Page 25 of Just My Fake Husband

I had caught a glimpse of his long, effortless strides. And entertaining memories of them is a nice diversion from my own intrusive thoughts about my incapacity to take care of my sister. I make my way to Fifth Street. Soon, I see Skye up ahead, barefoot, in a tank top and her Hello Kitty pajama bottoms.

She’s cradling Lunch Lady Liz to her, who looks a little uncomfortable. I’ve got to break Skye of the habit of carrying the dog everywhere.

“Gabriel found me and Lunch Lady Liz.”

At Skye’s calm, wide grin, anger boils up inside of me. “Skye!” I know, logically, that I shouldn’t be angry with her, but I’m on a train to I-don’t-care-ville and it’s not stopping anytime soon. “I’ve been calling you and looking everywhere for you. I told you to stay at the house!” I scrub my face to move my errant strands of hair. “I told you I’d be back home in ten minutes and I was.” My glance darts to Gabriel. “He got me here before the ten minutes were up, but you were long gone! You can’t do that, Skye.”

I start to entertain the thought that I should rein it in. She doesn’t understand. I can’t be mad at her. But the relief of finding her safe made every emotion I have bubble over.

I’ve hurt her feelings, though, and she starts to cry.

“You can’t yell!” She yells at me. She starts bouncing up and down and patting poor Lunch Lady Liz’s back, like she’s holding a baby. Her tears drip down her face.

“Come here,” I whisper as I gather her in my arms. I smell peanut butter, her go-to when I’m not around to cook something else.

Skye relaxes in my arms and tells me she loves me over and over again, kissing my cheek.

“Okay, okay,” I say with a giggle, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “I love you, too, you little pill.”

“I’m not little. You’re little,” Skye insists.

“Yep. She’s got you beat by at least an inch,” Gabriel supplies, most unhelpfully.

“I’m well aware,” I say, with a hint of a sneer.

We get back to the house and Gabriel goes straight to my kitchen and opens the cupboard.

“Make yourself at home,” I toss, giving him a once-over before trying to curb my smile.

“I’m looking for a glass to get Skye a drink of water.”

“Good luck with that. She doesn’t drink water.” I’ve tried everything to get her to. Sticker charts. Incentives. Adding flavored powders. But she still doesn’t drink nearly enough. Yet another reason I don’t want her living away from me. No one cares as much as I do about Skye’s dietary needs.

But I can’t have her here by herself. And she wants to go to Caring Souls so bad. If she’s not able to move there soon, I could totally see her deciding to try to walk there herself.

The fear of that hits me so swiftly, I’m dizzy and have to grip the edge of the counter.

I’m not capable of taking care of Skye on my own. I need help. My parents managed, and even thrived. But I’m not them, and I can’t do this. I can’t keep her safe and happy on my own.

I’ve always done what I had to do for Skye. Even when I didn’t want to or didn’t have the slightest idea how.

And like a lightning bolt to my spine, I know what I have to do.

I have to say yes to Gabriel.

My extremities lose half their strength at this knowledge. I can only stare at my sister.

She not only drinks the cup of water Gabriel brings her, she even drains another one, like she’s trying to impress him. I’ve been begging her to better hydrate for years and all it takes is Mr.Tall, Blonde, and Handsome to bring her a cup and she willingly drinks two? That’s so unfair!

As soon as Skye goes to bed—she’s tired from all the walking and all the stress of losing Lunch Lady Liz—I clench my hands into fists.

I have to do this. It’s now or never. I have to do what’s best for Skye, even if that means marrying Gabriel Tate.

Not a real marriage, mind you. And as hard as it will be to do this, it will be harder still to see Skye’s grief when he leaves. At least she’ll be living with her friends at Caring Souls when that happens.

If we have to live apart, and if we have to lose the only house we’ve ever known, at least she’ll be where she wants to be.

I remind myself that how I feel about this is beside the point. My feelings became mostly irrelevant the day my parents died. Fissures—long and cruel—splintered my insides then. Skye fell apart and I let her, over and over again. She cried for months. One of us had to be strong.

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