Fake Fiancée

She also said she had something to tell me, but she wanted to do it in person. I already knew what it was, but for the life of me, I couldn’t ask her about it.

I went to my room and pulled the blue and pink packaging from my nightstand drawer and stared down at it. It was wrinkled and dented from the nights I’d cradled it in my hands. I’d been wrestling with what it meant since I’d found it in her house on Sunday after the game. She’d called and asked me to use the key she’d given me after the daisy incident to double check her lights and locks because she’d left in such a hurry.

She’d left the light on in the bathroom, and I found the empty box—with no test strip. Of course, she’d probably taken it with her.

I came out of the bedroom and headed to the kitchen to eat some of the catered food my dad had sent over. Our countertops and kitchen table were covered in sandwiches, fancy deli meats, dips, chips, and a plethora of other snacks. Two kegs were outside by the fire pit, also courtesy of my dad, just waiting for guests to show up later when we had our party that Tate insisted on.

Dad had even bought us a new eighty-inch big screen TV. Two guys had arrived this morning and set it up outside under the covered porch, so we’d have plenty of room for the players, coaches, and anyone else we wanted to watch the live show in the backyard.

Yeah. My dad was trying.

Buying me things wasn’t going to make a difference, yet we’d had a slight bonding moment when he’d gone to the police department with me. Just today he’d called to let me know that the police had sought out an interview with Bianca, but she’d left school unexpectedly. Bullshit. She just hadn’t wanted to squeal on Felix. He’d probably gotten to her and convinced her to keep her mouth shut. She wasn’t a reliable witness.

On the other hand, Cyndi and Felix had been questioned by the police, but according to my dad’s contacts, they’d denied any involvement in the library incident. As of now, everything we had was hearsay. Whatever. I wasn’t going to worry about it. Not today. Somehow, someway, Felix would fuck up.

As for my dad, it would take time and a shit ton of patience to build a relationship with him. Anything was possible, I guess.

“When does Sunny get here?” Tate asked from the kitchen where he was cramming pepperonis in his mouth. “I hope she makes the show.”

I grinned. “Tonight. You gonna string more lights up for her?”

Dude had gone nuts on the decorating, even calling some of his favorite groupies to come over and help him get the backyard situated like he wanted. Tiger football banners, twinkling lights, and an assortment of tables and chairs now dotted the area.

“Maybe,” he chuckled. “I didn’t think we’d get it done in time, but it looks great. I’m glad the weather warmed up.” He made a funny face. “Bloody hell, I’m a good decorator.”

I agreed.

A few hours later, the house was packed. About fifty people, most of them players and coaches, roamed around the den and outside. I got nervous, watching all the smiling faces as they came in the door. If I didn’t get a nod as a candidate, I’d be embarrassed while everyone watched.

I drank another beer and waited, my eyes bouncing to the bay window every few minutes so I could see if Sunny had arrived. I rechecked my phone. The last call I’d gotten from her had been two hours ago when they’d stopped for gas.

“Ten minutes ‘til show time, folks. Time to head outside,” Tate called.

Following him, we went outside where people crowded around the big screen. Tate turned up the television with the remote, pulled Kiki down onto his lap, and sent me an excited smirk. “It’s on, mate!”

The swing of headlights came from across the street just as the announcers came on inside the New York Athletic Club. A well-dressed sports anchor began the show. “Welcome to the live coverage of the Heisman finalists where five players will be chosen to represent the best of the best in college football. In one week, one of those five will hold the golden trophy . . .”

“Where you going?” Tate called as I stood to walk to the edge of the yard. “You’re gonna miss it!”

I waved him off, checking to see if I saw the Camry.

It was her. She’d gotten out of her car, and I watched her slim figure open her trunk to pull out her overnight bag. She wrestled with it, finally freeing it, and then pulled it to the sidewalk that led to her steps. She glanced up and our gazed locked.

My heart jumped.

My hands shook.

My body hummed at the thought of seeing her again.

I pushed the gate open that led to the front of the house and walked over to her.

Sunny

WE FINALLY ARRIVED IN ATLANTA.

I dropped an exhausted Mimi off at her apartment. After carrying in her things and walking through her place to make sure all was well, I gave her a hug and thanked her for being with me for the trip.

She cupped my face with wrinkled hands and kissed me on the forehead. “It meant everything to me. Being with you. Seeing your mama’s grave. You handled yourself like a lady, hon. I’m proud of you.”

I nodded, my throat clogged, recalling the visit.

Leaving Mimi at a hotel, I’d headed up the curvy road to his house, my head in jumbles, not knowing what to expect.

What I got when I walked in the door was a host of memories—good and bad.

Walks in the woods. Happy times around the piano. Family dinners.

Then my mom left us and everything changed.

The house reeked of loneliness, and I wasn’t surprised. After my mom, he’d never even glanced at another woman.

He lay reclined on a hospital bed, sleeping from his medication, his face and body shrunken. I knelt down next to him and waited for him to wake.

His eyes opened at two in the morning. With a slight turn of his head, his gaze found mine.

At once, I was glad I came.

Because no matter his demons and the darkness they’d caused, he was my father.

I hadn’t known how it would feel to look at him again.

But I had no hate for him. How could I? That emotion was too destructive. Too ugly.

And I wouldn’t allow it to be part of who I was.

I was saying goodbye and I was going to mean it.

He wasn’t able to speak. Instead he pulled his thin hand out from the covers and showed me a crumpled postcard. His eyes were tremulous and watery, pleading with me.

Feeling confused, I took it, flipping it over to read. Scrawled in my sloppy nine-year-old handwriting was a card I’d dropped in the mail to him from summer camp, a sappy little message from a daughter that told her daddy how much she missed him.

So long ago when we’d been a real family.

And he’d kept it.

My stomach clenched.

Stunned. That’s how I felt.

“I forgive you,” I said, my heart aching.

For him. For me.

For a family that had cracked right down the middle.

Relief flooded his face as if a burden had been lifted. He closed his eyes and wept.

The rest was a blur. He’d passed a few hours later. I sat with him alongside my cousin who’d been caring for him and a hospice nurse.

Mimi’s voice brought me back.

“You going to talk to Max, right?” she asked as I made my way out the door. “He loves you, ya know. I see it. Only one man ever looked at me the way he does you and that was my husband.”

“Of course. Now get some rest.” I waved goodbye, got in my car, and drove home.

And now there he was—coming across the street, looking ridiculously gorgeous in jeans and a black T-shirt. His hair flowed around his shoulders. My Viking.