Page 82 of Heart of Thorns

She’s looking everywhere but at me. I put my finger under her chin and direct her face up toward mine.

“Just, uh, I don’t want to be seen by the wrong people.”

The wrong people?

Seen? With me?

I drop my hand and step back. Hurt ricochets through me, louder than it should. Who are the wrong people? The whole point of us was to be seen…

But that was my plan, wasn’t it?

“Come on.” My voice comes out more gruff. “There’s a room you can wait in up ahead that’ll be out of sight.”

She follows along behind me. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

I shake my head. I don’t know how she could’ve not meant it. I direct her to the assistant equipment manager’s office and leave her there. It’s been unoccupied since the summer, so I doubt anyone will accidentally walk in on her.

Then, pushing aside the sudden bad taste in my mouth, I head into the locker room to prepare for what will probably be the most awkward dinner of my life.

My mother hasn’t stopped talking.

The restaurant we’re in is nice. It has a Michelin Star—or two or three, I don’t know—and the service has been top-notch. The lighting is bright, the chatter amongst other tables a low babble in the background of my mother’s rambling.

We’re doing courses. Five of them.

The server returns with the first, which is a cold soup. I missed thecolddetail, though, so when I blew on my spoon, my father glared at me. And then I put it in my mouth and realized… and almost gagged.

Mom’s steady chatter provided a commentary on what life has been like back home. An interior decorator and her crew were in for their seasonal change. The house decor has to match, after all, and we’re quickly slipping into winter.

“And we’re so excited to have you join us for Christmas, Briar,” my mother adds.

Briar chokes.

I mentally curse. I probably should’ve mentioned that.

“That remains to be seen,” Father interjects. “Christmas is a long time away.”

I grit my teeth. “I thought it was your idea to have us home for the holidays, Dad.”

He waves his hand and picks up his glass of wine. “Well, that was before ImetBrianna, Cassius.”

Briar lifts her chin. “It’s Briar.”

“Briar,” Mom repeats, glancing at her husband. “A lovely name. I’m sure he’ll have it down by Christmas. So, tell me, do you go to all of our son’s games?”

My fake girlfriend sets down her silverware. Her soup bowl is empty.

Only four more courses to go.

“I try to go to all of them, yes,” she answers. “And my friends and I saw a few of his practices.”

“How lovely,” my mom echoes. “Do you have any hobbies of your own?”

“Mom,” I whisper.

She frowns. “What?”

“You—”

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