My Fake Fiance´

by Banks, R. R.

  “Well, there was that whole mama bear routine when I stopped by your mom’s place the other day,” he says. “Plus, you two were talking, not shouting, at each other. Kind of makes it seem like you’re in a good place.”

  I nod. “We’ve had a lot of time to talk,” I say. “We’ve sorted through some of our issues – are still sorting through some of our issues, but things are getting better.”

  “That’s good, Sasha,” he says. “I’m really glad to hear that.”

  “Me too,” I say. “It’s nice having a sister you can actually talk to without wanting to constantly beat them with a blunt object.”

  We share a laugh and for the briefest of moments, it’s like things between us have returned to normal. It feels good. That’s one thing I’ve loved about Miles from the start – how light and casual our conversations always were. He knows how to make me laugh and how to carry on a conversation that’s ridiculously silly one moment, then deeply profound the next. It’s a rare trait and one I enjoy a lot.

  “I have to admit, the band you brought in to play my favorite song – that was a pretty slick move,” I say. “Well played.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  “Obviously,” I say and laugh. “That doesn’t get you out of the doghouse, but I’ll give you an A for effort.”

  He sets his coffee mug down and steals a fry from my plate. He pops it into his mouth and munches away, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “I tend to think that hitting somebody in the face with pepper spray is a more doghouse-worthy offense than – whatever it was I did,” he says. “I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

  I feel my cheeks flare with heat and embarrassment. Belatedly, I realize that unleashing my pepper spray was somewhat of an overreaction on my part. And yeah, I feel really bad about doing it. I was so upset that I wasn’t thinking clearly, causing me to lash out with the first handy thing in my purse. Unfortunately for Miles, that thing just happened to be my pepper spray.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” I say. “That was – well – it was inexcusable. I’m so glad you’re okay, for whatever that’s worth.”

  He gives me a faint smile. “I’ve never been pepper sprayed before,” he says.

  “I could tell by the way you instantly fell to the ground and started screaming like a little kid,” I say, a rueful chuckle escaping my lips.

  “That’s going to cost you another penalty fry,” he says, snatching a fry off my plate and quickly popping it into his mouth.

  “I am genuinely sorry about that, Miles.”

  “It’s fine,” he says. “I finally got my vision and sense of smell back, so I guess we’re all good.”

  I give him a hesitant smile and turn my attention to shredding the napkin on the table in front of me. I tear long strips from the paper napkin, one by one, doing my best to avoid meeting his eyes.

  “But that brings me to my next question,” he says.

  I finally look up at him, a tight smile on my face. “And what is that question?”

  “What did I do to deserve a face full of pepper spray in the first place?”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “You’re actually going to sit there and pretend that you don’t know?”

  “I don’t have to pretend, Sasha,” he says. “I actually don’t know.”

  My stomach sinks as I stare into his eyes. I know I need to tell him about the child growing inside of me – his child – but I can’t quite force the words out yet – or any words, to be honest.

  As I look at him and see the hurt expression on his face, it hits me that he’s being honest. He sincerely doesn’t know why I’m so upset or what it was that originally set me off.

  I don’t know if that makes it better or worse, though.

  “Outside of my mom’s place, when you were shouting and creating a scene in front of all of our neighbors, you said you knew,” I say. “Were you lying then or are you lying now, counselor?”

  He laughs softly. “I have an idea, but I may have overstated the case just a little bit.”

  “Well, let’s hear your idea then,” I mutter, nibbling on a fry.

  He sips his coffee and sets the mug down. Miles looks at me for a long moment, a mask of cool detachment on his face. I can’t read him. I can only imagine how it would feel to have him staring me down and questioning me in front of an entire courtroom. It’s more than a bit intimidating.

  “What I’ve come to understand is that you walked in during part of a conversation Nate and I were having that day,” he says.

  I shrug. It was obvious that I had walked in during their conversation – there’s no use denying it.

  “And when you heard that part of the conversation, it set you off,” he says, then adds in a somewhat lighter tone, “And it made you overreact and, you know, spray me in the face with a chemical agent.”

  A small, wolfish grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

  “Hell no,” he says. “I’m going to milk that shit for years to come.”

  For years to come. It’s a curious choice of words and one that starts my head spinning again. Miles isn’t a man who ever says things carelessly. His words are always measured and precise – he’s a man who says what he means and means what he says. So, to hear him use that phrase is particularly interesting. It seems to imply that he thinks we’ll be together long enough for him to harass and bully me over that for a good long while.

  “What you don’t have is the context surrounding that conversation,” he clarifies. “You heard one line and jumped straight to a conclusion – the wrong conclusion, I might add. And I just have to say, it stings a bit that you always automatically think the worst of me rather than taking a minute to have a conversation.”

  I bite my bottom lip and sit back in my seat. I have no rebuttal to that. Yeah, I did immediately jump to the worst-case scenario. In my defense, what he said was bad. It was callous and cruel. I understand that he doesn’t have all the evidence – he doesn’t know I’m pregnant with his child – but, hearing him dismiss having kids long before we even had the chance to have a conversation about it, was incredibly painful.

  “Granted, maybe it didn’t hurt as bad as getting pepper sprayed in the face…”

  I look up and see him grinning at me. His joke was obviously meant to lighten the mood, but I don’t know if I’m in much of a humorous mood right now.

  “Yeah, keep milking it, Churchill,” I say. “See what happens.”

  “I will, thanks,” he replies.

  I sigh. “So, enlighten me then. Provide me with the necessary context I’m missing to prove what a horrible human being I am.”

  “I never said you’re a horrible human being, Sasha,” he says gently. “I only said that you jumped to the wrong conclusion. We all do it sometimes. But, when two people care about each other – as I thought we did – they take time to talk and work through it. That you tried to ghost me the way you did – for at least the second time, I might add – hurts. I’m not going to lie about that.”

  “I was hurt, Miles,” I say. “I just needed a little time and space.”

  “Believe it or not, I understand that.”

  “Besides, I also know that you’re not the kind of man who will sit back and do nothing,” I say, shooting him a wry grin. “I knew sooner or later, you’d put your stalkerish skills to use, figure out where I was hiding out, and come running. I just wanted a tiny head start.”

  “Fair enough,” he says.

  We stare at each other in silence for a few long seconds. He finishes his coffee and a middle-aged waitress with midnight-black hair, tired eyes, and plenty of wrinkles etched deep into her face, arrives a moment later to refill his cup. She looks at my mug and tops me off as well before silently departing.

  I watch her go and think about my life. The idea that I could be that woman twenty years from now hits me for the first time. I suddenly hear my sister
’s voice in my head, talking about doing something practical for once. Something steady. I hear her tell me that my pursuit of writing is going to lead me to a life spent working menial jobs, struggling just to get by.

  For the first time ever, I begin to doubt that I have what it takes to make it as a writer. Realistically, my more likely career and life path, will result in me ending up a middle-aged waitress in a shitty diner in a shitty little nowhere town like this.

  And that scares the hell out of me.

  The thought of giving up my dream still crushes my heart. It makes me want to fall to my knees and cry. The mere thought of sacrificing my writing or stories kills a small piece of my soul. This dream is something I’ve nurtured and fostered my entire life. When books became my only salvation and refuge while growing up, I knew I wanted to provide that safe haven for others who might be dealing with the same sort of childhood I was.

  “I’m thinking about moving back here,” I say. “Taking some classes. Doing something productive and practical with my life.”

  “That sounds like your sister talking.”

  “I don’t know that she’s wrong,” I say. “Maybe this pursuit of a writing career has been stupid from the start. I mean, the odds of me ever being the next great big thing are pretty stacked against me. The chances I have of ever seeing one of my books turned into some epic series on HBO or Netflix are pretty slim.”

  “You sound so certain of that,” he says.

  “I’m not. But, I’m not all that uncertain, either,” I say. “What I am certain of, is that I don’t want to be here thirty years from now.”

  I motion to the waitress, who is currently taking somebody’s order, a lifeless expression on her face. Her eyes are sad, tired, and devoid of any sort of happiness or joy. Miles looks at her and purses his lips, then turns back to me.

  “Yeah, I guess you probably do need to start thinking about things differently,” he says.

  The way he says that, coupled with the look in his eye, tells me he means something more is going on here. Something deeper. Like I said, Miles is a man who doesn’t waste words. His words always have a meaning when he speaks.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “I’m twenty-four years old, Miles. I think maybe it’s time to start putting away the childish dreams and refocus my energy on building an actual future – one with some semblance of stability to it.”

  “It’s something I certainly can’t fault you for,” he says. “I just hate the thought of you giving up your dream, Sasha. Especially because it’s something you are so naturally talented at.”

  “Yeah, well I can be Charles Dickens and unless I’m getting noticed by agents or publishers, writing isn’t going to put food on the table.”

  He nods. “That’s true,” he says. “And it becomes even more important to have food on the table when you’re caring for a baby.”

  Every muscle in my body suddenly feels like it freezes up. His eyes pin me to my seat and I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My throat feels almost as dry as the Sahara.

  Shit. He knows.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?” he questions me, an incredulous expression on his face.

  “How did you find out?” I finally manage to croak.

  “It wasn’t all that hard. The first thing I had to do to find you was figure out why you freaked out after overhearing my conversation with Nate – or at least, the small part you heard,” he says. “Then, I just had to talk to the right people for confirmation.”

  “Only one person in L.A. knew,” I say.

  He nods. “Yeah, Rosie and I had a brief conversation and while she didn’t explicitly tell me, I was able to gather enough bread crumbs to figure it out on my own,” he says. “Don’t be mad at Rosie, she really didn’t do anything wrong. Plus, she hated me even more than your actual sister does, which really says something.”

  “They’re just a little overprotective of me,” I say, my entire body feeling numb with shock and regret.

  “I’m glad for that, Sasha,” he says. “I’m happy you have people in your life who will fiercely love and protect you. But again, I feel like I have to know, were you ever planning on telling me?”

  “Of course, I was,” I say. “I was just waiting for the right time.”

  “How can you find the right time if you’re not speaking to me?” he asks, a wry grin on his lips. “Or fleeing the state to avoid me?”

  “I would have gone back eventually,” I say. “If only to get my things to move back up here.”

  “It does make your… episode with the pepper spray make more sense to me, though,” he says. “I’m assuming you walked in on the part of the conversation where I was mocking the idea of ever having kids?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I heard that loud and clear.”

  He runs his hand along his stubbly jawline, making a dry, scratchy sound. “I thought so. What you didn’t hear was the start of that conversation,” he says. “Which means that you didn’t have the proper context. I understand why hearing that was so jarring and why it might lead you to assume the worst-case scenario –”

  “Gee, that’s generous of you.”

  “What you didn’t hear,” he goes on like I didn’t say a word, “was me telling Nate how you changed me and the way I thought about things – including things like marriage and raising a family.”

  I cock my head, completely taken aback. It’s true that I didn’t hear the start of the conversation and have no idea about the ways I might have changed Miles. I guess that might be a big key to all of this. Did I really just automatically assume the very worst about him? I suppose I did. The more that I sit there, thinking about it, the more I feel like an ass.

  “I was in the midst of telling Nate where I used to be in my thinking and feeling about things like relationships and children – or rather, he was giving me shit and I was defending myself,” he says with a soft laugh, “and I was telling him how you’ve come in and turned all of that thinking, all those years of believing one thing, on their head.”

  “I had no idea,” I mutter quietly.

  “I know you didn’t,” he replies. “I was telling him how crazy this all is because of how little time we’ve known each other, but it’s true, nonetheless. You’ve come into my life and you’ve changed me. I’m not the same person today that I was the day we met, Sasha. And I think it’s a change for the good. I’m a better man today and it’s all because of you.”

  My heart swells and I feel tears stinging my eyes and I fight desperately to keep them from falling. Listening to Miles speak, I realize how terribly unfair and selfish I’ve been. How wrong I was. Seeing the pain and heartbreak in his eyes tears my heart into what feels like a million pieces. I understand now, that jumping to the conclusion I did, cut him as deeply as what I thought he’d said cut me.

  “I’m sorry, Miles,” is all I can think to say. “I’m so sorry.”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “The truth is, I want to be with you, Sasha,” he says. “I want that more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. And I want us to raise this child. Together.”

  “Together?” I ask.

  He nods, his smile warm and sincere. “Yes. Together,” he says. “You, me, and our baby.”

  I can’t stop them now; the tears start flowing freely and abundantly. Miles comes around the table and sits next to me, pulling me close to him. I bury my face in his shoulder and start to sob even harder. He strokes my hair and reassures me of his love and forgiveness in a soft, gentle voice.

  And even though we haven’t said the words to each other, I’ve never felt more loved than in this very moment.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “I’m so excited,” my mom exclaims from the bathroom. “I’ve never been to a fancy Christmas party before.”

  “Stop moving around, you’re going to mess up your hair,” Sarah says to her.

&nbs
p; I smile to myself. Yeah, growing up in a working-class neighborhood means that the Gates family didn’t receive a whole lot of invitations to high-class social events. Frankly, I’m a little nervous about this. I mean, I don’t have the social graces these people do – and the worry extends far beyond which fork to use.

  I would imagine these people, most of them probably well-educated, stand around, discussing stock futures or the hot-topic issues of the day. I can’t imagine more than a few are like Miles, who is a lot more well-rounded and down to earth. I got lucky that way.

  After the scene at the diner, Miles took me home. I had him sit down with Sarah and the three of us talked it all out. We, of course, didn’t include our mom in these talks. The last thing I wanted to do was shatter her illusions. Better to keep her thinking that we’re engaged for now. After all, I did tell her we’d be having a long engagement, so if one day, we end up there, she’ll be none the wiser. No harm, no foul.

  And, of course, we have zero desire to tell her that I’m pregnant. The time is definitely not right for that. Although things between me and Miles are good right now, some of the wounds are still too raw. I don’t want to introduce that kind of stress into the mix. Not until the hurt we caused each other is not as fresh.

  Miles insisted that the three of us attend his family’s annual Christmas party tonight. And he wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I told him we didn’t have the appropriate attire for such a fancy function, he sent a car and a personal shopper over to collect us. We were treated to a day of shopping and each of us found a dress more beautiful than I think any of us have owned in our entire lives.

  As I look in the mirror, I turn this way and that, looking at myself from every possible direction. I feel like a princess and can’t help but smile. My dress – no, my gown – is a vintage-style blue gown with a plunging neckline and delicate beading around the waist. It’s beautiful. Beyond beautiful.

  My mother steps out of the bathroom and I smile wide. Sarah has done her hair, putting it up for her. My mother’s gown is a deep shade of green and has a simple, but elegant design. I’ve never seen her look more beautiful than right now.