“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
“Per month.”
“Let me think about it. I’ll call you tonight, give me your number. Yours was unlisted.”
Max nods, scratching his number on a napkin and handing it to me. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
9
Max
I watch Naomi get into her car and my heart squeezes. I drop my head into my hands and take a deep breath. I feel like I’ve made a mistake. I shouldn’t have asked that of her. I shouldn’t have put her in that position. She must think I’m completely crazy.
But what else can I do?
I just need time. My parents will be here tomorrow at the latest, and they’ll want to know who the girl in the photo is. If I tell them she was just a girl I met at the bar, they’ll cut me off. If I tell them the truth, that she’s my physical therapist and that nothing is happening between us… well, they clearly didn’t want to hear anything I had to say. And if they don’t believe me, the consequences are too steep.
I can’t give up my entire life, my job, my income for something like this. I’ve already lost everything once, I can’t go through that again. I just need time to figure out my next move.
Naomi said she’d think about it, but what will she decide?
I’ll pay her, of course I will. I don’t give a fuck about the money. But the way she looked at me… I don’t want her to think less of me.
Between last night and today, it might be too late.
She told me that under different circumstances, she’d have been all over me. Even if that wasn’t a joke, I’m pretty sure I’ve burned that bridge forever now. I might have to find a new physical therapist after all.
I grab the coffee cup and head out toward my car. It only takes a few minutes for me to get to Joel’s house. He greets me in his boxers, with the face of someone who was out all night.
“Hey,” he grunts. “You look like hell.”
I chuckle. “You clearly haven’t looked in the mirror, then.”
“Fuck,” he groans, collapsing onto the couch. His hand flies to his forehead. “What happened last night?”
“I left pretty early.”
“With the physio? I saw you walk out with her.”
“Nah.”
Joel’s eyes widen and he looks at me. “She turned you down?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Right.” He coughs, clutching his stomach and groaning. “I’m never drinking again.”
I get up and get two glasses of water. Joel accepts it gingerly before gulping half of it down.
“So what happened?”
Instead of answering, I pull out my phone. I get the photos on the Post’s website up and turn the screen toward him. Joel frowns, staring at the pictures and trying to get his eyes to focus.
“What’s this?”
“Fucking paparazzi.”
“They’re still after you? Why do they care about you?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“So? What’s the big deal.”
“My parents have seen it.”
Joe’s mouth drops into a small ‘oh’, and he nods. “They think she’s ‘the One’?”
“They don’t think that. They’re sure of that. They’re coming to the city tomorrow to meet her.”
“What?!”
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do?”
I shrug, sighing. “I asked her to pretend.”
Joel sits up, planting his hands on his knees. He leans forward, staring at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
“You asked your physical therapist to pretend to be your fiancée so that your parents wouldn’t freak out about you being in the papers with some random woman again?”
I chuckle. “That about sums it up, yeah.”
“You’re a fucking lunatic.”
“Apple, tree, you know how it goes. They said they’d cut me off if I didn’t take this seriously.”
Joel leans back, staring at the wall in front of him. “So what did she say?”
“Who?”
He rolls his eyes, looking at me like I’m denser than lead. “The physio, dickhead. What did she say when you proposed to her?”
“Her name is Naomi.”
Joel takes another sigh, staring up at the ceiling as if he’s praying for patience. “Fine. Well what did Naomi say when you fucking proposed to her.”
I’m kind of enjoying pushing his buttons. I know he just wants the best for me, and he’s being a good friend, but my head is a mess and seeing Joel get frustrated over something simple is the most entertainment I’ve had all day.
“She said she’d think about it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
We’re silent for a while. Joel groans as he pushes himself up, reappearing with two cans of beer. He hands me one, grinning.
“I didn’t shake this one up, I promise.”
“What happened to ‘never drinking again’?”
“I reconsidered.”
I glance at my watch. “I guess it’s after twelve, so we can drink now.”
“I don’t care what time it is, I need a drink to take the edge off this hangover.”
“You know all that does is prolong the hangover, right?”
Instead of answering, he just cracks open the beer. I chuckle and do the same. When the cold beer hits my tongue, I close my eyes and lean back.
“So,” Joel starts. “Basically, you’re fucked. You have to pretend to be engaged to Naomi in order to keep your job and your inheritance. When and if your parents find out that the engagement is all fake, they’ll cut you off anyway.” He holds up the beer. “Your fake engagement is just like having a beer to cure a hangover.”
“Or, they’ll never find out.”
“What’s your end game, here? Leave her at the altar?”
Ouch.
“Look, your past with women hasn’t exactly been perfect either.”
“We’re not talking about me right now,” Joel grins. “I’m not trying to be a dick here. I know why you asked her. But it just seems like maybe it would be a better idea to just talk to your parents?”
“Have you met my parents?”
Joel laughs. “Fair point,” he says. “They’re almost as bad as mine.”
“The ‘girls from the club’ were calling my mom all morning.”
Joel groans. “My mom was probably the first one on the phone to her.”
“It’s a miracle we turned out normal.”
“Are we normal?” Joel laughs. “You’re considering fake-marrying your physio just so your parents don’t cut you out of your inheritance and job. That doesn’t exactly seem normal.”
“Shut up, Joel.”
Joel just laughs and fumbles for the remote. He flicks the TV on and finds the sports channel. “Football’s about to start. Text Connor and Graham, tell them to bring some food.”
“Alright.”
For now, at least, I can think about football and I can forget about Naomi, my parents, weddings—all of it. Or at least, I think I can forget about it, until my college ex-girlfriend’s face pops up on the screen.
“And newly engaged couple, Farrah Harris and the New York Giants Quarterback, Elijah Matthews. Congratulations to the happy couple.”
I groan. Joel glances at me, then back at the screen.
“Well, at least she got the husband she wanted,” I say bitterly.
“What a fucking gold digger,” Joel spits. He was there when she left me the day after my injury, and he saw her chase after the next star quarterback. Looks like she’s made it all the way to the top. I reach down toward my knee, massaging the sore tissue as I stare at her smiling face.
It feels like she’s smiling at me, spiting me through the television.
Joel reaches over and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Look at the bright side, Max. At least you’re engaged now, to
o.”
I punch his arm and he yelps as he laughs, throwing his hands up. I can’t help but grin with him, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Farrah’s face disappears from the screen.
This week, I just can’t get away from weddings, engagements, women, and heartbreak.
10
Naomi
The drive to my mom’s house is a blur. It’s a good thing I’ve travelled this route hundreds of times, because I don’t remember any part of my drive here. When I pull in to her driveway, I turn off the car and rest my head on the top of the steering wheel. I take a deep breath to try to clear my head.
Max’s words are still swirling around my head.
He wants to marry me?
I mean, he doesn’t really want to marry me. He wants to tell his parents that he’s marrying me, which isn’t the same thing. Does that sting? Am I offended by that?
I don’t even know how I feel.
My mom’s house is small and tidy, and it looks exactly the same as last week. Or does it?
For the first time, I notice the paint peeling on the side of the house. The roof looks worn, and the planters aren’t bursting with plants like they used to. I get out of my car and take a deep breath of fresh, country air before heading up the flagstones toward the front door.
I pull my jacket tighter around me, crossing my arms and burying my chin into my chest. Winter is definitely on its way.
There are weeds poking up between the stones which makes me frown. Usually, Mom would have her garden looking immaculate, even in the fall.
When I get to the front door, something doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m seeing the house for the first time—the worn paint, the creaky steps, the weeds. I look in the mailbox and pull out a stack of letters.
My heart drops when I flick through them. A big, red stamp with the word ‘FORECLOSURE NOTICE’ is plastered across one of the letters. My eyes widen, and the blood starts pumping in my ears.
“Mom?”
I knock on the door before opening it, calling out again as I step through.
“In here, honey!” My mom calls from the kitchen. The smell of warm, home cooking wafts through the familiar hallways as I make my way toward the back of the house.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as I lay a kiss on her cheek. She’s wearing a white apron with little yellow flowers on it, using an old wooden spoon to stir a pot of pasta sauce.
“Hi, honey,” she says with a smile. “You’re here later than usual this week.”
“I had to make a stop on the way,” I say vaguely, dropping the stack of mail on the kitchen table.
“Oh yeah?” She says, poking her head in the fridge.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, picking up the foreclosure letter. “What’s this about?”
Her long, grey-streaked hair is tied back in a braid down her back. She turns toward me, looking over her glasses toward me. Her lips pinch together and she straightens up, grabbing the letter and stuffing it in her apron pocket.
“Mom,” I start.
“It’s nothing.”
“What’s going on?”
“Everything is fine, honey. Don’t worry about a thing. Dinner’s ready, will you grab the plates?”
“Mom, I’m not letting this go.”
My mother turns her back to me and leans her hands on the counter, dropping her head to her chest. Her shoulders look slight as she takes a deep breath. She turns to me slowly, wringing her hands and staring at the ground. She takes another deep breath, finally dragging her eyes back up to mine.
“I missed a couple payments.”
“Why? Do you need money? I can help you, Mom.”
She shakes her head. Her eyes fill with tears.
“I have breast cancer.”
My stomach drops. The room spins. I stumble backwards, grabbing for a chair and sinking into it. My mother comes to me, wrapping her arms around my head and hushing me, cooing and making comforting noises as she strokes my hair.
“It’s okay, Naomi. It’s okay, shh,” she says.
“You shouldn’t be comforting me, Mom,” I say, pulling away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, I didn’t want you to worry, Naomi. I know that you worry, and I didn’t want to say anything until I knew more.”
“And the foreclosure…?”
She takes a deep breath, sitting down in the chair next to mine and putting her hand over mine. Just like the house, it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. Her skin is papery-thin, and her face is drawn. Her green eyes don’t seem as bright as they used to be. They’re almost yellow. She looks so, so tired.
“I remortgaged the house to pay for the treatments,” she explains. “I had to get rid of my health insurance, you know. And business has been slow lately, so I haven’t been able to pay the bank back.”
If my mother is saying ‘business is slow’, that means business is non-existent. I grew up watching her paint huge canvasses, selling her work and sustaining us with her art.
But these days, people just don’t seem to be buying paintings anymore. I’ve watched her do odd jobs to make ends meet, always being resourceful, and always refusing my help.
“Mom,” I say, as my heart breaks. Tears gather in my eyes, spilling over onto my cheeks. My mom’s eyes mist up and she brushes her frail thumb across my cheek.
“Don’t worry, honey, it’ll all be fine.”
“How do you know that?”
She sighs, looking over at the pot of bubbling sauce. She heaves herself up and walks over to the pot, stirring it slowly.
“Grab some plates, Naomi. Let’s eat.”
We put everything aside and eat together. I tell her about work, avoiding anything relating to Max Westbrook. I focus on her, checking that she has enough groceries and supplies for the week. My heart breaks every time I see her labored movements, and I hold back all the comments and questions that flood through me.
By the time dinner is over, she hugs me again with the strength that only a mother has. She kisses my cheek and looks into my eyes.
“Don’t worry about me, Naomi.”
“Let me help you, Mom. I don’t want to lose the house.”
She takes a deep, shuddering breath, nodding her chin down slightly. “Thank you, Mimi.”
With another hug, she lets me go. I climb back into my car, watching her silhouette wave at me in the doorway. She closes the door and I turn on the car. I only make it around the corner when I have to pull over. I break down. The tears flow down my cheeks and drip off my chin until my pants are soaked and I’m a blubbering, sniffling mess. I get a little packet of tissues out of my bag and clean myself up, and then take my phone in trembling hands.
I find the napkin with Max’s number on it, and type it in to my phone. As soon as I send the message, I know that my life is going to change forever. Three little words that will shape my future:
I’ll do it.
11
Max
I pace back and forth across my living room, checking the time for the thousandth time. She said she’d come here when she got back to the city, but it’s almost ten o’clock at night and she’s not here yet. How long does dinner with her mom usually take?!
This is a mistake.
I shouldn’t be putting her in this position. I should just man up and talk to my parents. They shouldn’t be forcing a wife on me, anyways!
I slump down on the couch and drop my head in my hands. A bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck, and my heart feels like it’s beating erratically. I massage my temples, keeping my eyes closed as I take deep breaths through my nose.
I’ve gone around in circles ever since my parents called this morning. I don’t have a choice. I’ve heard that tone in my father’s voice before, and he never backs down from it.
He was serious when he said he’d cut me off and fire me if I kept up my lifestyle. But that shouldn’t mean I have to marry a woman I’m not even dating! We were just in a picture together, nothing more.
I blow the air out of my nose and stare at the ceiling. This is the only way. I just need to make it through this visit from them, and then I can make up some story about Naomi and I parting ways. That will buy me enough time to figure out how to handle my parents.
A knock on the door makes me jump. I stand up, my bare feet sinking into the thick rug for a moment as I stare at the door.
This is it.
My heart is hammering and my mouth is suddenly dry. Even though this is insane, even though this is a ridiculous situation to be in, there’s a part of me that’s excited to see Naomi.
She’s here.
I get to talk to her without the stark fluorescent lights of the physio office beaming down on us, without the thumping music from the bar beside us, without prying eyes and flashing cameras.
Just her, and me.
My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my jeans as I walk to the door. Taking a deep breath, I put my hand on the doorknob and turn.
“Hey,” she says.
My heart drops to my stomach. Naomi’s eyes are shining with tears, and her skin, typically smooth as porcelain, is blotchy and red. Her hands are clasped in front of her as if she’s trying to stop them from trembling.
This isn’t what I wanted. A lump forms in my throat and I struggle to swallow past it.
“Hey,” I croak.
“Can I come in?”
I step aside, closing the door behind her. She kicks off her shoes before I can tell her to keep them on, lining them up against the wall next to the front door. Her eyes sweep across my apartment and I see a slight lifting of her eyebrows.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks. Beer?”
“Sure.”
We don’t speak while I go to the fridge. She takes a seat at the kitchen island, accepting the green bottle of beer with a nod. She takes a sip, closing her eyes and drinking as if she needs the liquid courage.
My heart squeezes.
This isn’t what I intended.
“Look, Naomi,” I start. “I think this was a mistake. You… I don’t want to put you in this position.”
“In what position?”
Mr. Right: The Complete Fake Engagement Series Page 5