Pretend You're Mine Read online

  I sigh and shake my head. “Let’s go inside and open a bottle of wine first.”

  I toe off my flats as soon as I cross the threshold and hang my purse on the hook by the front door. Each movement deliberately slow to prolong having to confess my actions.

  Averly follows me into my small kitchen, her arms crossed as she impatiently waits for me to speak. I’d bet all my riches, which isn’t much since I renounced a career in politics and chose to teach, that the only reason she agrees to wait is that she’s wine thirsty and knows I can’t multitask. Either I drill the corkscrew into the synthetic cork or I speak, but I can’t do both properly.

  To help speed up the process, she grabs two glasses from the cupboard and places them in front of me. Her inquisitive eyes burn on my face, and the corkscrew goes off to the side, tearing a piece of the cork.

  “Darn,” I mumble and remove it to insert it again. If this is any indication of how I’d be during sex, it’s no wonder I haven’t had any in a long time.

  “Give me that.” She yanks the bottle and corkscrew from my hands, expertly removing the cork and filling the two glasses, all the way to the top. Clearly, she knows we’re going to need hefty amounts of alcohol for this conversation.

  Settled on the couch, I begin to tell her about my run-in with Patrick at the grocery store and how I basically corralled Harris into pretending to be my boyfriend.

  “Wow.” Averly takes a gulp of wine.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s hot, though. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed, which makes this even more awkward.” I drop my head into my hand and squeeze my eyes.

  “What’s your plan after the ball?” Sensible Averly is the yin to my impulse. Or is it yang? Whatever. I shake my head and look at her.

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t believe that. You haven’t had a boyfriend since… college?” Her eyes narrow as her gaze moves from one side to the other, trying to recall the last time I was in a relationship.

  “Yeah, college. You can’t show up with a boyfriend after eight years and expect people to forget about it when the clock strikes midnight. People will talk. This is Everton, after all. With your dad always trying to set you up, it will be an even bigger deal.”

  I start scratching my neck, heat rising.

  “Poppy, people are going to expect to see you and Harris together after the ball. Dinner dates, coffee, shopping. You name it.”

  “I didn’t think this through. I panicked.” I’m panicking right now. I grab my glass and chug the wine down in record time, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Always so ladylike,” Averly comments.

  I burp loudly on purpose to fuel her sarcastic comment.

  “You’re so gross,” she laughs, waving her hand in front of her face.

  “Okay, Harris and I can pretend a little longer, make it seem like we’re really together. Then, we break up, and I’m too heartbroken over the loss for my dad to push me into the arms of someone else.” This sounds like a solid plan.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Am not,” I cross my arms.

  “You will be.” She refills my glass and motions it with her chin.

  “I work tomorrow,” I remind her.

  “Yeah, yeah. Drink up before I ask you the next question.”

  “Oh, crap.” I grab the glass and take a slower sip.

  “Is Harris going to be okay with playing the fake boyfriend and then seeming like an asshole when you say he broke your heart?”

  I gulp. Air, not wine, because I don’t think the wine would help. I cringe when she puts it that way.

  “We can say it was mutual, but I’d still be sad.”

  Averly shakes her head and reaches for my hand. “You just need to stand up to your father and tell him that you’re tired of his bullshit cupid-playing.”

  I shake my head. “No.” Deep down, my dad means well. I know that, but it’s frustrating to hear him talk about this guy or another and not be subtle about it.

  She sighs and releases me, the slight shake of her head and her frown giving away that this plan is flawed.

  “I’ll figure something out. Besides, more than my dad, it’s Patrick that’s being difficult. He really thinks I like him, and I’m playing hard to get.”

  “I can’t stand that guy,” she mumbles, jaw set hard.

  “He’s a douche.” Averly’s eyes widen into saucers. “Don’t look at me like that.” I giggle, the wine starting to take effect.

  “You just said douche,” she points out.

  I shrug. “He deserves it.”

  “You must really be annoyed to curse.”

  “He is borderline stalking me. He only went into the grocery store to follow me. It’s obnoxious,” I explain.

  “I just hope you don’t get hurt.” She reaches over and hugs me. I let her comfort me for a few seconds before pushing her back and smiling, fake like my relationship with Harris.

  “I won’t. This is like a business agreement. We’re both on the same page, and after a few days, we’ll go our separate ways. Well, figuratively because in Everton there’s like one road and everyone’s on it.” I try to joke, but Averly’s pursed lips tell me she hears the false bravery in my humor.

  …

  “Miss Powell?” Stephanie, mid math lesson, is waving her hand in the air. Her strawberry blonde hair is a mess of waves around her face.

  “Yes?” I lift my brows, and the glee in her eyes makes me smile.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “What?” I step back, putting the cap on the dry-erase marker.

  “A boyfriend. Like a boy that’s more than a friend, that you kiss and hold hands with.” The other students giggle.

  Stephanie is too smart for her own good. Being an oops baby after her siblings were mostly grown, her maturity level is way higher than an average first grader.

  “I know what a boyfriend is, but we’re in the middle of math,” I deter the conversation and try to get it back on track with my lesson. Until Frances speaks up.

  “Stephanie said she saw you at Cup-O-Joe with a boy.” Her giggle would make me laugh if we weren’t talking about my love life. With my first-grade class.

  “Okay, let’s get back to work.” I clap my hands and look at the board.

  Behind me, Frances whispers to Stephanie, “I think it is her boyfriend.” The girls laugh until I turn around and scowl. With wide eyes, they sit back in their chairs and look at their books.

  My love life is now the topic of conversation amongst children. As if they didn’t collectively ask me enough times when I’d get married and have babies. When they found out I was thirty, Stephanie yelled, “And you’re not married?!”.

  I love my students, but they’re way too curious about my relationship status, especially for their age. How generations have changed since I was there age. A nostalgic sigh leaves me.

  As I turn around to face them after writing a math problem on the board, I notice most of them have checked out. I hate teaching math after lunch.

  “Okay, brain break,” I call out, and they all cheer together. “Leave your books open to the page you’re on and stand up.”

  I go to my computer, open the saved link with a short pop dance routine, and turn it on. I smile as I watch boys and girls dance and sing to the song, some following the steps the teens on the screen are teaching them, others doing their own thing.

  Leaning back on my desk, I take a few soft breaths and watch my students. I love teaching, being a part of their upbringing and education. Stephanie catches my eyes and does a little scrunched face expression, her freckles dancing on the bridge of her nose, and makes a heart with her fingers and points at me. I roll my eyes and return the scrunched face, making her laugh.

  We get back to work after our short break, hoping they have forgotten all about seeing me with Harris.

  At the end of the day, Stephanie gives me a hug before l
eaving. “If he’s not your boyfriend, I hope he becomes it. He was cute.” Her eyes light up, and she smiles wide.

  “You’re impossible.” I give her a quick hug and send her out the door to the pick-up line.

  I’m collecting my things before leaving work when my phone buzzes on my wooden desk. “Hello?”

  “How dare I find out that you have a boyfriend from someone that is not you?”

  “Hi, Mom, how are you? Good? Oh, great. I’m great, too.” My heart races, and I wipe my free hand down my pants.

  “Don’t try for sarcasm right now, Poppy Anne.” Her voice is calm, but the use of my middle name says she’s anything but.

  I sigh and squeeze my eyes. “How did you find out?” I need to play along. That’s the plan.

  “Your father told me.”

  “What?” I screech.

  “Yes, Patrick told him. He said he ran into you at the grocery store, and you were with your boyfriend.”

  “Ran into me…” I mutter and roll my eyes.

  “You can imagine your daddy’s surprise to hear about it at work instead of from his little girl.”

  “Mom,” I try to placate her, but she cuts me off.

  “So, who is this young man? When will we meet him? What’s his name?” She shoots off questions faster than the barrel of an automatic.

  “Slow down. I’m leaving work. Can I call you right back?” I don’t want to have this conversation sitting at my desk. For all I know, the walls are eavesdropping and will spill every detail of my relationship to my students when they walk in tomorrow morning.

  “If you don’t call me back in five, expect me to call.”

  “Wouldn’t expect anything less.” I hang up and slide halfway down my chair. Stupid Patrick. Although, it’s best for my parents to know now instead of on Saturday when Harris shows up to pick me up. I would’ve told them beforehand anyway. Probably. Maybe. Yeah, for sure, I would have.

  As soon as I’m in my car, I call my mom back. No greeting, she goes straight to repeating the questions. I tell her about Harris, who he is, and how we met, sticking to the story Harris came up with about the beef jerky.

  “You’ll meet him on Saturday. He’ll be picking me up for the ball.”

  “How long have you been in a relationship with him?”

  I freeze because I didn’t think about this question, though it’s a common one. “Um, a few weeks. Not too long. It’s still pretty new, which is why I hadn’t said anything yet.” I stumble over my words.

  “Well, I look forward to meeting him this weekend. From what my sources say, he’s a driven young man.” I snort, knowing my mom’s sources include everyone in town. There’s not one person she doesn’t contact when she wants information about something. And by information, I mean gossip. But don’t you dare tell her she’s a gossip or she’d blacklist you. According to my mother, the information she seeks is research, part of her role as the mayor’s wife.

  “Yep. Anyway, I gotta go.” I stare at my phone after the third buzz against my earlobe. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  “Why don’t you come to dinner on Friday and bring Harris.”

  “Mom,” I sigh. “You’ll be way too busy overlooking the final details for the ball.”

  “I guess you’re right,” she deflates but lets it go.

  I love my parents, I really do. I hate their overbearing and insertion into my private life.

  I guess I can’t blame them, though. It’s part of being an only child. If I had a sibling to share the attention with, maybe they wouldn’t be on my case. My mom had many miscarriages both before having me and after. She always wanted a big family, and well, she got stuck with a party of three, which is why I’m so set on being the perfect daughter.

  I check my messages before pulling out of the school parking lot.

  Harris: Hey, what’s your favorite movie?

  Harris: Do you have a pet?

  Harris: Sorry, another ques popped in my head. Do you like to dance?

  My eyes narrow as I read his messages and chew on my bottom lip. I start typing, then delete. Retype my responses, and read them over. Delete. Retype. Ugh. Just write the answers, Poppy.

  Poppy: Fave movie is any hallmark romance movie. I don’t have a pet and I like to dance though i’m terrible at it

  I wait for his reply, wondering if I should ask him questions as well. I’ve gone over the paper of notes he gave me two days ago when we were at Cup-O-Joe.

  Harris: I’m a great dancer

  Poppy: Okay…

  Poppy: My parents know baout us. Patrick spilled the beans

  I type out and hit send before I can regret it. Then, I catch my typo and groan.

  Poppy: I meant about

  Harris might as well know what’s going on. Business deal. I remind myself. He needs all the facts, the same way I do.

  Harris: Well that’s one less thing to worry about

  I think about what Averly said the other night about people expecting to see Harris and me together after our “coming out” at the ball. I should bring that up, but I’m anxious to get home, and my lip is about to bleed from torturing it with my teeth.

  Poppy

  Somehow between going home and taking a shower and planning a quiet evening with leftover pasta, I end up at Clarke’s, the most popular bar and restaurant in Everton, sitting next to Harris at the bar. Apparently, he thought we needed to square away the final details before the ball.

  “Seems like our relationship has been the chatter around town,” Harris leans in so only I can hear him.

  “I blame my mother. She heard from my father who heard from Patrick that I had a boyfriend. If I know my mom, she called up the town busybodies knowing they’d spread the word faster than hay catches fire.”

  Harris chuckles and lifts his beer bottle to his lips, pausing right before he takes a drink. “I’ve never lived anywhere that gave more importance to other people’s business than their own.”

  “Welcome to Everton.” I roll my eyes and drink my wine.

  His chuckle carries over to me. Harris is handsome, that’s an obvious observation to anyone with a pair of eyes and a heartbeat. His baby blues are captivating. However, spending time with him as we prepare for the biggest role I’ll ever play—fake girlfriend of the year—has also given me a glimpse into a man who is laid-back, kind, and hassle-free.

  “It’s a unique place, for sure. Anyway, I’ll pick you up at six on Saturday. Unless you need me to get there earlier.”

  “Six is perfect.” I spin the wine glass by the stem as I collect my thoughts. It almost tips over, but I catch it in time before it makes a mess on the bar top. “Anyway…” I’m not sure how to say this next. Considering I was the one with this genius plan, you’d think I could be more assertive.

  “I know we are supposed to do this for one night, but people are already talking, and if they don’t see us together after the ball then they may catch on that something’s not right, and then they’ll see it was all a lie, and they’ll tell my dad and he’ll know the truth and I’ll marry Patrick and be stuck in marriage hell for the rest of my life.” I inhale deeply. Jeez, that may be the longest run-on sentence in the history of run-ons. Not to mention, the word vomit didn’t help.

  Harris looks at me with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. His silence stretches around us, my heartbeat echoing in my ears as I wait for some kind of reaction from him.

  I almost laugh at my own ridiculousness. I let my nerves get the best of me and spit out nonsense.

  “I can just… I’ll make something up. I don’t want to take any more of your time. I’m sure the last thing you need is some crazy woman forcing you to hang out with her.”

  I turn a bit on my stool, looking at the neatly stacked bottles behind the bar. My neck burns and itches, the blush betraying my coolness. Okay, let’s be real. The blush doesn’t need to betray my coolness. I’m simply not cool. I’m a mess. A panicked mess that can’t make proper decisions.

&nbs
p; Or stand up to her father.

  I shake my head and finish my wine.

  When Harris clears his throat, I look at him with a tight smile as if I were indifferent to what he’s about to say next. I’m not, in case that wasn’t obvious.

  “Poppy.” Here we go. He’s going to lay me down easy. I’d rather he rip the band-aid off all at once instead of slowly pulling it. It’s more painful, and embarrassing, that way.

  “Hey.” He taps my shoulder so I can look at him. When I face him, his head is tilted, eyeing me. “It’s okay. I can help you out. What’s a few more days?” He shrugs as if this whole thing weren’t a bother.

  “You don’t have to, really. I can’t believe I’m even asking you this. I don’t even know you. Well, I kinda know you now, but you’re essentially a stranger. For all I know, you partake in fake relationships all the time to lure in your victims, and next thing I know, you’ll have me over for dinner and feed me your other victims’ flesh a la Hannibal Lecter.”

  “Flesh-eating isn’t my thing,” he shrugs. “I prefer jerky.”

  “You probably make jerky out of their flesh.” I make a gagging sound.

  “Too much work.” He shakes his head.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “You came to me. Maybe you’re the perpetrator, and I’m the victim, and you’re using reverse psychology.”

  “Maybe,” I shrug. “You’ll never know until it’s too late.” I taunt, widening my eyes before I burst into laughter. “I’m only kidding. Swear it.” I lift my hands in surrender as a peace offering.

  When the bartender asks if we want another one, I nod before Harris can respond.

  “Is getting me drunk part of your criminal plan?” He leans in, his breath tickling my cheek.

  “Pffttt…” I roll my eyes to give myself some time to hide my shiver and turn. “Two beers is hardly enough to get you drunk. You’re like what, six feet?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Okay, so you’re really not annoyed by this?” It comes out as a question, my eyebrows pulling together.

  “Nah, I’ll help you out of this. However, I’ll give you one piece of advice.” I nod once. “You gotta do what makes you happy, and that includes being honest with the people you love. If not, you’ll grow to resent them.” His face grows serious for a second, a contrast to the Harris I’ve spent time with.