Practice Makes Perfect: A Fake Fiancée Romance

by Morgan Rae

  My fingers tighten around the wheel until my knuckles go white. I take in a deep breath and feel it shake in my lungs. This is it, it’s now or never. It’s time to introduce him to the real Nancy Harper.

  “He’s my father,” I say.

  I push a breath out and feel a weight lift off my shoulders. I’m hesitant to look at Damien’s expression for fear of what I might find there. But when I do, he only looks surprised.

  “I thought your father and mother…”

  “Were Harpers? They are.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, baring my face. “My parents got married in ’76. I have an older brother. My mom always wanted more kids but my dad didn’t so he went and got, um, fixed. One night, my mother, obsessed with Roger Burton’s music, gets invited to a VIP backstage experience…do you see where I’m going with this?”

  Damien is quiet, but his eyes are focused on mine intensely. When he doesn’t say anything, I press on.

  “My mother had an affair with Roger,” I continue. “It destroyed my parent’s marriage. But then I came along and…” My voice trails off for a moment and my eyes find the window. “My father knew I was the product of her affair with Roger, but they decided to stay together. For my brother and me.”

  Damien is somber. “How did you find out?”

  “I was fourteen. I was going through my mother’s jewelry boxes to play with her earrings and I found a box of letters between her and Roger. I tried to confront her about it, but she kept telling me to leave it alone. So, I did my own research. I found out everything about him. I clipped out magazines, I listened to all his music, I was that girl. Dreaming about a world where my daddy, the rock-n- roll star, loved me and cared about me.”

  My throat starts to close with emotion so I try to swallow it back. Damien reaches over and his strong hand squeezes mine while his thumb rubs over my palm. His touch gives me strength to finish my story.

  “The short version is eventually, I found his address. I came here, all ready to confront him, and then I couldn’t do it. I just sat here in my car and stared at his door.”

  “What was stopping you?”

  “I was scared. He has a huge house, an extravagant career, ten cars, and I was just some stupid little girl from the middle-of-nowhere. I was afraid he’d be disappointed somehow.” I try to shrug it off. “Anyway, I was tired of celebrities ruining lives and getting away with it, and it turned out I had a knack for stalking so paparazzi seemed to be an easy fit. Every now and then I just come around and remind myself why I do it.”

  I let out a deep breath. My chest feels lighter now. I look over at Damien and say, “I’ve never told anyone that. So there you have it. The full story. Nancy Harper’s sad little story.”

  Damien’s eyebrows furrow together. “Wait. That’s it?”

  I scoff a laugh. “Well, I thought that’d be surprising enough.”

  “No, I mean…” He rubs his hand over his mouth once. “You never went up there? Knocked on his door?”

  Cold, icy fear wraps around my heart even at the thought of approaching that door. “Well, no,” I say. “But—”

  Damien checks his watch and then glances at the house. “The lights are on. Someone must be home.” With that, he unbuckles his seat belt and opens up the door.

  “Damien!” I hiss. “What are you doing?”

  “Ringing the doorbell.” He closes his door, comes around, and opens my door. “Are you coming with me or not?”

  Fear grapples my chest and I’ve become paralyzed in my seat. “Not.”

  Damien leans in and reaches over me to unbuckle my seatbelt. His deep earth scent fills me and his hot breath tickles my neck. “What if I told you that you’re the most beautiful, strongest, most dedicated woman I know?” Damien says, his eyes on mine. “The Nancy Harper I know once tricked an entire production company, stunned the world, and stole my heart. You’re capable of anything.”

  He’s so close, it nearly steals my breath away. But his words fill my heart with courage. Damien catches my chin between his fingers and says, “You can do this.”

  For a second I think he’s going to seal his words with a kiss, but then he pulls back and my seatbelt hisses off my chest.

  "Nancy."

  I take a deep breath and let it go.

  "Let’s do this." I get up and lock my car behind me. The brick pathway to the house looks impossibly long, but Damien links his hand in mine and somehow that makes all the difference. We make our way up to the front porch. They have a festive fall wreath up with plastic leaves and pine cones. It's so normal it throws me through a loop.

  Damien motions to the doorbell. "After you."

  He's right. He can hold my hand, but I have to be the one to see this through. I push my finger against the illuminated doorbell and hear it ring through the house. It's a melodic tune, the kind you'd hear automated on keyboard. It doesn't take long before the door opens up and a familiar face blinks at us in surprise.

  "Miss Nancy?" Antonio the housekeeper looks floored to see me at the door.

  "Yep, the one and only." I'm so tense, all my muscles feel like Barbie doll limbs, immobile at my sides.

  His eyebrows knot in annoyance. "Don't you ever sleep?"

  "Don't you?" No time for small talk. "Is Roger Burton home?"

  Half of me is hoping the Burton family is on some extended holiday family golfing trip and they left Antonio in charge of monitoring the cable. The other half is anxiously peeking over his shoulder to try to catch a glimpse of human life.

  "Yes," Antonio says, but he doesn't seem happy about admitting it. "I will find him. Wait right here."

  "Okay, just—"

  I don't get the words out before the door shuts in our face.

  "You make a lot of friends, don't you?" Damien says as seconds tick by on the porch.

  "You don't know the half of it." A couple more empty seconds pass before I say, "This was stupid, we should just leave."

  The door reopens before I can make my hasty get away. I'm frozen to my spot.

  Roger Burton is a quintessential old Hollywood man. Men here don’t age, they simply refine, and he’s become a silver fox with a groomed beard, a grey blazer to match, and a light fall scarf tied around his neck. It’s his kind, soft brown eyes that get to me, though. They’re my eyes.

  He looks between the two of us and keeps a polite, albeit guarded smile. The face of a man who is expecting to chase away yet another pair of unruly groupies. “Can I help you?”

  “Roger, it’s Damien Blaze from ResurrXtion, I was simply passing by and—”

  The light of recognition flickers on in Roger’s eyes. “Damien Blaze! You opened for us in our world tour…Liverpool, wasn’t it?”

  “Right, I was just a pup then. It was a complete honor.” Damien’s smile widens and for a brief second I forget how surreal the situation is and take in the view. Sadly, Burton’s voice brings me back to the present.

  “ResurrXtion has done well for itself.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Hello?” A woman with raven hair, face full of perfect makeup, eyes sparkling comes to the door, and hovers behind her husband.

  “Deb, look what the cat dragged to our doorstep.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh! Damien Blaze! Oh my goodness, my children are huge fans. Come in, please, come in!”

  I’d love to step out of the cold, but I can’t. My eyes found Burton’s again and I’m stuck still with shock. Damien and Roger are old buddies. He’s chumming it up with my illegitimate father; meanwhile, I want to find a far away place to bury my head in the sand.

  Damien won’t let me, however. Instead, he throws his arm around my shoulder and draws me into the conversation. “This lovely lady,” Damien says, “is my fiancée, Nancy.”

  Fiancée. Holy shit, I forgot the last time we used that title. It throws me off balance, this whole situation, a whirlwind of insanity for me, throws me off balance an
d I choke on my laugh as I extend my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you…uh. Mr. Burton.”

  His hand is big, strong, and but he squeezes mine delicately in his own. “Call me Roger.”

  How about Dad? No, that’s weird. Don’t be weird, Nan.

  “Come on in, please,” Deb begs as she ushers us both inside.

  “I didn’t realize we agreed to use the word fiancée again,” I whisper to Damien as we step inside.

  He dips down briefly so his lips are at my ear. “Two minutes into the engagement and you’re already breaking up with me.”

  “Am not.” I can’t help but smile at his playfulness.

  Deb turns back to us and I bring my polite smile back to full brightness. “Can I get you wine?” Deb asks. “Scotch? You look like a scotch man, Damien.”

  “Scotch would be perfect, thank you,” Damien smiles.

  “And you, dear?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks,” I shake my head. If I add alcohol on top of the shock I’m feeling right now, I’ll be catatonic. As I step past the threshold, I’m immediately greeted by a burst of warmth. The shelves and cabinet tops are draped in festive fall leaves and holiday lights. The foyer opens up to a cozy living room, white furniture, a fireplace, and off white walls. There are a couple posters from Roger Burton’s band days on the wall, cover art from his albums. It’s a delicate balance of wealthy elegance and a welcoming family house.

  The old rock star sure cleaned up well.

  Or got a wife to domesticate him. Deb screams old Hollywood class.

  “How’s your band mate?” Roger asks, his hand on Damien’s shoulder as though they’re old friends.

  “Randall, great. Married, actually. They have a daughter and one on the way.”

  “Congratulations. How’s that working out for the band?”

  “It isn’t. I’m flying solo these days.”

  “Not completely solo,” Roger says and gives me a wink.

  I laugh and dig my nails into my palms. I’m feeling incredibly shy suddenly.

  “Thank God for that.” Damien rests his hand on the small of my back, gently claiming me. “I don’t know what I’d do without this one.”

  “Tell me more about yourself, Nancy,” Roger says. “How did a scoundrel like Damien get lucky enough to catch such a charming woman as yourself?”

  I chuckle lowly. “It’s something of a long story.”

  “Complicated,” Damien agrees.

  “The best love stories always are,” Roger says.

  When Deb comes back, she’s not alone. On her heels follow three young women. Two look to be in their early thirties while the third can’t be older than twenty-four. They’re all curly-haired brunettes with sweet faces and incredibly normal looking.

  For a second, my breath catches.

  Sisters. I have sisters.

  “These are my beautiful daughters,” Deb says, “Jolie, Erin, and Adriana.”

  “I’m a huge fan,” Adriana, the youngest, blurts out.

  I can’t help but laugh. It’s surprising to see a rock star’s daughter get star-struck, but on the other hand, why not? Her dad is a legend, but to her, he’s just her father. Damien Blaze, on the other hand…

  “I’m a big fan of your father’s,” Damien says, “so that must make us even.”

  I don’t know what it is, but watching him so effortlessly accept praise without getting a big head about it is a major turn on.

  “It’s true,” Roger says as he sets his hand on his daughter’s head, mussing up her hair. “She’s been to three of your shows.”

  Adriana turns a shade of red. “Dad,” she whines.

  They’re such a friendly family, such a sharp contrast to mine. I can’t remember a time my father so much as held my hand, much less patted my head in jest.

  “Come, get comfortable,” Roger says, lifting his arms to motion us all to sit down. “Everywhere but the recliner, that’s mine.”

  “Don’t get between Dad and his recliner,” Adriana rolls her eyes.

  We all file into the living room. I get comfortable on a love seat next to Damien and the Burtons accept us as though we’ve been friends forever. This is what it must be like, I think with Damien’s arm casually wrapped around my middle. I’m part of the inner circle now. This is how the other half lives, and I’m fitting in seamlessly. As soon as the wine and conversation starts flowing, my initial shyness starts to chip away and I open up. I feel comfortable among these people, as though part of me belongs here. Antonio pops out of the shadows every now and then to refill wine for the women, scotch for the boys, and he shoots me a strange look every time he steps inside. Eventually, we wind down the clock and Roger excuses Antonio for the night.

  The reporter in me takes over and I start quizzing their daughters I want to know everything about them, their favorite music, their star signs, their love life, everything. I commit everything to memory, but for once, this isn’t for a story for later. These memories are for my eyes only and they fill a crater in my heart I didn’t realize had been there until now.

  Eventually, inevitably, the Burton daughters beg a song out of Damien. “Alright, alright,” Damien says and removes his hand from my back. One of Roger’s guitars, a beautiful redwood acoustic, lays on a stand next to our seat. Damien’s fingers barely brush the neck of the guitar before he gives Roger a look. “Is this alright?”

  He knows better than to touch another musician’s guitar without permission. Roger, of course, only smiles warmly and extends his hand. “Please, be my guest. I’m going to open another bottle.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I say quickly. I recognize opportunity when I see it. Damien strums a couple chords on the guitar, warming it up. He distracts the rest of the family while I follow Roger into the kitchen.

  “Pick out a bottle,” Roger says as he motions to their extensive wine shelf. “I have no taste for red wine but the girls drink it like it’s water. It’s the Italian in them.”

  “Is Deb Italian?” I ask as I chose a bottle of nice looking Merlot.

  “That’s my side, I’m afraid,” Roger says.

  “Italian and Dutch, right?”

  “Very good guess.” He smiles as I fix my eyes on the bottle. It feels as though the kitchen has gotten about twenty degrees warmer and I feel sweat start to prickle on the back of my neck.

  “I actually, uh, know a lot about you.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle. “You’re a fan of my music?”

  “No, I mean, yes. Yeah, it’s great.” My fingers strangle the neck of the wine bottle as I try to open it.

  Roger’s hand falls on my arm. His touch is warm and friendly. “I have a solution for that.”

  He takes the wine bottle from me, sticks a rabbit opener on top, and pulls the legs apart. Just like that, the cork pops out. He smiles, “My favorite magic trick.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, that’s great.”

  Meanwhile, I feel like needles of “what ifs” poking holes in my heart. What if he’d been in my life this whole time? What if I had parents who were affectionate and loving to each other instead of cold and clinical? What if I had a father who wasn’t ashamed of me?

  I can’t hold it in anymore. “You know my mother,” I blurt out. “Lily Harper.”

  “Lily,” the word flows off his tongue like silk. “My God. You do have her eyes. How is the old girl? I haven’t seen her in…thirty, forty years…”

  “Thirty-nine years,” I tell him pointedly. “Well. Thirty-nine years and nine months, to be exact.”

  All at once, the smile vanishes from his face. He stares at me as if I’m the ghostly apparition of “One-Night-Stands Past.” “Oh, darling…” he gasps. “I had no idea.”

  Emotions I thought were long gone bubbled to the surface. After the day I had I just didn’t have the strength or the deseire to push them back down.

  “You had no idea there’d be consequences to your
actions? What? You just thought you could sleep with a married woman and get off scott free? You knocked up my mother, dissolved my parent’s marriage, and then went off and had your own family.”

  There’s sincere emotion on his face, and his sky-blue eyes are lined with tears. “Lily never told me. If I had known…”

  “I know,” I say and make a vague gesture of brushing the thought away. “I understand, and that’s the worst part, really. At first, I was mad at you and I wanted nothing more than to tear you apart and ruin your life like you ruined mine, but now, and this is the real kicker, I can’t even be mad at you anymore.” I turn to him fully now. “I don’t need anything from you. I don’t need to ruin your life, I don’t need to be friends, I don’t need money. I just need you to know that I exist. I’m successful, I’m good at what I do, and I built a name for myself. Without you.”

  Roger’s hand rests gently on my shoulder. He has big hands and it feels like a bear paw. “Are you happy?” he asks. His eyes are sharply sincere.

  I didn’t think I was anywhere near crying, but suddenly I’m fighting back a swell of emotion building in my throat. “Yes,” I tell him. “I am.”

  His grip tightens on my shoulder and his expression softens with relief. We’re both on the verge of full out sobbing in the kitchen. “Good,” he says.

  As if on cue, applause breaks out in the living room. We pull ourselves together simultaneously, both dabbing at the corners of our eyes.

  “We should probably save your fiancé from his rabid fans,” Roger says.

  I laugh louder than I intended to. It’s like there’s suddenly more space in my chest for me to really laugh, to really breath. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  We file out of the kitchen but Roger’s hand doesn’t leave my arm. The gesture is so heartbreakingly sweet and I linger near him. The rest of his family has gathered in a semi-circle around Damien, some sitting on couches, others cross-legged on the floor to get front row seating to their private show. Damien perches on the edge of a teal foot rest with Roger’s acoustic guitars in his lap.

  “Thank you. You’re too kind,” he tells his small audience. When I step in the room, his eyes flicker up to meet mine. His eyebrows lift subtly asking if I was ok.