My Big Fat Fake Engagement

by Landish, Lauren

  “What?” Violet asks while Abi stammers for words. “You two—”

  “Hold up,” Courtney says, the only calm person in the room. “You’re telling it wrong. Let’s take a deep breath and try again.”

  Of course Courtney’s correcting me. She’s planned this out better than I did. She’s probably the only person who would.

  She looks at me, though she talks to our friends. “An awkward situation came up with the gym, so I’m helping Kaede and Ross get out of it. That means we’re ‘fake engaged’ until they can handle it. We’re NOT telling Mom and Dad.” That last bit is directed to her siblings.

  “What?” Violet asks, her cheeks pinkening. “You two are . . . what’s going on, Ross?” She whirls on her husband, the glare of ‘did you know about this?’ promising that Ross will be sleeping on the couch tonight, for sure.

  Not looking so smug now, are you, Mr. Told Ya So?

  But I do what I always do and save his ass, the same way he would for me.

  “Hold on, Vi, don’t kill him,” I beg, holding up a hand and playing wingman for my buddy. Quickly, I run down what happened at Jeffrey Sanders’s estate and with his daughter. “So in the end, I’m the one who stuck my big mouth in this. If you want to kill someone, kill me.”

  Violet gives her husband a reproachful look but calms some. Meanwhile, Ross questions Courtney. “You told me that if I didn’t tell Dad about Vi and me, do the whole society pages shit, no one would believe it. They wouldn’t believe that we were an ‘us’.”

  “I did my own research on Jeffrey Sanders,” Courtney says coolly. I blink because of course she did. “Sanders isn’t up on the society pages. It’s not something he seems to care about, instead focusing on business and technology. I don’t think Missy is, either. Seriously, the only mention of her I could find in any Googling was her high school graduation announcement. No pics of her in clubs with the high society millennials, or on yachts in Cabo, or any of that crap. And they’re the main ones who need to buy this.”

  “This sounds like some shit I’d dream up,” Abi says with a shit-eating grin. “But I learned from my lesson,” she quickly corrects herself, holding up her palms. Honestly, I don’t think that’s true. Abi is a schemer, through and through. Not in a bad way, more like a ‘thinks she’s Cupid’ sort of way, and she’s just lying low for a while after the whole Ross and Violet thing.

  “Is that why you keep trying to set me up on dates?” Archie teases. Abi glares at him, her eyes yelling at him to ‘shut up’ because she’s so busted in the lie she just told. “Newsflash, I’m not looking for a suit unless he wants to be my sugar daddy. It takes paper to look this good.” Archie runs a hand down his chest, which is covered in a holey vintage T-shirt that I’m sure cost three dollars at the Goodwill. He’s not a designer diva type, more of a punk anarchist who somehow figured out that he’s an amazing interior design assistant. Weird, but that’s somehow the most normal thing about him.

  “Yeah, well, see if I set you up again. You’ll be a lonely, wrinkled hag begging me for a love connection, and I’ll still say no.” Archie’s head swivels on his neck, daring her to do it. She sighs and gives up on battling Archie. “Well, it’s nothing like a fake engagement.” Abi lifts a brow at Courtney, and I expect they’ll be having some conversations about this later. “But if we’re spilling tea, I’ve got news too. I got chosen for a huge wedding contract, flowers for the Johnson-Kennedy wedding.”

  Everyone cheers for her and Violet gives her a hug. “That’s huge!” she says with eyes wide as saucers.

  I offer Abi a fist, which she promptly bumps with me. “Congrats! That’s for real, right?”

  My joke falls a little flat, and Abi gives me a long look. I don’t know why until I look down, and I realize I’m still holding Courtney’s hand even though I don’t need to be with our friends. There’s no reason to fake it here, but still, it’s hard to let go. When I do, Courtney puts her hand in her lap and I want to chase it, hold it again, or maybe her thigh. Thoughts of that kiss and her flesh in my hands run through my mind again.

  “Oh, hell, you two are too cute,” Archie says. “Come on, guys, you gotta do it for me. I don’t care if it’s fake or not . . . Kaede, get down on that knee and beg for her hand!” Under his breath, he says perfectly clearly, “Or beg for something. Just beg, baby, beg.”

  I roll my eyes at his antics, knowing he’s just trying to get a rise out of me.

  “I don’t think we need that yet,” Courtney says, ending the conversation with a little hint of her trademark ice in her voice. Archie holds up his hands in surrender, and we all decide now’s a good time to dig in.

  The enchiladas are delicious, of course. Violet’s got more talents than can be counted on your fingers. They’re so good, in fact, that all conversation more or less drops off. Everyone’s too busy stuffing their faces.

  As everyone finishes, Ross and Violet take our plates to the kitchen. To my surprise, there is actually a très leches cake, and they bring small dessert plates out to each of us.

  “I can’t believe you told Nana that you made this cake,” Violet admonishes him.

  He shrugs, not caring in the least. “Well, I made the money that I bought it with, so that’s almost the same thing. And it’s good.”

  We hum along in agreement with him. As for me, I’m stuffing my face with the moist cake, though two meals like this in two days are gonna have me hitting the treadmill hard in the morning. Mentally, I’m doing math . . . how many miles at what pace to burn these calories?

  “Maybe I’ll tell her you bought store-made lasagna next time I see her,” Abi teases, knowing that would be a death sentence for Ross. Nana Angela would kill him slowly and painfully for daring to buy a frozen lasagna.

  “Just have your cake and eat it too. We’ve got news too, since everyone’s dropping bombs,” Ross tells his ornery sister.

  He reaches over and takes Violet’s hand. He looks at her and she nods, biting her lip and looking on the verge of tears. Ross beams brightly, looking into Violet’s eyes. “We’re pregnant!”

  “Oh, my God!” Abi yells! “I’m going to be an aunt!”

  Courtney smacks her shoulder and says dryly, “Yeah, because it’s all about you, Sis.” To Violet, she says, “Congratulations!”

  We all congratulate Violet and Ross, who grabs champagne for everyone but Vi. We toast and all conversation turns to baby talk. How far along is Vi? Have they thought about names? Can Abi be in the delivery room?

  In the midst of it all, Courtney and my crazy news is forgotten, unimportant and fake when the reality of a new baby is so exciting.

  But when Courtney looks over at me, her eyes full of happiness at the idea of being an aunt and adding to our gang of misfits, she shocks me. Shyly, she takes my hand beneath the table.

  It could be pretend, but it feels real too. And it feels . . . right.

  Chapter 12

  Courtney

  Good Lord, save me from all this . . . cuteness!

  Walking around the mall with Abi and Violet would usually be fun. But being surrounded by the tiniest onesies, baby socks that wouldn’t fit a doll, and pictures of adorable sleeping newborns is making my ovaries bounce around like clubbers at an underground EDM concert.

  I do not have baby lust, but maybe I’m getting more excited for Ross and Violet’s baby with every rack we flip through. Aunt duty will allow me to get all those snuggles and head sniffs in but return the cutie patootie when it gets a bit ripe. Or loud. Or stinky and screaming. Aww, baby wants Mama. Aunt Courtney out.

  “This really feels weird, guys,” Violet says as she picks up another adorable little baby jumper. “Aren’t we jinxing this or something? I’m not due for months. Eight, to be exact.”

  “Chill, babe,” Abi says, but then she spies a bright pink onesie with a rainbow-maned unicorn on it and nearly screams in delight. “Ooh! I love this! Think they make it in a woman’s size . . . medium?” Abi lowers the outfit, sighing heavily.
“They never make the good stuff in our size. Maybe I could just cut the applique off and put it on a pillow or something?” She holds it up again, picking at the applique. She’s a tornado of a roller coaster of up and down emotions pretty much every given minute, and now is no exception. Finally, as if her unicorn tangent never happened, she keeps right on talking to Violet in a continuation of her previous tangent, saying, “And besides, we’re just celebrating. We’re happy for you! And Ross . . . but mostly, you.”

  I pluck the pink outfit from Abi and put it back on the rack and hold up a nearly as cute yellow outfit with baby horses on it instead. “Let’s stick to green or yellow until we know the gender.”

  “Ugh, no way. Veto! Those make you look sick,” Abi argues. “Babies are all red and wrinkly, and those colors make you look like you’ve got jaundice or something. My niece or nephew will not be looking sickly, nope. Fabulous all the way.” She hums, flipping through another rack, and I hang up the horse onesie, defeated. “Maybe we go black and white neutral. It’s supposed to be good for their eyesight.”

  “How do you know that?” Violet suddenly looks a little worried, head spinning from Abi to me. “Why don’t I know that? Oh, God, I don’t know anything.” She buries her face in her hands.

  Mom’s menopause hormones might’ve been doozies, but I think Violet’s already got an overload of pregnancy hormones that would put Mom to shame. I wonder if the same tricks would work? The chocolate, at least, but definitely not the wine.

  “It’s fine, you’re fine, the baby’s going to be fine,” Abi says, rubbing Vi’s shoulders in reassurance as she shoots me an ‘Oh, my God, what did I do?’ look over Violet’s head. “I just know things. Mostly just weird shit I pick up around the shop. I mean, people buy flowers for all sorts of occasions, you know? You’ll learn.”

  “I’m so not ready for this,” Vi whispers. She picks her head up, a good sign, I think, but her eyes are still dinner-plate big. “I’m gonna, I don’t know, give her a bath and make it so hot we boil the baby.”

  We all freeze at the crazy idea. Violet, one of the nicest, sweetest people I know, actually had that thought, let it bother her enough to bring her to tears, and said it out loud. After a long beat, we all bust up in laughter.

  “No, you’re not. You’ll check the water temperature just like you do your own bath. You’ve got this, Violet. And there are books and websites and doctors. And I hesitate to remind you of this, but you’ve got two aunts who will be on your doorstep daily.” Abi steps to my side, nodding in agreement with my reasonable assessment of the situation. “And a huge ass family that is going to be over the moon. Honestly, you might be lucky to get to hold your own kid. We’ll just pass him or her around like a football at a family potluck.”

  Violet laughs lightly, the tide turning. Proving once again that Abi is a smart cookie and a co-survivor of Mom’s menopause, she digs in her purse and hands Violet an Andes mint. “Here, you need this more than I do.”

  It disappears into Vi’s mouth quickly. “Thanks,” she says with the mouthful.

  “Speaking of a big family, how did yours take the news?” Abi asks, already grinning because this is going to be a story and a half. Everything is with Violet’s huge, loud, Italian family.

  “My ears still hurt from it,” Violet admits, smiling a little bigger now. “Nana said she’s going to start knitting now. What she’s gonna knit, I have no idea—booties, a blanket, a straight-jacket for my Mom so that she can’t hold the baby and Nana gets all the snuggles? Mom and Papa are also over the moon, of course. And Aunt Sofia . . . phew.”

  We keep shopping, not buying too much because we’re just getting out to celebrate and girl talk without the guys. Oh, sure, we pick up some items. Abi insists on the pink unicorn onesie, promising that she’s going to scavenge the appliqué.

  I don’t believe her. That onesie is going into a box at home until Violet finds out the baby’s gender. If it’s a girl, we’ll see it again. If it’s a boy, maybe it will find its way onto a pillow. Or maybe Abi will just hold on to it . . . for later-later.

  “What’s a Boppy?” Vi asks as we look over the nearly endless plethora of baby toys, tools, and other items, all of which we supposedly cannot raise a child safely without. “Looks like an overgrown neck pillow.”

  I shrug, not having any idea. Violet pulls up her phone, clicking around. She holds up a list. “It’s on my top essentials list, along with nipple cream, butt paste, a sleep sack—”

  Abi cuts her off, holding up a finger. “Butt Paste? Is that for you or the baby? We share a lot, but if you and Ross are doing anal, I don’t think I want to know.” She blinks. “Actually, yeah, I do. Tell all, girl.”

  Violet blushes. “It’s for the baby!” In a quieter voice, she confides, “We’re fine on the sex front, though. The doctor said I’m good until I go into labor, but as I get bigger, we’ll have to be more creative on positioning.” She pats her still-flat belly.

  “Never, ever let Archie hear that,” I caution Violet with a smirk. “That man might be too creative for you.”

  “You know Aunt Sofia’s talked my ear off about dos and don’ts?” Violet asks as we leave the baby area to look at maternity clothes. “What to eat to make sure the baby’s strong, rubbing olive oil on my stomach for stretch marks, and don’t even get me started on names. She’s already vetoing things when Ross and I haven’t even discussed names yet.”

  “What did she veto?”

  “Mauricio. Because of some feud with the family in Sicily. I said fine, but seriously, who cares about that, and why would she even think I’d pluck that name out of thin air for the baby?” Violet throws her hands wide and shakes her head.

  “Yeah, you can do better,” Abi agrees, but Violet’s on a roll now.

  “And my mom. She just goes and decrees that she’s going to be in the delivery room to hold my hand whether I want her there or not. Luckily, I do. I think. Do I? Maybe she should stay outside and act as bouncer to keep everyone else out?”

  “What about Mom and Dad?” I’m hoping the change in direction will stop her spiral.

  Violet sighs and smiles. “Morgan asked if it was real or if we’re faking it again. Kimberly almost slapped him silly for that one.”

  We all laugh, and Abi quips, “Oh, my God, my dad told a joke? Someone call a priest because if that’s not a sign of the Apocalypse, I don’t know what is.”

  “I know,” Vi says as we exit the baby store and Abi has us turn right. “I thought he was serious at first and froze. But you know he’s all about family, so they’re overjoyed. Kimberly asked if she could throw me a baby shower. Later, of course. Ross and Morgan had a whole moment, though, hugging each other, pounding each other on the back, and . . . and . . .” Vi tapers off, her eyes all shiny and glittery with unshed tears. “Oh, these fucking hormones are killing me already! Let’s talk about something else, anything else.”

  “Yes . . . store change, subject change,” Abi says, coming to a stop. “Let’s have some fun, ladies.”

  I look at the store beside us, my jaw dropping as I see what she means. “Really?”

  Interior Refreshments is probably the most notorious shop in all the city. It’s the only store in the entire mall with no way to see through the windows, and in fact, they don’t even allow walk-in traffic. You have to buzz to be let in like you were going into a high-end jewelry store. Then again, they do sell diamond-encrusted panties, or so I’ve heard. Along with a full line of lingerie, from pieces that’d make a porn star blush to beautifully sheer bridal negligées, sex toys ranging from dildos and vibrators to full-on BDSM gear, and every flavor of lube on the market.

  Okay, fine. I’ve never been here, but maybe I visited the website a time or two. And purchased a few things over the years to be delivered in their anonymous brown boxes that inside are ribbon-wrapped, pretty delights. Their bra and panty sets are another of my guilty pleasures.

  “Really,” Abi says, pushing the backlit doorbell to request
entry before we can argue. “Vi here can have a little fun now that she and Ross don’t have to worry about her getting pregnant. That ship has sailed deep into her ocean blue. And you, dear little sister of mine, need the proper location to spill your story.”

  “What story?” I ask as the door opens and we’re ushered in by Abi, who’s giving me a ‘duh’ look.

  Once the door’s closed behind us, the sales assistant asks if we’re looking for anything in particular but leaves us to our own devices when we assure her that we’re only browsing.

  Not letting me off the hook, Abi digs her stubborn heels in. “The you and Kaede story. The one where you agreed to be the fiancée of the guy you’ve been gaga over for years and compare all potential Tinder dates to.”

  “I am not on Tinder!” I sputter.

  Abi’s brow arches. “Gotcha. So now that we’re beyond the ‘oh, no, I don’t like him like that’ lies you were already planning to tell us, we can get down to the nitty-gritty. So spill.”

  Heat flushes me, and I know they both can see it. I’m terrible about blushing, especially when it comes to Kaede. “Nothing to talk about. Just a business deal.” I hold up a pretty red lace bra. “What do you think of this one?”

  “I dunno, those babies need more support than that,” Violet says, pointing to my chest then looking down at her own boobs. “Me too, soon enough.”

  “Ladies, we come to a store like this for peekaboo lingerie. Ones that say hello there when your shirt comes off and hits the floor two seconds later. No one’s thinking your boobs are saggy, and if they do, they can fuck off,” Abi hisses. She puts an arm around Vi’s shoulders and the other around mine. “Now, can we please focus here?”

  “On what?” Violet asks, making me think that pregnancy fog might be my new best friend.

  “The baby!” I say. At the same time, Abi says, “Kaede.”

  Abi wins when Violet looks my way. “Oh, yeah, tell us what’s up with that.”

  They face me like a firing squad, shoulder to shoulder. Abi softens first, surprisingly. “I get it, Court. Kaede’s six feet two of tall, dark, and handsome, a mysterious guy whose waters run deeper than the Pacific. Ooh, but I bet he’s grunty and bossy in bed. Like one of those Dom ‘yes, master’ types.”