My Fake Fiance´

by Banks, R. R.

  I just need some time and space to clear my head. I acted like a crazed maniac back there. After overhearing Miles and his bullshit, and already being so tightly wound up about it, I just – snapped. I knew going in there was a possibility it wasn't going to end up the way I wanted it to go. I knew there was a chance he wouldn’t want children – or children with me.

  But, hearing him talk about it in such a cold, callous way – it cut me deeper than I ever imagined it would.

  So, after having my heart shattered and my entire world reduced to nothing more than a smoking heap of smoldering ash, I packed up some things, turned off my phone, got in the car, and just drove. I had no plan and no real direction – I just knew I needed to get out of L.A. and as far away from Miles as I possibly could.

  I guess I drove in a haze for the first part of my journey, because at some point, I realized I was heading home. As if on auto-pilot, I pointed my car north and just drove. The trip took about twenty-four hours when all was said and done, and when I finally walked through the front door, I was exhausted. But at least there is now some much needed distance between me and Miles.

  The best part is that he doesn't know where I am. I told no one where I was going – not even Rosie – on the off-chance Miles ended up questioning them. They can't lie if they don't know. All I told my friends and roommate was I needed to blow town for a while and that I'd be back some time soon. That's all they needed to know.

  Setting my bag down on the floor, I take off my shoes and quickly strip down. It's late. All I want to do is take a long, hot shower and crawl into bed. Sleeping for about three days straight sounds lovely right about now.

  I hop in the shower and try to let the hot water wash away all of my troubles. After standing beneath the spray for fifteen minutes, I realize it's not working, so I get out and towel off. I throw on my yoga shorts and t-shirt, and decide I'm going straight to sleep. I’ll talk to my mother and sister after sleeping like the dead for at least twelve straight hours. But, when I open the door to the bedroom, I find Sarah sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed. She looks up at me when I walk into the room.

  “I’d like to go to bed, Sarah. Please.”

  She looks at me for a moment, an inscrutable expression on her face. But she crawls off the bed and stands up. Instead of going to the door though, she throws her arms around me and squeezes me tight, surprising the hell out of me. The hug is stiff and awkward, but she seems committed to trying, so I put my arms around her and embrace her back.

  “What is this for?” I ask.

  She steps back, and I see tears shimmering in her eyes. As much as I dislike her most of the time, seeing her in obvious pain like this hurts my heart. Taking her hand, I sit down on the bed and pull her down next to me.

  “What's wrong, Sarah?”

  “Ever since you left – after Thanksgiving – Mom and I have been doing a lot of talking,” she says and looks me square in the eye. “I know, Sasha. I know everything now. I know everything you protected me from when I was growing up.”

  My heart stutters and a torrent of warm, salty tears races down my cheeks. God, I hate being so emotional. But, for the longest time now, I've wanted her to know – hell, I've almost told her myself a few times. Now that I’m seeing what that knowledge is doing to her, and the pain it's causing her, I feel like absolute garbage.

  For so long, I've wanted to strip away the bullshit image she created of our father, to make her stop idolizing the man and educate her on what a monster he really was. But now, there’s almost nothing I wouldn't give to have her ignorant to it all once more.

  It's funny to think about, really. Miles was right about one thing – we may not always get along or like each other, but at the end of the day, she's still my sister. I love her. I never wanted to see her hurting badly like this.

  “I'm so sorry, Sarah,” I say. “I never wanted you to find out.”

  “I'm glad I did,” she says. “It makes me understand things better. It makes me understand you better.”

  We share a look and a small, wan smile. “I wish that understanding didn’t have to make you hurt like this,” I say.

  “I wish I didn't either,” she says. “But it's better that I know, rather than go on believing something that's so blatantly untrue. How he could treat you the way he did? I – I'm so, so sorry, Sash.”

  “It's not your fault,” I say. “It never was your fault. It's all on him. Always has been and always will be.”

  “I'm sorry, Sasha. I've treated you like garbage for so long,” she says. “And the whole time, I had no idea about what you'd gone through. I protected a man who wasn't even remotely worthy and sacrificed my relationship with you – my sister – because of it.”

  Tears streak down her face and I reach up, gently scrubbing them away. I give her a tight smile and squeeze her hand comfortingly.

  “You didn't sacrifice anything,” I say. “I'm here. You're here. We can rebuild our relationship. Together.”

  “I'd like that a lot,” she says softly.

  “I would too,” I say, surprised to discover that I really mean it.

  As we sit there, our fingers interlaced and our emotions running high, I feel at peace about my relationship with my sister for the first time, maybe ever. This is the first time I can recall feeling a warm bond of sisterhood between us. Until now, there has always been a divide between us – our father.

  But now, with the truth out there, that divide has been removed. And now that we find ourselves on the other side of it – together – there is an amazing sense of calm and peace between us. We're sisters, rather than two strangers sharing common parents and the same last name. For the first time, maybe ever, we're seeing each other as real, actual people.

  And I have to say, it feels nice. A welcome respite from the turmoil I've endured over the last few days. It's a damn Christmas miracle – just a little bit early.

  “Why didn't you call to let me know you were coming?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I just needed to get out of L.A. in a hurry,” I say. “Honestly, I didn't even know I was coming here. I just got in the car and drove.”

  She cocks her head and looks at me, a shadow of concern passing across her features.

  “What’s going on?” “Are you – okay?” she asks. “Are you – okay?”

  I let out a long breath. “I don't know, Sarah,” I say. “I really don't know.”

  “What's going on?” she asks. “Talk to me.”

  I turn and face her as a fresh wave of tears stream down my face. My stomach is churning, and my heart stutters drunkenly inside of me. I choke back a sob, determined to regain control over myself and my emotions.

  This time, she’s the one giving me the reassuring squeeze. It's the first time I can actually remember us actually sharing a sister-bonding moment. This whole night has thrown me for a complete loop so far. I'd expected to come here and be on edge the whole time.

  Familiarity may breed contempt, but at least it's familiar.

  The fact that everything's changed, and I don't feel on edge – in fact, I feel a sense of tranquility I’ve never experienced in this house before – is making my head spin. I'm ecstatic about what just happened between Sarah and I, don't get me wrong, but I'm still going to need a minute or two to get adjusted to it.

  And as I sit there, staring into my sister's identical sapphire-colored eyes, I know there's not really a way to broach this news gracefully. There's no sensitive way to put this, so I opt for the blunt, uncomplicated truth.

  “I – I'm pregnant, Sarah,” I say.

  Her eyes widen with unspoken shock as she looks down at my belly, then back up at my face. I already know a barrage of questions are coming my way.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  I nod. “Yeah, the doctor confirmed it for me with a blood test. Some pregnancy hormone.”

  “Sasha, what are you going to do?”

  “Keep it, obviously,” I say. “There's no other op
tion for me.”

  “I don't want this to sound rude but is it your fiancé’s baby?” she asks. “Is it Miles' baby.”

  “Of course, it's Miles' baby,” I say. “Contrary to your long-held belief, I'm not going around Los Angeles and screwing anything that moves and has a dick.”

  “I know that,” she says softly. “I've always known that. I just needed something to bring you down with and that was the only thing I could think of.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why the need to constantly drag me down?”

  “Honestly? I've been horribly jealous of you my whole life,” she says.

  “Jealous of me? Why on earth would you be jealous of me?” I ask. “You're the one with the smarts and career to look forward to. I'm a bartender, a part-time librarian, and a failed science fiction writer – and now I’m pregnant on top of that.”

  She gives me a gentle smile. “You're not a failure,” she says. “The only way you’re going to fail is if you give up. And the Sasha Gates I know will never quit. Not until she's a successful, award-winning writer. Kid or no kid.”

  This time, it's my turn to throw my arms around her and hold her tight. Hearing her say that – it means more to me than I could ever admit. It makes my heart swell with emotion and sends a river of joy coursing through me.

  All my life, I've waited to hear words of support and encouragement like that from her and my mom. I've wanted them to believe in me so badly, it hurt. The fact that they haven't – at least, until now – has always felt like an open wound on my very soul.

  “Not to bring this conversation back to an unpleasant topic, but what does Miles say?” she asks.

  “He doesn't know,” I say. “I ran before I could tell him.”

  “You're kidding me,” she says.

  I shake my head. “That's why I’m here in the first place – I went to tell him, and it went – very badly,” I say. “When everything went down – I just had to get the hell out of there.”

  “But he's the father of your baby, Sash,” she says. “And your fiancé. Surely the two of you can –”

  Fresh tears stream down my face and I stubbornly wipe them away again. Just the mention of his name sends waves of anger and guilt shooting through me – along with a little bit of guilt.

  “Yeah, about that,” I say. “Miles – isn't my fiancé.”

  Sarah shakes her head. “He's not?” she asks. “Then who is he?”

  I blow out a long breath and decide to lay the truth on her. If this is really going to be a new beginning for us, a fresh start, I want it to start from a place of honesty and trust. I don't want to have to keep secrets or hold grudges like I did in the past.

  So, I tell her everything – from conning him at the airport to walking in the door tonight, and everything in between. Through it all, Sarah sits there, listening, her eyes growing wider with each and every sentence of my sordid tale. And when I'm done with my story, she gives me a tight smile and squeezes my hand reassuringly.

  “I can't believe you maced him in the face like that,” she says.

  I look at her closer and realize she’s doing her best to hold back laughter. I can see the intensity of her struggle – which only makes me want to laugh as well. After a few strained seconds, we burst into a fit of howling laughter, crumping forward on the bed, shaking from cackling so hard. I swear, we sound like a couple of teenage girls.

  “I can't believe you faked a fiancé,” she says, amusement coloring her voice. “And a guy you deceived for days at that. You’ve got some serious guts, Sasha.”

  I shrug. “I wanted to get two shrill harpies off my back.”

  Sarah playfully punches me in the arm. “Okay fine, that might be deserved.”

  “Might be?”

  “Let's take this slow. Baby steps,” she says and laughs. “I’m sure in another decade or two, I'll be able to accept some semblance of responsibility.”

  I sigh. “So here I am, pregnant, with a fake fiancé in another state, and no idea what in the hell I'm going to do now. I’m a mess.”

  Sarah gives me a small smile. “Maybe it was just time to come home,” she says softly.

  “Come home?”

  She nods. “Why not? You can stay here and help me take care of Mom and the house. And once the baby is born, you can take classes or get a job. Whatever you want,” she offers. “And hey, you can also write while you're up here. You should probably figure out what you want to do with the next chapter of your life.”

  I nod. What she's saying makes perfect sense. I can't burden Rosie with a baby in our apartment – it's cramped enough as it is. Besides, I'm pretty sure that she's going to be moving in with her boyfriend soon. Personally, I think she would have done it by now if she didn't have to worry about the feasibility of me making ends meet without her.

  From a logical standpoint, coming home makes a lot of sense. And yeah, I can get a job, take classes, and maybe find a stable career path. Something – practical.

  I'm not an idiot. I know if I choose to take this path and move back to Washington, I'll be shutting the door on my aspirations for good. It's going to be hard enough to juggle a potential career with a child anyway. I know my mom will always help – she’s also seemed impatient to have grandbabies.

  But if I take classes and find a job – along with raising a child – it's not going to leave much time for anything else. Oh sure, I'll be able to work on pieces every now and then. But it won't be the same. I won't have large chunks of time to dedicate to my work.

  Maybe it's time for me to grow up and throw away my childish dreams in favor of doing something productive. Practical. Maybe it's time for me to start acting like an adult. I mean, given the fact that I'm having a kid, presumably as a single mom, it's probably a good idea, right?

  God, I really don't want to give up. Not yet. Not until I've made an honest effort to achieve that dream. Not until I've collected enough rejection slips to paper the house – rejection slips are, a badge of honor. It's tangible proof that I'm working toward my dream. Rejection slips suck, of course, but all I need is one ‘yes.’ Just one.

  And with so much garbage floating around on the market today, I like my chances of getting at least one.

  But, with a baby on the way, I might not have much of a choice but to grow up sooner, rather than later.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “I'm so glad you came home for the holidays, Miles,” my mother says. “I was afraid you might skip this year.”

  “I would never miss Christmas with my family,” I say. “I can, however, skip the annual party.”

  “Which is a couple of nights from now,” she says and laughs. “And, since you're here, you know that means your attendance is mandatory.”

  It's a little before midnight. Neal has already gone to bed and Christopher is back at his place – likely curled up with the real Alice Donnelly on this cold evening. That makes me think of Sasha, bringing a weak, listless smile to my face.

  My mother and I are sitting across from each other on the couches in the informal living room. Marina brings in a tray with assorted festive snacks and a couple of steaming mugs of hot cocoa – the same cocoa she used to make when I was a kid – and sets it down on the table between us. It's rich, comforting, and somehow perfect for tonight.

  The oversized fireplace to my left is burning wildly, filling the room with heat. Since all of the lights are off, it’s the only source of illumination in the room, casting its red and orange flickering light on the walls. Well, except for the soft glow and twinkling of the white lights on the sixteen-foot tree in the corner that's completely covered in gaudy Christmas gear.

  It's just the two of us tonight. Once upon a time, my mom and I used to frequently stay up late together, talking until the early hours of the morning. She's a fantastic listener and has always been great with advice. She's helped me work through plenty of problems in my life – no matter how small – and I am more appreciative of her keen insight than I could ever say. I�
��d also like to think I've given her at last some sense of comfort, and maybe even a few sage words of wisdom, over the years.

  It's a tradition I've missed quite a bit with all the emotional turmoil in my life lately. It's something that only the two of us shared – neither Christopher nor Neal ever participated in our late-night chat sessions. Part of me wonders if we'd be closer if they had. Another part of me feels glad they never did. This has become a tradition I hold sacred. Even today.

  My mother looks at me, a troubled expression on her face. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I'm fine.”

  She eyes me critically, as if searching for any hint of truth in my words – but, of course, there is none. I’m lying through my teeth. After speaking with Rosie, I started to become excited about the idea of being a parent – I mean, it appeals in so many different ways – especially because it will be with Sasha. At the same time, the entire situation really freaks me the hell out.

  Not knowing what to do, I called Christopher and asked him to send the company jet to get me. I told him I wanted to come home for the holidays and didn't want to get stuck flying commercial – an entirely believable white lie since everyone knows I hate flying coach. A few hours later, I was en route to SeaTac.

  The truth of the matter is – what I want the most isn’t in L.A. I don't have any idea where Sasha is. I wanted to come home so I could do exactly this – sip hot cocoa while getting my mother’s counsel. If there’s anyone who can cut through the bullshit and give me an unbiased perspective – even if I don’t like or agree with it – it’s my mom. She'll put me in line if needed, but I know she'll also give me the best advice possible.

  Now that I'm sitting here with her, however, I'm having second thoughts. I have my doubts about letting her know about the situation. I mean, how can I tell her the woman I've fallen in love with – the woman carrying my child – is the same woman who conned our family? The same woman who took advantage of my mother's hospitality and lied straight to our faces?