by Peyton Banks
“Damn fruits and nuts,” Andrew the elder says under his breath before taking a sip of his whiskey.
Baxter takes a sip too. I drink a little of my tea, studying their family dynamics. What had happened to these people? They are worse than strangers. How had Baxter survived his childhood? I want to roll my eyes as I remember how hurt and broken he’d been when we met.
“We didn’t get together until I moved out here,” I say, hoping to answer questions before they come at me.
“When was that?” Lucinda asks.
“It was last year,” Baxter supplies in a rush.
I turn to stare at him. How long has he been lying to his parents? Did they think we’d been dating for a year? And if we’d been together for a year, why didn’t his parents know my name?
Andrew, the elder, takes another sip of whiskey and so does Baxter. Was Baxter only drinking when his dad drinks? Holy crap, this is all sorts of co-dependency bad.
I take a long drink from my tea, wondering how long I have to pretend to be Baxter’s woman. Will this be limited to tonight or will I have to keep this up for the weekend?
“We’ll be taking dinner at eight,” Lucinda says.
“Should give you time to change into real clothes,” his dad snips.
Bristling, I’m ready to tell him they were real, and that I design my own clothes, but I didn’t want them knowing anything about me. They had no right to the information. Instead, I give a weak smile and nod. Uncomfortable backing down, I sip my tea, really wishing I’d ordered a martini.
J senior finishes his drink, tosses two twenties on the table, and takes off. Lucinda uses her superpower and swallows the rest of her drink. Frat boys didn’t drink that fast, much less aging debutants but Lucinda had skills.
Alone with Baxter, I stare after his parents, not at all surprised when he slams the rest of his drink. Baxter shudders and coughs twice.
I turn to him, half wishing I’d ignored his call. “Your parents are—”
“Shitty?” He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.
“I was going to say interesting.”
Baxter stands, holding out his hand to me. I know my mouth is hanging open.
“I’m gonna need an explanation.”
Baxter sighs. “We only have an hour.”
“Wait, you’re expecting me to come to dinner with you?”
The way he looks at me and blinks makes me shiver. His eyes have always been able to hold me. Why we didn’t jump each other’s bones in school, I don’t know.
I drink the last sip of my tea, wondering how my life has come to this? Why am I standing in a bar with a man who doesn’t really know me, contemplating going to dinner with people who I know don’t like me, wondering if I'd gotten with Baxter in college would his parents have forbidden our relationship and then thinking I wouldn't have minded if they had?
“I need more if you expect me to go to dinner with you.” It looks like he is about to sigh again. I hold up my hand, stopping him. “No, no more sighing. Just tell me everything.”
“I…um, they expect—”
“First, did you tell them you were engaged to me?”
“No, there was—” Baxter glances around, his face blanking.
I look over my shoulder. Four strangers are at the table behind us, and it seems like they’re listening to our conversation. Baxter takes my hand, tugging me toward the exit. His touch feels good, familiar. Like my hand belongs in his. I try to pull away, but he holds on.
“Please, we need to hurry. You have to change. You can’t wear what you’re wearing to the place we’re going.”
“What?”
“Listen, I’m not going to—I don’t mind what you’re wearing right now, but this place is formal, or more formal than a bar.”
I roll my eyes. I hate this feeling. “I have my dress from work. So we have enough time for you to talk.” I let my bag fall off my shoulder and pat it. Okay, the dress may have wrinkles, but it will be fine—hopefully. My supplies from the gym are with me too. I can totally make myself over before dinner with J and L—I’d shortened their names because I was tired of their BS.
“Fine, but I can’t have this conversation here. There are too many people.”
I lift a brow and wait for him to say more. His lips thin and he turns. I follow, knowing I’ll regret it later.
Memories from our past hit me full force as we walk together. In college, he’d convinced me to go to dinner with our friends at this trendy lights-out place. I’d been hesitant but gone along, thinking it would be an experience.
We'd been led single file into the restaurant, holding each other's hands. The evening had started okay until someone spilled a freezing cold, sweet alcoholic beverage down my shirt. I'd shrieked and jumped up. What else was I supposed to do? When I'd jumped out of my seat, I'd bumped into someone which caused me to turn, but my foot caught, and I grabbed onto Baxter.
Somehow, Baxter punched me. I later learned he'd been reaching out to grab me but failed. I flew backward, landing in the lap of another diner, which wouldn't have been bad, but for some unknown reason, the guy had his dick out, and my hand landed right on his cock. I’d shrieked again, and the lights came on. To my horror, I was still holding the guy's dick and everyone had seen me feeling him up. At that moment, maybe it was the excitement of someone actually touching him, he came right on my hand. It was gross. I almost threw up…okay, I did throw up. Right on his dick. But he deserved it.
I really hope tonight wasn’t going to be like that. I roll my eyes and then tune into where we are. We cross Madison Avenue, walking at breakneck speed. “Where are we going?”
“My place isn’t far,” Baxter says over his shoulder.
We keep moving, him pulling me behind, me trailing like an untrained dog on a lead. After we cross Lexington, I dig my heels in.
He glances back, his lips turn down in a deep frown. “We don’t have time.”
“This is taking too long. You say we only have an hour. Let’s hop on a bus or something.”
Baxter looks up the street and steps out into the flow of traffic, raising his hand. A cab pulls to the side and we get in. Baxter gives directions while we sit in the back. The air between us is uncomfortable. I wish I’d not answered the phone when he’d called, but long ago, we’d been friends and I wanted to make sure he was okay. I’m fairly certain he’s not.
The taxi stops, and we get out. The area is nice, about as nice as the west side where I call home.
Baxter calls out to two of the residents as we head in. They wave but give him a weird look and a half wave. I'm not his fiancée or girlfriend, and it's obvious unless his ex was black. I might have lighter skin, but I would never be mistaken for a white woman.
They probably think he's cheating. I don't want their looks to be because of my skin. I'd fought my way, putting up with more than other designers, proving time and time again I wasn't just some idiot trying to catch a ride based on my skin color. I was good at what I did. Eventually, people paid attention because of my designs and not my skin tone.
Once in his apartment, which is a one bedroom, lots of light, good furniture, but stark in comparison to my place, he goes for the fridge and grabs a beer.
“Why did you get a whiskey at the bar?”
Baxter’s forehead crinkles and he shakes his head. “What?”
“You ordered a whiskey. You hate whiskey.”
His face blanks. “Things change.”
I don’t stop staring at him. I can’t. He’s lying, and I know it. He just doesn’t want to admit the lies. I still need to know what is going on, but I also need to change clothes. I nod my head to the left and lift my brows. “Bathroom?”
His short nod communicates his frustration, maybe a little anger, and something else I'm not liking. In the past, I've ridden an elephant, climbed into bat-infested caves, stared down a pack of hyenas all for the experience. Maybe one day I'll be able to look back and laugh, chalking this up to experie
nce, but I doubt it.
Once in the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. I should walk out. Andrew, or Baxter, or whatever he was calling himself now, wasn’t my problem. I owe him nothing. We have no connection at all, so why was I worried what his parents would do if they found out we really weren’t engaged, and we hadn’t ever dated?
3
Baxter
* * *
Idiot, dumbass, fool are all words that scream through my mind. No way this would work. Heather would rat me out. Maybe not on purpose, but I had no doubt she’d make a mistake, revealing my deception. This hadn’t started as a sham. I’d had a fiancée. Had being the keyword. I was fucked.
The bathroom door opens and Heather steps out. Speechless, I stare at her in awe. Her dress has a pattern I like. Not at all like what my mother would approve of, but it was oddly appealing. My parents would hate this dress. No question, Heather still lives by her own rules. It was one of the things I’d admired about her in college.
“Do you have wine?” Heather asks.
“Red, I think that was your poison back in school. Am I right?”
Her lips curve up, and her eyes sparkle. Time slows as I'm reminded of a much simpler phase in my life. Heather had made me laugh back then. She almost got me to break away from the preconceived notions my family had drilled into me. She'd come close to getting me to live a little more freely. But I'd returned to New York and fell into my family's way. Freedom wasn’t a theory I could entertain while living close to my dad. He didn’t like freedom of expression. Strict guidelines made the world work according to my family.
“You’ve got my number.” Heather winks as she comes over.
I heat and have to glance away before I pour her a glass and she takes a sip, her eyes staying on me as she drinks. I should tell her to go home. My dad isn’t ever going to give me the company. This fake engagement was just another hoop I would jump through that would be followed by another hoop and then another. I pick up my beer, wishing I’d ordered one at the bar. I was slightly tipsy, which I didn’t like this early in the evening.
“Tell me, Baxter, why am I pretending to be your fiancée?”
"It's a very long story, and we only have about twenty minutes before we have to head to the restaurant."
Her brows lift and her lips thin. Back in school, I liked it when she'd chastise me.
“Then you’d better start talking.”
How could I have messed up so much? No doubt, getting engaged to a woman I didn’t know well had been a mistake. We hadn’t been friends, just acquaintances.
“I had a real fiancée. Like, we really were engaged. I hadn’t bought a ring yet, thank God.”
She blinks at me, looking like she thinks I’m stupid. “What happened?”
Heather knew too much about me. Back in school, she’d known my secrets. I’d made the mistake of telling her everything. California had been so far away from this reality where my dad judged everything I did, from the drinks I consumed to the women I dated. When I’d met Sandra, I’d kept her existence hush-hush, until I decided I needed to get my father’s approval so I could take the company. I was ready for the challenge at work, and in my personal life, or so I’d thought.
Heather steps close and puts her hand on my shoulder. I meet her gaze and shiver. “I’m having a hard time remembering to call you Baxter, but I’ll get used to it because now that I’ve met your dad, I can’t call you Andrew. And that nickname your mom calls you, um, no.”
A bubble bursts in my chest and all the anguish and rage, the pain and inadequacies come out in a laugh. “Yeah, don’t call me Andrew.”
“So, your girlfriend or fiancée or whatever she was, what happened?”
I take another drink of beer and turn away from Heather, pain filling me. I can’t face her and let her see how bad it is.
“She called me about five minutes before I called you. I’m sorry. Yes, I’m using you, but I’ll pay you. I’ll give you money, anything you need if you just pretend to be my girlfriend—well, fiancée for another few days, maybe a week.”
She doesn’t say anything so I turn to see her taking a long swig of wine. She sets down the nearly empty glass and shakes her head. Doomed, that’s what I am. Without her help, my dad would figure it all out.
“Please,” I beg. I hadn’t begged anyone for anything in a long time.
“I wasn’t saying no. It’s just, Baxter, when are you going to be yourself? When will you actually decide to be you and not your father’s puppet?”
She understood more than I’d ever given her credit for and that knowledge hits me so hard it almost takes my breath away. If this were some crazy stupid movie where the guy got the girl or the girl got the guy, I'd say we were destined to be together. But real life isn't that way. I can't abandon all I've worked so hard for. My parents held the purse strings and decided what and when and where I would do things for so long I didn't know how to rebel. Maybe, I had gotten an inkling in California, but I'd come back east, and life here was too complicated.
“I can’t, not yet.”
“Just tell them she left.”
If I were sane, that’s what I would do, but my dad already didn’t like me. If I failed at being engaged, he would never allow me to live it down.
“Heather, how many stories did I tell you about my parents?”
She rolls her eyes and then drinks the last of her wine. Why hadn’t I gone back to California?
“Okay, but, Baxter, you know this is me. I’m happy like this. I won’t change for you even just for this one week. My clothes, my tastes, how I wear my hair.” She pauses and lifts an eyebrow. I don’t move a muscle. “I hate what your dad has done to you. I hate how he treats you. The way he’s caused you to doubt yourself, it’s terrible.”
Hope fills me and I want to hug her. Instead, I hold back. “I just need you to pretend until they leave. For old time’s sake, please.”
She eyes her empty wine glass and her shoulders drop. I know I have her. Then her gaze meets mine and I wonder once again why I didn’t jump on her when I had the chance in college.
“Okay, I’m going to regret it, but I can do that.”
Her words fill me with hope, and I'm about to hug her when the alarm on my phone rings. It's show time. I pull my phone from my pocket and see I have a text from my mother.
“What’s up?” Heather asks.
“She thinks I should make sure you wear appropriate clothing to tonight’s dinner.”
Heather’s chin drops and her eyes go hard. “What? Appropriate clothing? What the heck does that mean?”
I sigh. Heather has everything to give me hell. I can’t believe I’d offered to pay her, and now my mom was being a fool. “Ignore her.”
Heather’s hand tightens on my arm. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like your mother.”
I grimace because what else can I do. "Funny, she has always been the nicest one, it's usually my dad who is the asshole."
Heather shakes her head, a frown making her lips turn down sharply. “Okay, let’s go. But I’m heading home from the restaurant so I have to take my bag.”
“It’s fine. I’ll keep up with it. Don’t worry. I have you covered.”
When we’d been at Stanford, Heather impressed me with how unconventional she was. She didn’t follow the rules. She was exactly the opposite of what my parents would want for me. When I’d met Sandra, I knew she would appeal to my mother and father. She had no originality, nothing I thought special. Maybe that’s what kept me from falling in love with her. Sure, I’d been engaged, but I didn’t love her. Heather was different. When she left, and she would leave, my mom and dad would welcome whatever woman I chose next which made me sad. They would never admit they hated she was black, but I saw it in their eyes.
Heather wasn’t my girlfriend, but maybe someone like her should be what I’m looking for. I didn't like her just because of her differences, I liked her because she was kind. Her heart and soul were pure and loving. In m
y family, our souls weren't good.
A light rain fell, turning the pavement slick. On the way to the restaurant, two cars almost hit the Uber we were in. Heather grabs on tight to my arm and doesn’t let go until we’re standing on the sidewalk. We both laugh a little as the car takes off.
“That was crazy,” Heather quips.
“Totally.”
We step into the restaurant and my mom's gaze travels down Heather's dress. The curl of my mom's nose is unmistakable. I was going to say something, but Heather steps forward and takes my mother's hand. Her smile is so bright it's nearly blinding.
“Lucinda, it’s so nice to see you again. I’m glad we get to eat dinner together.”
The look my mom gives me is a mix of bewilderment and annoyance. I want to laugh. My mom wasn’t used to people being open and real like Heather was. Mom’s friends were fake and full of shit. Heather was sweet and down to earth. Maybe she was being too sweet. Nothing my mom or dad said threw her off her game. But when we stand to leave the restaurant and my parents aren’t looking at her, I see her face fall. I can’t let her go home alone, not after seeing the despair—maybe that wasn’t the right word—on her face.
My parents’ apartment is only two blocks away so we say our goodbyes. My mom doesn’t make any noise about us coming over, and I don’t offer to walk them home. But I do turn to Heather, catching her frown.
“I’ll call an Uber.” I want to reach out and hug her, but I keep my hands to myself since she seems skittish.
She gives her head a short shake. “No need. I can take the subway.”
I don’t like the idea of her taking the subway alone. Saying so would probably get me an earful from her, so I keep quiet. But I’m not allowing her to travel home alone. She may not be my real fiancée, but I care for her. “I’ll go with you.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m perfectly—”
“Capable?”
She plants her hands on her hips. Now I’ve angered the beast. A thrill races through me. “What, you doubt my capability?”
Her question turns me on. I want to pull her into my arms and go all caveman on her. I’m not usually like that. With Sandra, I knew she would be safe because she only took town cars or Uber. Heather would skip into a subway station with no cares on her mind…well, maybe she wouldn’t do that, but she would face danger head-on. That scares me.
