Mister Fake Fiance

by Lee, Nadia

  “Yes?” she says, looking up at me.

  “I don’t need another coffee.” Since my parents raised me to be a gentleman, I add, “Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome…” Her eyes widen as they flick over my shoulder to the wall. “Wow.”

  I turn my head to look as well. And freeze.

  What. The. Fuck.

  “Wow” is an understatement. What in the world is this travesty, and why the hell did my mother think I’d want it in my bedroom?

  The workmen have unwrapped and hung a portrait photo of my cousin Jan and her husband Matt Aston—who also happens to be my best friend back in Virginia. The picture is life size, the golden frame thick and ornate, like what you might see around a multimillion-dollar Renoir or Monet.

  Jan’s quite pregnant in the picture—you can’t miss the baby bump, despite the high waist on her sunflower print dress. And Matt’s glowing like he’s the one with the bun in the oven.

  But that isn’t the worst part. The worst is that they aren’t looking into each other’s eyes like a couple in love should. They’re looking straight at me. Well, they were looking straight at the camera when the photo was taken, but it looks like they’re looking at me. It’s creepy as fuck to have the picture on that wall.

  And on the bottom are the gold-embossed words: Everything a man could ask for.

  In what universe? I think as I stare at the picture in horror.

  Erin signs off on the mini tablet one of the delivery guys holds out for her. “Isn’t it a great shot?”

  I start to say no, but there’s such a bright glimmer in her eyes that I can’t. She’s just the messenger. “Uh-huh.” If you like being creeped out every time you go to bed.

  “Your mother said it should be the first thing you see when you wake up and the last thing you see when you go to sleep.”

  Mom can’t possibly think this is going to make me want to make babies. She’s either delusional or hopelessly optimistic. After a second of consideration, I choose stubborn, because she’s too smart and educated for either of the others.

  “Anyway, my job’s done. So I’ll head out now and let you enjoy your weekend,” Erin says brightly.

  “Thank you,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster, given the situation. “And I’ll see you on Monday.”

  “Sure. Call or text if you need anything before then.” She smiles and heads out.

  I stand at the foot of my unmade bed and stare at the picture. Then I lie down. From this angle, Jan and Matt are staring down at me. They aren’t judging because they aren’t that kind of people, but it’s disturbing anyway.

  I have to take it down.

  My phone rings. Mom. Just the person I’m dying to talk to.

  Ready to unload what I think about her ridiculous present, I answer it.

  Before I get a word out, she says, “Don’t even think about getting rid of it.”

  What the… “How did you know it’s here?”

  “Because Erin texted me, like I asked her to. She’s a good one.”

  She is, and so much better than I expected, although I wish she hadn’t texted Mom. “It’s going to keep me up at night, Mom. There’s no way I can keep it in my bedroom.”

  “Of course you can. It’s a reminder of your duty.”

  “Duty? You want to talk duty?” Mom lost all her good sense when Jan got married. She used to not worry so much about babies and my responsibilities because I was already doing well. “I’m a great son. I never caused any trouble growing up. I studied hard and work even harder. I also set a perfect example for Derek and Trent!” I bet Mom isn’t harping on them to giving her babies, because if she were, I’d have heard about it by now. “You should be thanking your lucky stars you have a son like me!”

  Mom laughs. “No wonder I struggled for twelve hours to bring you into the world. Your head’s too big!”

  I’m too hung over for this. Aspirin and coffee are simply not enough.

  “As for your duty,” she continues, “it’s simple. Fill the six remaining bedrooms in your mansion with babies.” Her tone says duh.

  My head hurts. I figured I might have one or two at some point, but six? What am I? A breeding hog? “Nobody has six kids these days! If I said I wanted to have that many, no woman would even date me.”

  “Oh, hon.” She sighs softly. “You’re a marketing VP. You know how to sell yourself better than that. Besides, I have three children. Surely, young women these days want to beat their mother-in-law. You always want to do better than the previous generation.”

  Don’t growl. Don’t growl. “This isn’t a competition.”

  “Alexandra is going to be a great-grandmother, David,” Mom says, almost forlornly. I can picture her sipping a mimosa and pouting. “I deserve to be a grandmother.”

  “Mom, you’re much too young,” I say, trying to appeal to her feminine vanity.

  “That’s why I should be a grandma. Nobody will believe it, and everyone will admire my youthful radiance!”

  “Mother.”

  “Don’t you ‘mother’ me, David Francis Darling. And if you want me to bake when you come home for the holidays, you better leave the picture I sent you exactly where it is.” She hangs up.

  I sigh and lie back on the bed. Jan and Matt look down on me benevolently.

  Maybe it would be better if Erin’s cookies had killed me last night.

  Chapter Two

  Erin

  I head back home, feeling pretty good about the morning’s work. I was in the middle of going through an eight-part video training course on creating better storyboarding for PowerPoint presentations when Mrs. Darling interrupted me.

  Not that I minded. David’s mother is so nice. She was apologetic and explained that I was the only one she could count on, because she was afraid the delivery crew might not do a good job. Gifts get lost or damaged, and she’d hate it if that were to happen to the picture.

  It was worth it to see the dazed light in David’s gray eyes when the crew hung the picture. He was probably overcome by his mother’s thoughtfulness. She said it was a picture of his favorite people in Virginia, whom he misses very much.

  And you certainly didn’t mind that you got to see David in those boxers.

  The thought pops into my head, and I scowl. It’s totally unprofessional to think that…even though part of me did get a little thrill. I had no idea he had such an amazing chest hidden underneath those dress shirts. Actually, I knew he had a great body because of the way his clothes fit, but seeing almost the full Monty with my own eyes was definitely a next-level experience.

  Still, I shouldn’t think about it too much. Mooning over the boss isn’t one of my duties at the company, and I was lucky to get this job in the first place. My résumé was a joke—I recognize that in retrospect—and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize my current situation.

  When I get home, I grab a bag of Skittles and resume the video training. I love it that Sweet Darlings has so many of these online resources for its employees—and for free! David took a big gamble when he hired me two years ago. I want to prove to him that he wasn’t wrong. I need this job to ensure that I never have to go back home to Saintsville.

  To be the object of speculation, pity or worse.

  I shake my head to clear it. I’m almost done with the second video, my self-training notebook full of tips and tricks. The phone rings, and I reach for it absently, not wanting to miss the final remark from the instructor on my company-issued laptop.

  “Hello?” I say into the phone.

  “Erin, my daughter.”

  I tense at the boisterous and slightly coaxing “Are you sure you don’t love me?” tone. It’s similar to the one my father uses when he’s dealing with a mildly reluctant donor. What does he want now? I wonder, rubbing the spot on my belly. Sure enough, it’s already starting to hurt.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, pausing the training before it can launch the third video.

  “I was just thinking
about you.” He says it in the same tone he might use to say, “I was just thinking about your vote.”

  My dad is the mayor of Saintsville, Virginia, and like a lot of small-town mayors, he’s got big aspirations. I hate that he’s been trying so hard to make me part of them all my life. Even my relocation to L.A. hasn’t stopped him.

  “I’m kind of busy with work stuff,” I say, looking at the clock on my laptop. It’s almost lunchtime. I pop more Skittles into my mouth to fortify myself. I can’t argue with Dad on an empty stomach and low blood sugar.

  “On a Saturday? Do they do that out in California?” He makes it sound like another galaxy.

  “Just some extra training for my job,” I say, wishing I actually were in another galaxy. What’s the closest one? Andromeda…?

  “You’re still working?” He sounds shocked.

  No, Dad, I’m living on a trust fund nobody knows about. The words threaten to break through my control, and I rein myself in. I can’t let Dad upset me. Emotional outbursts aren’t good. “Of course I’m working. And David says I’m doing well.”

  “Doesn’t he have other assistants?” Surely, he can’t possibly have only you to rely on.

  I can hear his thoughts loud and clear. It’s been that way all my life. The muscles around my jaw start to tighten, but I force myself to relax. Cracking a molar would hurt, and fixing it would be a hassle, even if I do have great dental coverage, thanks to Sweet Darlings. “No. Just me.”

  “Huh.” Could he sound any more skeptical? For a normally smooth-talking politician, he’s never figured out how to speak to his own child.

  Then again, I can’t vote in Saintsville.

  “Look, I’ve really got to get going,” I begin. “I have some—”

  “This won’t take long. It’s about Warren.”

  Oh no. Warren Theodore Fordham the Fourth is the guy everyone in Saintsville decided I’d marry just because we dated for a year. I can’t even call him an ex-fiancé because he never asked me to marry him. It was just assumed. And I suppose outwardly we looked compatible enough. I was good, biddable life-partner material who needed a strong, capable man to take care of her.

  Not that I could totally blame them. I thought Warren loved me back then. Until I found out he was just like my dad: he only wanted me around to make himself look like a good guy.

  “He’s still single. And I think he’d make a fabulous husband for you. You must understand how difficult it is to juggle life and a career. Why do that when you don’t have to? Warren’s a good man, and he’s more than willing to provide for you. And unlike most men, he would never abandon you, no matter what might happen down the line. You know how things run on your mother’s side.”

  Dad pauses, waiting for the words to sink in.

  I shudder, hating the reminder that there is an expiration date on my sanity—and my life. Mom had a mental illness. Dad told me her doctor informed him it was hereditary, and the chances are very high—almost certain—that I’m going to end up like her. Dad also added that he stayed married and faithful to her because he needed his constituents’ sympathy. And he certainly got his share of that. I always thought it was sad to rely on pity votes, but he doesn’t care as long as he keeps getting returned to office.

  Maybe I should look into exactly what she had and prepare myself. Well, not maybe. I should. It’s just…I haven’t been able to. Every time I consider the idea, my heart races and I can’t draw in enough air, like a child hiding in a closet, praying an unseen monster won’t find her.

  So everything I know about Mom’s condition came from my father. I’m aware some of it is biased—and mean—but it’s obvious that she was mentally ill based on her outbursts and those days when she refused to even leave her bed…and it is probably genetic, since almost everything seems to be genetic, according to science.

  Finally, he adds, “You getting my point? It would look bad for him to be anything but a good husband for you. He’ll work extra hard to maintain a good image. And you’ll be perfect for that, and can reap the benefits along the way.”

  It sounds awful—being a burden somebody is forced to handle with outward grace while resenting the hell out of it in his heart. Dad hated having to take care of Mom. I overheard him say so. I don’t want that for myself. I’d rather be on my own than with somebody who begrudges my very existence.

  And being with Warren would give me that particular future. I knew that instinctively, even back then.

  I clear my throat. “Didn’t his dad resign? So it isn’t like he’s going to care about his image one way or the other.”

  The senior Warren Fordham is—or was—a state senator. But he was forced to step down due to a scandal so huge that even I, somebody who rarely follows political news, heard about it.

  It’s a bad form to have an affair while your wife is battling an inoperable brain tumor. It’s worse when she collapses and is rushed to the hospital, and nobody can reach you because you turned off your phone to avoid anybody tracking you via GPS while you were screwing your side piece at a swanky hotel.

  But the really unforgivable thing among his political cronies isn’t that he did all those things. It’s that he got caught.

  “Warren the Fourth cares because he isn’t just a Virginia state senator’s son anymore. He’s a U.S. congressman!” Dad announces it like The Fourth just won a Nobel Prize in Medicine.

  “Oh.” I hum, wondering what I should say. Warren was never that great of a human being even when he was younger. He was always self-important. Not that you could totally blame him for being that way. He’s good looking, charming when he wants to be, and his father is—or was—a mover and shaker in state politics. Now that he’s important in his own right, I doubt that his personality will see much improvement. But mentioning that would only make Dad upset enough to debate it with me, which isn’t how I want to spend my time. “Good for him…?”

  “Yes! Exactly! Imagine if you married him and I took his father’s now-vacant seat. There’s going to be a special election.”

  So that’s why he’s calling. I swallow a sigh, irritated and resigned to the fact that he’s never going to change. “I’m sure you can run on your own merits.” I don’t want any part of his bid to win the special election, especially if it requires me to marry Warren Fordham. I don’t want a husband whose main reason for being nice to me is furthering his career.

  “You don’t understand! Chapped Dick is running, and I’ll be damned if I let him beat me!”

  Dick Chapman has been Dad’s rival for years. I have no feelings about the man one way or the other, but in private Dad loves to rage about him all the time.

  “The people whose support I need now don’t know my history. They don’t know how I took care of your mom while she was losing her grip on reality, or how I had to raise you all on my own while grieving the loss of my wife,” he continues. “They need someone they can anchor their sympathy to. You look just like your mom, Erin.”

  I suck in a breath. It’s true, and it’s another thing that adds to my anxiety. What if I got more than just my physical appearance from her?

  “I need you,” he says, more gently now.

  “No, Dad. I can’t abandon David.” I’d rather be homeless in L.A. than to go back to Saintsville, marry Warren Fordham and be a puppet for the two of you.

  “He can get a new coffee fetcher! They’re a dime a dozen anyway. And I bet most of them are better trained and more experienced than you. You didn’t even go to college.”

  I cover my face with a shaking hand as old grief and rage roar through me. I didn’t go because Mom died at the end of my high school sophomore year, and I was struggling with grief and depression of my own. I couldn’t go to therapy, of course, because Dad didn’t think it’d look good—people might think I was becoming like Mom. Once Dad shared what the doctor told him about Mom’s mental health and how it’s in my genes, it seemed pointless to spend all that money and time.

  “But see, honey, that be
comes a plus if you marry Warren. Voters don’t like women who are too educated. They seem…mouthy. You want to be pretty and likable, which you can manage very well. And your sympathy factor would be off the charts.”

  And of course voters would think highly of men like my dad and my husband, men who are honorable enough to stay committed to someone like me.

  A painful, throbbing ache starts deep in my chest. How can he still have the power to hurt me with the same old thing? Why am I not immune yet? I hate myself for feeling the pain. I should’ve developed a tougher skin by now.

  “I gotta go,” I say, feeling more deflated than a slashed tire.

  “Warren is the man for you,” Dad says, speaking more quickly. “You have no one. No siblings. Nothing.”

  Sudden fury blazes within me. How can my own father talk like this every time we’re on the phone? Like I don’t matter. Like nobody’s going to miss me or feel sad when I’m gone.

  Somebody’s going to miss me…like…like…

  I rack my brain. David! He likes my work. He told me so during our annual performance review last year. But saying that my boss will miss me because I was a good assistant sounds pathetic. So I opt for the next best thing. “Actually, I have a date with my boyfriend, so I’m afraid Warren may not be the man for me.”

  “A boyfriend?” Dad’s voice is torn between disbelief and outrage. “Who—”

  “Gotta go. Bye.”

  I hang up and count to one hundred, breathing slowly. Gradually, my hands stop shaking, and I no longer feel like my chest is about to explode with fear, rage and helplessness. I close my eyes for a few moments, trying to imagine swans gliding across a placid lake, then return to the training. Contrary to what I told Dad, I don’t have a hot date with anybody except this online course.

  But about ten percent of my focus is on something else: now I’m going to have to find a date photo I can doctor to post on Instagram.