Page 43 of Lie With Me

“Mom hasn’t said a word to me about it.”

Her sigh is audibly aggravated. “She wants to talk about the engagement party. Can’t we just do dinner in town?”

My phone dings as a message comes in from my mother.

Your father and I expect you for dinner tomorrow night at our place. I already extended an invitation to Valentina. I’m making pot roast.

“How do you feel about pot roast? It’s Mom’s specialty.” I keep my tone light to balance out Lenni’s annoyance.

“Tripp, I really don’t want to go. This weekend…it’s not a good time.”

My hackles rise. Earlier thoughts of whether she’s being faithful to our agreement or not resurfacing in an instant. “Viv, this is kind of part of the deal.”

“I don’t want to!” Her tone is whiny and hysteric, and though we haven’t known each other long, I know it’s nother.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Concern bleeds through me. Rising to my feet, I pack my stuff up, the intention of going to her place at the forefront of my mind when I stop and realize I have no idea where she lives.

“It’s shark week,” she grumbles.

Huh?

“Shark Week? No, that’s in the summer.” I would know. I love Shark Week.

“Stupid man. Shark week? Carrie? Bloody Mary? The Red Wedding? THAT TIME OF THE MONTH!” By the time she’s finished yelling, I’m holding the phone nearly a foot from my ear.

“I sympathize with you and promise to keep her on a tight leash. Wouldn’t a home-cooked meal be nice, though? You don’t even have to be polite if you don’t want to be. We can blame it onshark week.I promise to fully support whatever attitude you want to bring.”

“My emotions are all over the place this month, and day two, which is tomorrow, is usually the worst. Ergo, not the best time to deal with your mom.” She lets out a big sigh. “But a home-cooked mealdoessound nice.”

“Great! You didn’t answer me before. How do you feel about pot roast?” Switching off the light to my office, I realize the cubicles are all empty. I’m one of the last people working tonight…again. Everyone else has somewhere to be or something to do on a Friday night, and here I am, arguing with my fake-fiancée about periods and pot roast.

“I have a love-hate relationship with pot roast. I love the way it tastes, but I hate how fatty it is. It wouldn’t taste the way it does without the fat, but it’s a texture thing. It bothers me. Slimy, chewy, gross pieces that completely disturb the meaty burst of flavor, and then you have to interrupt your bite to fish out a gross blob of sludgy goo from your mouth. But it’s still attached to good roasty bits, so then you have to attempt to separate them with your tongue and your fingers, and the whole thing becomes a mess.” She takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with air after her run-on sentence. It reminds me a lot of myself when discussing something I love or hate.

“Ooookay. So, no pot roast for you.” I laugh.

“No, I didn’t say that. I love pot roast,” she sputters.

“So, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at four?”

Silence.

I watch the numbers on the elevator ascend while I wait for her to answer, pulling the phone away to check that she hasn’t hung up. “Viv?”

“I’ll be at your place at four.”

As much as it makes me curious why she wouldn’t want me to see where she lives, I curb my inquisitive tendencies and nod even though she can’t see it. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you then.” She sounds reluctant, but I don’t push my luck and say anything that can be viewed asbeingtoopositive. Women don’t like that during that time of the month if they are in a bad mood.

When I reach street level, the night air holds that wet, cold chill that promises snow soon. The kind that makes you want to curl up in front of the fire with your loved one and a stiff drink, just spending time together while you watch the flakes drift down.

It was one of my favorite things to do in the winter—when Emily and I were together, and I had someone to cuddle up with.

“Home, sir?” my driver interrupts my thoughts as he opens the car door for me.

“One stop, then home. The soon-to-be Mrs. isn’t feeling that well.”

I know I need to pump the brakes on my eagerness for her to be mine for real, butfakefiancée or not, I want Lenni to know she can rely on me.

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