Page 19 of The Fake Dating War

“They don’t need to help.”

My brothers aren’t much younger than me, but they’ve got their own projects going on. “If I can’t handle it, I’ll ask them for help.”

For the time being, I can pull it off. And sure, it will eat up most of my investments to do this, but there’s a bonus coming my way that’s going to ease everything.

“We’re lucky,” I tell my mother. “Joe says the owners are motivated to sell it back to us. If they weren’t so nostalgic, the house would have a bidding war over it.” I drain the rest of my coffee, a bitter taste joining this other bitterness that lives inside me. “Guess dad left an impression on them all those years ago. Good for him.”

“You need to forgive him, Jake.”

This is an old argument. One I don’t have time for today. Not when he’s the reason my mother is in this position in the first place.

At my lack of reaction to her statement, my mother sighs. She goes back to trying to understand the paperwork. Her eyes crawl between each word. I feel my mouth curve at her concentration, and then I can’t help but grin when she notices me watching and lets out a snore.

“Call Joe,” I say. “You like his explanations better than mine.”

“That’s because despite being a lawyer, he uses pretty metaphors. You are more…”

“Literal?”

“Fact-y.”

Facts give you answers. Almost always they do, except I haven’t solved this mystery. I’ve gone through all our old documents a hundred times, and I still don’t understand why my father sold the house in the first place all those years ago. No amount of spreadsheet crunching tells the truth. It Does Not Make Sense.

The current owners don’t know the reason either. They only have a vague recollection of the original arrangement. The house would be under their name, and they would continue to rent it out to us indefinitely…

Except nothing lasts forever. The owners now want to sell. They know how much the property is worth. Enough for them to cash-out and live overseas.

“I’ll ask Joe,” my mother decides, eagerly shutting the file. “Now, tell me. When are you going to come visit me?”

“I was there two weeks ago.”

“We had tea outside. You didn’t stay the night.”

“I spent the night last Thanksgiving.”

“In the guesthouse. You didn’t stay in the main house. You haven’t since your father passed away.”

I love her, but I don’t want to talk about that. I watch as the cafe gets another customer. It’s a student hauling an oversized backpack. You can barely see her behind the weight she’s carrying. Automatically, my brain goes to Patel. It’s the loosest connecting thread, but apparently all I need. Why did she pass out? Her hands were shaking.

I saw her shovel that granola bar into her mouth in the car. Was she hungry? Why was she so hungry? Watching her, I couldn’t move. I should have moved.

“You’re tired today, darling. Everything okay?”

I’m called back to the present. My mother’s concern is obvious.

“I didn’t sleep well,” I tell her honestly.

It’s hard to let go of leftover adrenaline. My pulse had shot up when she fell. Thank fuck I caught her, otherwise she’d have knocked her head and extended our night into further unpleasantness. Not that I didn’t try carrying her to the hospital.

Again, doesn’t she fucking eat? I don’t know. We don’t take lunch together, and she’s back so fast, I wonder how much she even consumes.

“What kept you up late?” my mother asks. “You’re not worrying about the house sale, are you?”

If I say yes, she’s going to push downsizing again. Yes, there is nothing wrong with downsizing, but my mother has been through enough. I’m not letting that happen to her.

“It has nothing to do with the house,” I say. “Like I said, it’s going to be ours. You have nothing to be concerned about.”

She fidgets with her hands. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”

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