Dad feeds me another bite of chicken, but I don’t have much of an appetite. I can’t believe Isabelle is marrying Parker. I can’t fucking believe it. I knew they were dating, but… getting married? That’s crazy.
“Do you think Isabelle is making a mistake?” Mom asks me, vocalizing the question I can’t stop thinking about.
I blink a few times, surprised by her comment. My mother knows the story between me and Isabelle better than almost anyone. She knows how Isabelle tried to be there for me after my injury, even when I was an asshole with a capital A. I mean, I’m not a big ball of sunshine now, but I was intolerable then. I don’t even like to think about it.
“It’s none of my business,” I mumble.
“I don’t know if that’s entirely true.”
“She’s not my fiancée anymore.” I shake my head. “She’s nothing to me. If she wants to marry him…”
I can’t say those words without feeling a lump in my throat.
Isabelle is making a mistake.
She has no idea what he’s really like.
Do I still care about Isabelle after everything that’s happened between us?
Of course I do.
But it doesn’t change a thing. She’s still going to marry Parker.
_____
“So how’s it going with Alyssa?”
Doug considers the question as he stretches my elbow to the limit of where it can go. Before I was a quadriplegic, my elbow could extend fully, forming a straight line. Not anymore. At about forty-five degrees shy of that straight line, my elbow won’t go any further. The doctor calls it a “contracture.” I get stretched out every morning and night, as well as being on the maximum dose of a medication to prevent muscle tightness and Botox injections to loosen the muscles every three months, but it’s not enough.
If it gets to the point where my elbows won’t go any straighter than a right angle, I’ll have to consider surgery. But I don’t want to think about that.
“Things are good,” Doug finally says.
“Getting serious?” I ask.
He smiles shyly. Doug was always close-mouthed when it came to talking about girls. When we were teenagers, I used to brag about my sexual conquests, but Doug didn’t like to kiss and tell. It was something I admired about him. But then again, back then, I had a whole lot more to tell than he did. Doug was a nice guy, but even though I’d never have said it to him, I always had it over him in looks, charisma, and even intelligence. I usually had more girls than I knew what to do with.
Not so much anymore.
“So it’s serious?” I prompt him.
“I like her a lot,” he admits. He holds my elbow at that forty-five-degree angle. I can see my wrist twitching, but I can’t control it. “But it’s still early. So… we’ll see.”
“You don’t have to race here if you’re out on a date with her.”
“It’s okay.”
“Really. We can manage. I don’t want to fuck up your love life.”
“Well,” Doug says thoughtfully, “what if I paid for someone to come here a few nights a week instead?”
I wince. “I don’t want you to have to pay for my care.”
He moves on to my fingers, stretching them until they are very nearly straight. “I can afford it. I just got a huge bonus.”
Doug works at Coleman-Roth, like I used to. I was the one who got him the job. So I know he does well financially. Still. I hate the idea of my little brother using his savings to pay for my care, which is not cheap.
“I told you, we’re fine,” I say.
He frowns as he stretches my fingers. “Shit, you’re tight, Alex. Are they stretching you every morning?”
“Yeah, although Sue isn’t the best at it.”
Sue is my weekend PCA. She comes on weekend mornings and Beverly comes on weekdays. Bev is good—reliable, efficient, and polite. Also, she doesn’t have a job after mine, so she’s cool with staying an extra hour without putting it on the clock. Sue is the opposite. She cancels on me at least a third of the time and always seems ready to jet out the door the second she comes in. I hate firing people, but when it comes to my personal care, I don’t fuck around. I need someone I can trust. So Mom and I agreed the next time Sue is late or cancels, we’re going to ask the agency for someone new.
Doug picks up one of the resting hand splints I wear to bed every night and slides it onto my stiff fingers. Without that splint, my hands would eventually end up in tight fists, impossible to clean and at high risk for skin breakdown. So you better believe I wear those splints every night.
“So I heard Isabelle came by,” Doug says.
I roll my head to the side to study his face. “Did Mom tell you?”
“Hell yeah, she did.”
“She’s marrying Parker.” When Doug doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Did you know?”
He averts his eyes. “Sort of.”
That means yes. “Shit, Doug. You could have warned me.”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Yeah, because this was how I wanted to find out.”
“Well, who knew she’d show up like that? What the hell is wrong with her?” He sighs and lowers his voice. “Are you okay?”
I shut my eyes, trying to forget the memory of Isabelle’s face this afternoon. “Yeah, it’s fine. But I did something sort of stupid.”
Doug grins. “Well, that’s not too surprising, coming from you.”
This is when I would have slugged my brother in the arm back in the old days. Instead, I just roll my eyes. “She caught me off-guard, you know? And that whole engagement story… so I ended up telling her I had a girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend? Nice.”
“Right, well… I figure I’m not getting any real action anymore. May as well get some fake action.”
Doug’s putting pressure on my fingers, which are refusing to go straight. Why does my goddamn body have to be so stubborn? “You could try online dating, you know. I’ll help you set up an account if you want.”
“No, thanks,” I mutter.
The truth that I haven’t told Doug or my parents or anyone is that I set up an online dating account about six months ago and was foolishly optimistic I might meet someone. I took a photo of myself using the camera on my computer. It didn’t show my whole wheelchair, but I couldn’t get a shot that didn’t show my headrest, although I was at least able to crop out the strap across my chest. I thought I looked decent in the photo. I mentioned my disability in my profile but didn’t make a big thing about it. I use a wheelchair to get around, is all I wrote. I put up the profile without telling anyone in my family, knowing that if I got a date, I’d have to ‘fess up if I wanted to actually go on the date. I’d need a ride, at the very least. I’d probably want to be dressed in something other than my usual classy outfit of a T-shirt and sweatpants.
It ended up not being a problem. I didn’t get one response to my profile. Not a single one. And the women I tried messaging never responded.
If I told this to Doug, he’d try to be positive about the whole thing. He’d point out it was only one dating site, and there are plenty of others out there. I’m not the kind of loser who gives up after only one attempt. I need to keep trying.
On the other hand, why would things be different on another dating site?
Anyway, fuck it. Dating is a hassle I can’t even think about right now. My life is complicated enough without adding a girlfriend to the mix.
Maybe someday. I don’t know.
“And Vegas,” I say, switching back to the topic that’s going to keep me awake tonight for sure. “I can’t believe they’re getting married in Vegas. Parker—okay, I can see it. But Isabelle? I’m shocked she’d agree to a Vegas wedding.”
“We’ve got our annual conference this year in Las Vegas,” Doug says. “It’s two days before the wedding. That’s probably why they did it that way.”
Right, the annual conference. An excuse to socialize and get drunk off yo
ur ass in a whole different city. I miss it. “Are you going?”
“To the wedding?” His eyes widen. “No way. I’d never do that to you, Alex.”
“Not the wedding,” I say. “The conference. Are you going?”
“Oh.” He shrugs. “Well, yeah. I have to.”
“Are you taking Alyssa?”
My brother’s face colors. “No. It’s not that serious yet.”
Yet.
“Shit,” I sigh. “I just don’t get it. How could Isabelle marry Parker? Why does he even want to marry her?”
Doug is quiet for a moment as he stretches my arm. “Honestly, I think it’s some competitive thing with you.”
“With me?”
He shrugs. “Well, yeah. When you were at Coleman, he always wanted what you had. He was insanely jealous of you.”
“You’re shitting me…”
He shakes his head. “You were better at the job than he was. You made more money—everyone knew it. It drove Parker nuts. And then you’re dating Isabelle, who looks like a supermodel but has a lot of class—unlike all his bimbos. He wanted Isabelle because you had her. But…”
Doug is sliding the splint onto my left hand. I watch him for a second, but when he doesn’t finish the sentence, I have to ask: “But what?”
He moves to the foot of the bed so he can work on stretching out my legs. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“What?”
“I said nothing.”
“I swear to God, Doug, don’t make me kick your ass.”
My brother smiles thinly. “Okay, fine. Look, it’s not like it should be any surprise or anything like that. But, you know, Parker still…”
Christ, just spit it out already. “He still what?”
He lifts my bare leg, stretching the knee into full flexion. “There are other women, okay? He cheats on Isabelle.”
My mouth feels dry. I hated to think of Isabelle being with that asshole, but knowing he’s a cheating asshole is just that much worse.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He snorts. “Very sure.”
Well, great.
“It’s not your problem, Alex,” Doug says. “I know how you must be feeling, but—”
“You don’t know what I’m feeling.”
“Okay, fine. But look, this isn’t… I mean, you shouldn’t feel responsible.”
I stare up at the ceiling while my brother continues working on my leg. As much as I love Doug and appreciate that he’s here to help me, I wish I could be alone right now. That’s one of the hardest parts of my life now—the fact that there are times when I want to be alone and I just can’t.
Doug is wrong. I am responsible for this. Maybe if I hadn’t been such a dickwad when I got hurt, Isabelle wouldn’t be marrying Parker right now. Maybe we still would have broken up, but if I hadn’t been the biggest asshole in the universe, she wouldn’t have fallen straight into his arms after we broke up. I could have been better. I know that.
I need to make this right.
Chapter 6
Nellie
The assholes have landed. Table Seven. Again—the very next day.
I thought my sharp insults aimed at Chief Douchebag would discourage him. It hasn’t. If anything, my barbs have encouraged him. He likes it. It’s like some kind of freaky foreplay for him. I think he purposely comes here during my shifts and requests one of my tables.
It’s a different group today, but I recognize the chief’s chiseled features right away. It irritates me how physically attractive he is. It’s not fair. And by the way, it’s also not fair that his Armani suit probably would pay my rent for the next six months. I don’t even want to think about it.
“Wednesday!” Chief Douchebag’s face lights up in a grin when he sees me. “I was hoping you’d be working tonight.”
“It’s your lucky day,” I say.
He winks at his friends. “I’ll say.”
“So what would you like, Chief?” I ask him.
“Your phone number,” he says. “Or short of that, fifteen minutes out back with you.”
“Fifteen minutes?” I raise my eyebrows. “I’d pegged you as more of a five-minute man.”
“You’ll never know till you try…” He winks again, this time at me. “And might I say, Wednesday, your tits are looking extra spectacular tonight.”
I give him a look. “Eyes up here, buddy.”
He nudges the guy next to him and laughs. “Hey, if you don’t want us looking, maybe you shouldn’t get them stuffed with silicone.”
“Hey!” I yelp. “Watch your mouth. These are real.”
“No fucking way.”
“Watch your language, bub.”
“Come on,” Chief Douchebag says. “There’s no way in hell those babies are real. I don’t believe it. I’d bet a million bucks.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
I notice one of the guys at the table isn’t laughing along with the chief. This guy is a lot more average-looking, but he has these nice gray eyes that are vaguely familiar somehow. He leans forward and says to Chief Douchebag, “Hey, Parker, quit it. You’re being an ass.”
“Shut up, Doug. She loves it.” The chief flashes me a thousand-watt grin. “Don’t you, Wednesday?”
“Sure, I love it when guys insist my breasts are fakes. What’s not to like about that?”
“It’s a compliment,” he insists. “I love silicone.”
Those gray eyes of the guy named Doug meet mine, and he has the grace to look embarrassed. Which helps. A little.
I fetch the drinks for Table Seven. I wish I could quit this job—I really do. The tips are good, but it’s not worth dealing with grabby assholes. I’ve had my butt grabbed twice on this shift alone. And of course, I’m supposed to just grin and take it.
I can’t give up this job though. I need the money—bad. This and my weekend bartending gig just barely pay my rent. I’m not excited about being homeless. The curb outside my building does not look comfortable to sleep on.
I return with six drinks balanced on my tray. Chief Douchebag got a Guinness in a long, tall glass, which I plunk in front of him unceremoniously. I distribute the other drinks with a comely smile, hoping to salvage my tips. Not that the chief has ever stiffed me. Actually, he’s a very generous tipper. It’s his one saving grace.
“Hey, Wednesday,” Chief Douchebag says to me. “We took a vote while you were gone and it’s unanimous—we all think you’ve got fakes.”
“Shut the fuck up, Parker,” the gray-eyed guy snaps at him. His eyes meet mine briefly. “That’s not true.”
“Don’t lie, Doug.” The chief looks up at me, blinking his baby blue eyes. Damn, this guy’s eyelashes might be longer than mine. “You know, we could clear this up real easily.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Could we?”
“We sure could.” His grin spreads ear-to-ear. “You just have to let me touch them.”
“I’ll pass,” I snap at him.
“Oh, come on… just a quick feel…”
“Parker.” It’s that guy Doug again. “Just quit it.”
Chief Douchebag whips his head around to glare at Doug. He’s still smiling, but there’s an edge to his expression that’s disturbing. I can’t imagine what it must be like to work with this guy. I bet it’s frightening. I bet he’d sell out any one of the guys at this table for a nickel.
“Get the stick out of your ass, Doug,” the chief hisses. “I swear to God, you’re worse than fucking Alex was.”
Again, something tugs at the back of my brain. A memory. I almost catch it, but it’s gone. There’s too much going on right in front of me and the television mounted on the wall is too loud.
“Anyway.” The chief has turned his attention back to me, his face softening back into his usual charming smile. “So where were we? You were letting me touch your tits, right?”
“No,” I say patiently. “I was going to ask if you were ready to order food.”
They are
, thank God. I take their orders all around, although I can’t say any of them are looking anywhere but at my breasts. Thanks, Chief.
“All right,” I tell them. “I’ll put your orders in right away.”
“Hang on a minute, Wednesday,” Chief Douchebag says.
I pause, my notepad with their orders in my left hand. Before I know what’s happening, I feel the weight of the chief’s large hand on my right breast. And it’s not just a quick grab. He’s got his hand firmly planted there, and he squeezes until I let out a yelp that makes all his coworkers burst into laughter. Well, all but one—that guy with the gray eyes.
“Maybe they are real,” Chief Douchebag concedes with a grin.
It’s not like what happens next is a well-thought-out plan. It’s not like I told my brain to grab Chief Douchebag’s Guinness off the table. And if I had been thinking at all about the consequences, I definitely wouldn’t have thrown the content of the glass in his face.
Actually, I didn’t so much throw it in his face as pour it over his head.
The laughter stops for a split second. And then it returns, about five times louder than it was before. I have this feeling that while every guy at this table thinks Chief Douchebag is funny, they probably hate him even more. It’s hard to believe anyone could genuinely like the guy.
The chief is literally covered in beer—it’s dripping from his eyelashes, flattening his golden hair, and it’s all over his expensive white dress shirt. Wow, there was a lot of beer in that glass. For a moment, he doesn’t look so handsome anymore. He looks as ugly on the outside as he is on the inside. And the look of growing fury on his face doesn’t make him any more attractive. He was willing to laugh off my barbs, but it’s clear I went too far.
I am so fired.
Chapter 7
Alex
Dear Isabelle,
There is something important I need to discuss with you. If you could give me a call as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it.
Sincerely,
Alex
There. That’s a perfectly worded email to an ex-girlfriend.
“Select ‘sincerely,’” I say. The word lights up on the screen. “Thanks, comma.”
My Ex's Wedding: A Fake Boyfriend Romance Page 4