother. The best mom. Seriously, I don’t deserve the woman. Still, I can’t spend another week hiding from her pitying glances and sad sighs.
I can’t.
“Aiden, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Don’t you get my texts?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“It’s fine, honey. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going to book you a flight home for spring break on our points card. Your dad will send you an email with all the ticket information…”
“No, mom,” I interrupt her with an urgency in my voice I can’t contain. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“What? Of course you can. We have plenty of points. Don’t worry about that,” she starts, but I cut her off again.
“No, I’m not coming home, mom. I can’t.”
“You really should. I don’t like the idea of you just nursing that broken heart all alone in your house.” Her voice does that creaky thing that happens when she tears up. I hate this whole thing so much. I throw poisoned darts from my eyes toward my sister for throwing me under the bus like that.
“Mom, I’m not heartbroken.” It’s a truth she doesn’t want to hear though. I think it bothered her, the idea that I was going to be the father to a baby made from a one-night-stand. Now she’s created this whole idea that I’m a crumbling person to help her cope with the fact that I’m not her innocent boy anymore. “I’m going to a wedding, in New York,” I explain.
“New York? Who’s getting married in New York? This is the first I’m hearing of it.”
“My girlfriend’s sister.”
I’m not sure why my sister stayed in my room, but she is clearly eavesdropping. The word “girlfriend” sent her eyebrows climbing up her forehead, then her eyes narrow into a skeptical squint.
“Girlfriend!” Mom’s voice went from the verge of tears to child-at-Christmas in ten seconds flat. “My word, I didn’t know you had a girlfriend. What’s her name? Is she a student? How long have you been dating her?” She starts shooting off questions, rapid-fire.
Rubbing my hand down the back of my neck, I glance up at Etta and drop my voice a bit, trying to prevent my words from reaching her nosy ears.
“Aiden? Hello? Are you there? Tell me all about her. I can’t believe you have a girlfriend, and you never told us. Is it serious? When can we meet her?” She keeps breathlessly rambling. “Tell me who she is,” she insists, irritation beginning to overtake her tone.
“Hattie,
” I answer.
Etta’s eyes open wide. So does her mouth.
“It’s not super serious yet, but I want to see where it goes.” Lying to my mother isn’t my proudest moment. It sucks. The only thing that would be worse is if I told her the truth. This works. This fake relationship is exactly what I need to get my family’s focus off of what happened last term. They need to move on. I need to move on. A pretend girlfriend should help everyone do exactly that.
“We can talk about it all later, okay?”
Yes, I’m trying to ditch this conversation because I know mom is going to ask me a million more questions. I’m not about to back myself into a corner answering them, especially when I haven’t even read through Hattie’s questionnaire yet.
“I’m heading out for hockey practice.” Another lie. “I’ll call you soon.” I hate to admit it, but that’s a lie too.
“Sure, sure. I don't want you to be late,” mom agrees. Her voice is much higher now. Lighter. Like I lifted a weight from her.
I say goodbye and hand Etta back her phone.
“What was that?” My sister demands.
“What?” I know full-well what she means.
“You and Hattie are dating now? Since when?” She throws her hand up on her hip and tilts her head, clearly annoyed. Not the emotion I was expecting, but okay.
“Uhhh…”
“Listen to me, and listen good.” Etta frowns. “Hattie is way out of your league, alright. Waaayyyy out. Like you’re here,” – she slices her hand through the air by her hip – “and she’s here.” She does the same thing as high as her arm will stretch over her head. “Not only is she an awesome girl, she’s also kind-of my boss at the paper.” My sister is heading into a full tirade now. “I don’t need Mr. Bunny-Humper to go hurting a person I consider my friend, Aiden. I’m not kidding, so you better wipe that stupid smirk off your face,” she rants.
“Whoa, chill out there, Scarface. You don’t need to threaten me.” I know I’m adding fuel to the fire, but isn’t that what big brother’s do? There’s a code or a rule book, I’m pretty sure.
“I’m not joking.” She takes a deep breath, inflating like a puffer fish, ready to jump back into another string of threats.
“We’re not really dating, Etta,” I interrupt her and watch her deflate.
“But you said… You told mom you’re going to her sister’s wedding.”
“I am.”
“And that she’s your girlfriend.”
“Sort of,” I answer, enjoying riling her up. Just like the rule book dictates.
“How do you have a sort-of girlfriend?” She doesn’t look the least bit amused.
Etta’s really fired up about this. For the last couple years, she’s been happy to keep her distance from my dating life. Well, maybe not happy, but she’s stayed out of it. There are only a couple people in her life that she gets this protective about. She must really consider Hattie a good friend.
“It’s complicated,” I sigh.
“Then uncomplicate it.” She narrows her eyes. “Now.”
“Hattie needed a date to her sister’s wedding. I needed an excuse to stay away from home for spring break.” I shrug, keeping it simple.
No need to get into what Hattie told me about her family. As close as my sister and I are, it feels wrong to tell her that part. Now I’m the one feeling protective, I guess. “It’s a win-win. Besides, I’ve never been to NYC. Why would I turn away an all-expenses-paid trip? So, a triple win, really.” I fold my hands behind my head and lean back in my chair.
Etta brushes her fingers through her hair, her eyebrows go from frowning to arched in worry to frowning again. “So, it’s all for show then? You guys are just pretending to be in a relationship?”
“Exactly.” I nod, smiling. I expect her to smile back, but she doesn’t. Her eyes flicker to mine and she points her finger right in my face.
“Aiden, let me be perfectly clear with you. If you do anything, and I do mean anything to hurt Hattie…”
“I won’t.” I mean it. No more hook-ups. No more complications. No more hurting or being hurt. “That’s the beauty of it. This is all fake. Fake boyfriend. Fake girlfriend. Fake relationship. No real feelings. No one gets hurt,” I promise.
She looks at me skeptically, but it fades into acceptance. “Alright.” She says it like I needed her approval first. “But I’m warning you…” She points again.
“I got it. If I screw up I’ll be saying hello to your little friend. Got it, Scarface. Message delivered and received.”
She still doesn’t smile at my joke, but the fight has gone out of her. “Fine. I’m going to get some pizza scraps. Are you coming?”
“I’ll be down in a bit.” I turn around to face my computer as she leaves my room.
“Suit yourself. You know there’ll only be crumbs left,” she calls over her shoulder as she goes.
“I mean, you could save me a plate.”
“Crumbs.” Her voice fades as she heads down the hall.
Whatever.
I go back to reading through my pop quiz: boyfriend edition. Etta is right. I can’t screw this up, and that means answering all these questions and memorizing all of her answers. Spring break is only a week away, so I’ve got my work cut out for me. I scan through more questions like:
44. What album do you listen to when you’re sad?
And...
77. Do you wear socks with sandals? (Crocs count!)
With hard-hitting questions like that, pizza will just have to wait.
12
Sex With Socks On
Griz
“I’m sorry, but the flight has been delayed by an hour,” the lady behind the counter reads off her computer screen. “The airline would like to offer you these vouchers for a complimentary meal at the Chili’s beside terminal two.” She hands them to us with a smile so big, you’d think we won the fifty-million-dollar jackpot.
“Really? Well, that sort of works out for me. I didn’t have time to eat before I got here, so thanks.” Hattie graciously accepts with a much more genuine-looking smile.
Just like a grizzly getting ready to hibernate, I’m always down for a meal. Free meals just so happen to be my favorite kind. I’m not smiling as big as Hattie, but I’m looking forward to a big plate of something hot and delicious.
The airport attendant points us in the direction of the restaurant, and we set out to fill our bellies. Hattie’s a fast walker. It must be a New Yorker thing. I don’t mind the pace. I can keep up alright, but I lag behind her just a little bit. Not because it was leg day at the gym yesterday. Not because I pulled anything moving her heavy-as-fuck sofa last week. However, there is a reason. I can sum it up in two words: yoga pants.
It’s an airport. Literally ninety percent of the women in here are wearing them. No one is wearing them like Hattie though. My eyes keep drifting down to where her hoodie stops and her bubble ass begins. With every long stride she takes to get closer to our free food, I’m hypnotized by the natural sway in her hips. That perfect curve swings right, then left and back again, and the entire time I’m powerless to stop staring.
Supposedly they’re made from Lycra or spandex or something, but I disagree. Clearly, yoga pants are made of magic. They are an actual miracle. They’ve gotta be. How else can every single woman who wears them look so damned sexy? I don’t need to understand it to appreciate it. I know a gift from God when I see it. And the way they stretch over Hattie’s thick thighs and round, plump ass, all I can say is thank you to the big man upstairs.
Unfortunately, the view is short lived because Hattie sits that perfect ass down in a chair at Chili’s. The waitress comes over quickly. “Would you like to know our drink specials?” She doesn’t even look at Hattie. If it weren’t for the fact that she handed her one of the menus, you’d think I sat down here alone.
“No, I’m just going to have a beer. Do you want a drink?” I include the invisible woman at the table into the conversation.
“And my girlfriend will have her favorite drink. A margarita, please.”
The waitress looks over at Hattie as if she just appeared out of nowhere, blinking a weird amount as she writes the order down. “Sure thing.” She nods. “I’ll be right back.”
“Pulling out all the stops before we even get to New York?” Hattie tucks her long red hair behind her ear and smiles. “You remembered my favorite drink, and you’re using the g-word. I’m impressed.” Her eyes flicker with light.
She’s striking. Beautiful, really. “You get what you pay for,” – I grin – “and you paid a fuck-ton, so…”
“Here you go,” the waitress interrupts with our drinks. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu yet?”
“Oh, uh, we have these vouchers.” Hattie pulls them out of her hoodie pocket.
“Sure, they’re good for anything from our appetizer menu,” she explains.
“Appetizer,” I groan. I’ve got a hunger-hole that no appetizer can fill. Still, free food is being offered, and I’m not about to turn it down. I scan the top of the menu and tap my finger on the picture. “This one, please.” I point to the platter with the most food on it. If I’m stuck ordering from the appetizer menu, I’m ordering by volume.
“Sure thing. Usually people get the platter to share, but a big guy like you,” she says, making no effort to hide that she’s eye-fucking me, “I bet you can polish that off by yourself, huh?”
Didn’t I already say I have a girlfriend? One who is sitting right across the table from me? The server doesn’t know that any of this is fake, and that makes my irritation real.
“Umm, yeah.” Hattie clears her throat. “I’ll get the Texas Cheese Fries,” Hattie answers. “Do I just give you the vouchers now, or…”
“No, when you pay for your drinks is fine.” The waitress doesn’t even look at her as she answers. My nostrils flare, and I frown. There’s disrespectful, and then there’s whatever the fuck this little show is.