Best Fake Fiancé: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

  “No,” he says. “I mean, I don’t hate it, either. I guess I’m neutral on bowling.”

  “And picket fences?”

  “Maybe if I’d married her she’d love Rusty,” he says. “Maybe if we’d gotten together, at least lived in the same house, she’d have spent time with her and gotten to know her better, been there when she started walking and talking and reading, sent her off to her first day of school, come to her ballet recitals…”

  I lean my head back, silent, try to control my breathing as tears prick my eyes.

  I hate Crystal. I hate her. Not just what she’s done to Rusty but for what she’s done to Daniel, for making him twist himself into knots over not marrying her years ago. For making him think that her behavior is his fault. For letting him think that if he’d done something differently, they’d all a perfect, happy family right now.

  And I hate her for making me glad that they’re not. I hate her for the small, savage pleasure of knowing that instead of two kids and a loving wife and a dog and a picket fence, Daniel’s drunk and holding my hand right now.

  I hate her for making me glad that his happy ending hasn’t happened yet because it means I get him.

  “I’m glad I didn’t, though,” he says, after a moment. “Even if it meant she’d have come to ballet recitals. Because I’d be fucking miserable and I wouldn’t be here right now.”

  I tap my thumb on his chest as he opens his eyes, deep and blue as the night sky. He taps one finger on the stone in my ring, absentmindedly, watching my face. After a moment he sits up on the swing and puts his arm around me, tilts his head back and I lean against his shoulder.

  “And I’m really glad I’m here right now,” he says softly.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Daniel

  “I would never kill a civilian in cold blood,” Silas is saying, beer in hand, legs stretched in front of him. “But if I did, they’d never even find the body. That’s a promise. Never.”

  There’s a slight pause around the table, as the other three of us sip our beers and contemplate this statement.

  “But how do you really feel about Brett?” Eli drawls.

  “He does sound dedicated,” Levi offers.

  “Maybe he should come back with a herd of goats,” I say.

  “I don’t actually believe in dowries, you assholes,” Silas says. “And besides, wouldn’t the goats go to our father? I wouldn’t get the goats.”

  “You’d inherit them one day,” says Eli.

  “Eventually, the goats would be yours,” adds Levi.

  We’re all quiet again for a moment, sitting on the lawn outside the brewery in four wooden Adirondack chairs around a low table. It’s a gorgeous night out: warm, slightly humid, the stars all out. It’s nine-thirty on a Tuesday night, so the brewery is pretty quiet. Rusty’s asleep and my mom is home, so I’m here with my brothers. And Silas, who’s sort of a fourth-and-a-half brother.

  “I could use a flock of goats,” Levi says, his feet up on the low table, his beer balanced on his armrest, held lightly in one hand. “The Forest Service has been looking into using them on hillsides as an alternative to mowing some portions of the Parkway. It’s apparently possible to rent hungry goats by the hour.”

  “Or you could marry Brett,” Silas says. “He’s available. I know this because he played a boombox at my sister’s window.”

  “I don’t think I’d trust Brett to choose his goats wisely,” Levi says.

  “I don’t think I’d trust Brett to choose anything wisely,” Eli says.

  “Except women, you mean,” Silas prompts.

  Levi’s face goes carefully neutral, and he takes another sip of his beer.

  “Right,” Eli agrees.

  “Where did he get a boombox?” I ask, and everyone goes quiet again for a moment.

  “That’s actually a good question,” Silas says. “I haven’t seen a boombox in years. God, that’s even more suspicious.”

  “What was he playing?” Eli asks.

  “Guess.”

  “I’ll Be Watching You,” Levi says.

  “No, but congrats on finding the one song that would have actually been creepier,” Silas says. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but I think Levi blushes slightly.

  “I Will Always Love You,” I guess.

  “Come on, y’all,” Silas says. “Really?”

  “In Your Eyes,” Eli says, like it’s obvious. “You haven’t seen Say Anything?”

  Levi and I just shake our heads, and Silas starts laughing.

  “Brett didn’t come up with the boombox thing,” he says. “It’s from a movie.”

  “That explains a lot, actually,” Levi mutters.

  “And then when you got there, he tried to propose to you?” Eli says. “That’s not how the movie goes.”

  “Something like that,” Silas says. “The asshole got down on one knee in my parents’ driveway and requested my permission to marry my sister. Meanwhile, now that I’m there, June’s come down and is loudly and firmly rejecting his offer of marriage, so I just told him that if I saw him anywhere near her again he’d learn the meaning of the word no right quick, because apparently when she said it several dozen times he didn’t believe her.”

  “Was the ring at least nice?” asks Eli.

  “Hell if I know,” Silas says, taking another drink. “It was big. Probably cost a lot of his daddy’s money.”

  He clears his throat.

  “Speaking of rings, how’s your engagement with Charlie going?” Silas asks, raising one eyebrow at the word engagement.

  “It’s going well,” I say, levelly, and narrow my eyes at Levi.

  “How does that work?” Silas asks. “Are you two gonna stage a screaming match on Main Street in a few months so you can break up, or just tell people it wasn’t working?”

  I’m still glaring at Levi. My oldest brother is usually excellent at keeping secrets.

  Usually.

  “You told Silas?” I ask.

  “Hey,” Silas says.

  Levi sighs.

  “I couldn’t keep your web of lies straight,” he says.

  “It’s not a web,” I tell him, even thought my stomach twists slightly. “There’s the one lie, Levi. It’s not hard.”

  He crosses one ankle over a knee, then sticks one thumb out like he’s about to list something off.

  “First, you’ve got your whole we’re completely platonic best friends situation going on for several years now,” Levi starts. “Which, frankly, I’d have been a fool to believe. Next,” he says, sticking out a forefinger, “You’ve got your we’re engaged for custody reasons but not really situation, which involves a fair amount of public canoodling—"

  “Canoodling?” Eli and Silas say in unison.

  Levi ignores them.

  “—which you seem more than happy to do, and thirdly,” he says, sticking out another finger, “there’s the matter of where you were all last weekend while Rusty was with Crystal.”

  There’s a brief silence.

  “He was at Charlie’s, right?” Silas quietly asks Levi.

  “Right,” Eli and Levi both confirm, and I shut my eyes briefly in consternation. I don’t bother asking how they know, because Sprucevale is tiny and everyone is nosy.

  Just last year, Eli thought it was a huge secret that he was spending most of his nights at Violet’s house for a full month.

  It wasn’t. Not even close.

  “We’re supposedly engaged,” I say. “If we were really engaged, isn’t that where I’d—”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, none of us is stupid,” Eli says. “Jesus, Daniel, we’re all glad that you finally got with Charlie. It was about damn time.”

  “So you really are engaged,” Silas asks.

  “No,” I say.

  “You’re sticking it to her, but you’re not engaged,” he says.

  “Right,” I say, for simplicity’s sake.

  “And most everyone thinks you’re really engaged for re
al, though some people think that you’re still just friends and faking the engagement, and some other people—" he spins his finger around in the air, indicating the four of us in the circle, “know the truth, which is that you’re getting freaky on the regular but aren’t actually going to get married.”

  “Right,” I say again.

  “I got bad news, brother,” Silas says. “That is a one hundred percent, grade A, bonafide web of lies right there.”

  “You want to hear the rest?” I ask, draining my beer, in the mood to share my problems.

  Eli and Levi both lean forward.

  “Hell yeah,” Silas says.

  “Crystal knows it’s fake,” I say.

  Silas lets out a whistle.

  “I think Rusty must have told her,” I say, leaning back in the chair, my head against cool wood, and close my eyes.

  I’ve called Crystal a dozen times since she pulled out of my driveway on Sunday. I’ve left her at least four polite voicemails, requesting that we discuss this matter like adults.

  It’s gotten me nowhere. I don’t know what she knows or what she thinks she knows. I don’t know if she somehow pulled the semi-truth out of her ass and is bluffing with it.

  “You told Rusty?” Silas asks.

  “Rusty wouldn’t tell,” Levi says, frowning.

  “Rusty’s good at keeping secrets,” Eli confirms.

  “You bring her wedding cake almost every weekend and think I don’t know about it,” I tell Eli, my eyes still closed.

  The circle goes silent.

  “How?” Eli asks, sounding genuinely baffled. I open my eyes, raise my head, and look at him.

  “Because she’s seven,” I tell him. “Seven-year-olds aren’t very good at keeping secrets.”

  “Yet you told her that you and Charlie were faking,” Eli says.

  “What was my other option?” I ask. “Letting her think that Charlie was gonna be her stepmom? She’d have been over the moon, and then devastated a few months later when we told her it was off.”

  “True,” Eli admits.

  There’s another quiet moment. For the record, I don’t blame Rusty for spilling the beans. Like I said, she’s seven.

  “When you think about it, an engagement is quite an ephemeral concept,” Levi says slowly. “What makes two people engaged? Someone asks, someone accepts, there’s a ring. Or there’s no ring. Or two people discuss the matter and mutually decide that they’ll marry.”

  Eli looks over at me.

  “He’s got a point,” he says. “There isn’t even an exchange of goats.”

  “Truth be told, you and Charlie are just as engaged as anyone,” Levi goes on. “You asked. She accepted. There’s a ring.”

  “Technically, I asked if she’d fake it,” I point out.

  “There’s no proof of that,” Eli says. “Crystal can say whatever she wants, but unless she’s got some sort of proof, it’s nonsense.”

  “Well, apparently everyone in town knows it’s not real,” I say, pointedly, to Levi.

  “One person,” he says, huffily. “I told one person.”

  “I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Silas says.

  “She’s going to look like a lunatic in court with Charlie standing right there,” Levi says.

  “Just canoodle in front of the judge,” Eli says, and Levi sighs.

  “The burden of proof is going to be on her in this case,” Silas says. “You make a crazy accusation like that, you best back it up.”

  “Family court is nothing but crazy accusations,” I say. “Half the time I’m pretty sure it comes down to what mood the judge is in that day. There’s hardly ever proof of anything, and I can keep track of what happened when to my heart’s delight, but all Crystal has to say is that’s not what happened and then our lawyers are going at it for twenty minutes.”

  “Tell the court her belly’s fake,” Eli offers.

  “That’s extremely provable.”

  “They’ve got some really good fake pregnancy bellies these days,” Eli says. “There’s even one that’s got machinery inside that fakes the baby’s movement—”

  “Why the fuck do you know this?” Silas interrupts.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I was watching one of those true crime shows,” Eli says. “There was an episode about a crazy woman who faked a pregnancy and then stole her best friend’s baby. It was nuts.”

  “Shit,” Silas says.

  “I don’t think I can convince the court of that,” I say. “No. Wait. I’m certain I can’t convince the court of that.”

  “Daniel,” Levi says, sitting forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together. “You and Charlie had most of the folks you know completely convinced for several years that you were secret lovers when you, apparently, were not. Show up, be yourselves, and your engagement will be the single most credible thing to ever occur in that courtroom.”

  I thump my thumb on the wooden armrest of the chair I’m sitting in, thinking.

  Crystal’s usually full of shit, and I’m tempted to think that this is more of the same. I want to think that the judge will dismiss her accusation out of hand, due to lack of evidence and also the fact that she’s a psychotic hosebeast.

  But I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s got evidence. I don’t know what evidence she could possibly have — the texts we’ve sent each other? Recordings of private conversations between Charlie and me? Signed testimony from someone who knows the truth?

  Meanwhile, all I’ve got is a girlfriend who’s wearing a ring.

  Girlfriend.

  The thought is weird as fuck, but I like it.

  “He’s right,” Silas says, standing. “I gotta piss. Anyone want another beer?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Daniel

  Then, suddenly, weeks go by. Charlie and I fall into a rhythm: I go to her apartment Mondays and Thursdays. Sometimes she comes over for dinner. Sometimes one of my brothers or my mom babysits, and we go on a date.

  And the weirdest part is that it isn’t weird at all. It doesn’t even feel different, it just feels… more. It feels like this is the way things always were, or at least this is the way things always should have been.

  Best of all, we don’t hear a single peep from Crystal.

  * * *

  “That one’s pretty intense, especially with a pack,” Caleb is saying.

  He and Charlie are on the floor of the living room, the coffee table pushed out of the way, maps spread across the floor.

  “It is?” she asks, leaning in for a closer look.

  “Yeah, that part up to the Twins is all crazy switchbacks across a rock face,” Caleb says. “Hold on, I’ve got the USGS topo here somewhere.”

  He turns to one of the filing crates he brought with him. They’re both indexed and sorted by color, each folder clearly labeled.

  Say what you want about the Loveless Boys — and plenty of people have — but we can keep our shit in order.

  “Here,” Caleb says, handing her a green folder.

  They both bend over the folder. I’m on one of the couches, reading, half-listening to them plan our backpacking trip for later this summer. When they first started this, the plan was for three days and two nights, but Caleb keeps suggesting longer and longer treks into the wilderness, and Charlie keeps agreeing.

  At this rate, I’m going to be gone for a week. When I get back, Rusty will be half-feral and my mom, who’s agreed to look after her during the trip, will be completely out of bourbon.

  “There,” Caleb says, pointing at a spot on the map.

  Charlie head moves slightly toward him. They’re both sitting cross-legged, both wearing jeans and t-shirts with no shoes. They’ve even both got top knots, though Charlie’s is all wild curls and Caleb’s is wavy and messy.

  “Does that really say two thousand feet elevation gain in a mile?” Charlie asks.

  “Yeah,” Caleb drawls. “Plus, when I did this hike two years ago with a buddy of mine there was nowh
ere flat enough to sleep for a good six miles, so by the time we found somewhere we could even lie down it was dark and we were hiking by flashlight. I don’t really recommend it, even though the views are amazing.”

  “All right, we’re not doing the Twins,” Charlie says, pushing the map to one side and reaching for another one. “What else?”

  Caleb sighs, takes the map, and puts it neatly back in the folder, and I smile to myself because I know exactly how he feels right now.

  “If you don’t mind starting the trip with a long day, we could head to the Crystal Grotto,” he says, just as the front door opens and Eli steps through carrying two big canvas bags, one of which has a froth of greenery sticking out the top.

  “Hiking?” he says, looking down at the people and maps spread across the floor.

  “Caleb’s taking us backpacking for secret reasons,” Charlie says.

  “The same secret reason I owe you meatballs?” Eli says, hoisting one of the bags over his shoulder. “Do I even owe you those, now that you’re actually f—”

  I clear my throat and glare at my older brother.

  “— dating?” he asks, throwing me a look.

  “A deal’s a deal,” Levi’s voice says from beyond the still-open door.

  “There’s always negotiation,” Eli says.

  Boots cross the wooden front porch, and then the door pushes open further, revealing Levi, wearing work pants and a t-shirt, standing there with a bundle of long sticks over one shoulder, a cast-iron dutch oven hanging from his other hand.

  “Just make the meatballs,” Levi says.

  “That’s easy for you to say, you didn’t get a task.”

  “Seems I’ve got the task of listening to you bellyache about—”

  “Out!” my mom calls from the doorway to the kitchen. Five heads turn as she comes into the room. “Levi Beauford, you know better than to bring a mess of kindling into my house,” she goes on. “Take it around the side.”

  “It’s not kindling, it’s a spit roast,” he says.