Page 9 of The Best You've Ever Had

Chapter Five

Layla

After returningour skates and packing up our cars, we all huddle near the cab of an old beat-up truck. Everyone except Ben and I sip on beers while holiday music drifts from the vehicle’s speakers. This is small-town living in a nutshell—worn-out pickups, shared beers, and long nights under the stars. It’s a simple, familiar comfort that feels like home.

The other couples have their arms around each other, warming up together under wool blankets in the crisp night air. Being surrounded by all these lovesick idiots makes it hard to ignore how much Ben and I stick out like a sore thumb. We stand side-by-side, not looking at each other yet acutely aware of the other’s presence. Occasionally, our arms make contact, lingering for a moment before one of us shifts. I find myself living for those fleeting touches because they awaken a part of me I thought had been long gone, like a flame igniting in the dead of winter.

After a solid hour of swapping stories, he must sense that my social battery has been drained. He nudges my arm, and tilts his head toward his car, silently asking if I want to head out. I nod once in confirmation, and we start saying our goodbyes in total sync.

As we drive back to my mom’s house, I notice the tension in him. His hands grip and release the steering wheel as it becomes abundantly clear he’s building up to ask me something. I have no idea what he would ever need to ask, but it takes a lot to make him nervous, so I prepare myself for the worst.

Pulling up to the curb outside the house, he turns off the car, and looks right at me. “I have a favor to ask.”

Dread rolls through my stomach.

I hate favors. Despise them. I don’t like feeling like I owe anyone anything, or having people feel like they owe me.

I shoot him a look. “What kind of favor?”

He scratches the back of his head, as his eyes tentatively glance away. “It’s a big one.”

“This can’t be good.”

“Be my fake girlfriend.” He finally makes eye contact, this time there’s a sense of pleading, tinged with a note of desperation, and a dash of embarrassment. “For Mick’s sake. You know how damn happy that would make him. The perfect, happy distraction so my family can have something good to look forward to. It’s what they’ve always wished for.”

My stomach drops. This isn’t what I expected him to ask. I thought perhaps he’d ask me to set up a big Christmas party in Mick’s honor, or maybe even go shake down someone that owes him money.

Not this.

I shake my head. “Horrible idea. Nope, not in a million years.”

He’s not surprised by my answer, he knew I’d shoot him down the second he asked. If nothing else, I give him props for having the balls to ask me.

“Please. For Mick. To make him think my life is going somewhere.”

“It’s a bad idea. It wouldn’t end well for anyone. Once we fake break up, won’t it be awkward for the rest of our family? And wouldn’t that make us horrible people for lying to a terminally ill man?”

“It’d make us horrible people if you look at it the wrong way. But look at it from a different angle. They would have something to talk and dream about besides the looming death. Mick would be so damn happy if he thought we were together. To know who I’ll end up with before he passes.”

“Find someone else. We can barely get along for more than five minutes at a time. Making people think we’ve gone from sworn enemies to besought lovers is an impossible task, and you know it.”

He sighs, frustrated. “That's where I disagree. Look how long we got along tonight. It’s only plausible if it involves you. You’re the one person that people would believe as my girlfriend, especially to our families who have always hoped for it.”

I shoot him a death glare signaling that he’s out of his mind. “I think you may be suffering from a psychotic break and need professional help.”

And with that, I practically run as fast as I can back to the house, without busting my ass on the slick frozen sidewalk. When I glance back, his car is still there, idling while he watches me get safely to the front door.

The craziest thing about his whole proposition is that he doesn’t seem crazy at all. In his eyes, I can actually see how it makes perfect sense.

But I’m not a liar, and I’m definitely not a good actress.

The next morning, when I return from my morning run, I see a car I don’t recognize in the driveway. It’s a flashy blacked out Audi, with every bell and whistle possible. Its shiny sleek body frame doesn’t fit in with the neighborhood, and it raises an immediate red flag in my mind. From my running belt, I pull out my house keys and loop the sharp metal between my fingers. If someone has broken into my mother’s house, they better be prepared to be stabbed by a half dozen metal keys. I may be small, but I’m scrappy as hell.

I unlock and open the front door, cracking it open to listen for any voices or signs of Mom awake. All I hear is silence, and the eerie emptiness makes my heart pound. But then I hear my mom’s over-the-top giggle. This laugh is one I’ve heard a thousand different women use when they’re trying to make a man feel better about one of their terrible jokes.

The sound rings through the air again, followed by an entertained male, voice that’s muffled through a closed door. I follow the sounds down the hall, only to find my mother’s door closed. When she speaks again, I hear her say, “Oh, Paul.” And that’s when my freak out officially commences.

Mom may as well have a sock around her door knob signaling the need for privacy for her booty call. But as strong as I may be, I’m not fine with hearing whatever the hell is going on in there. Under no circumstances will that be allowed while I’m living under this roof for the next couple weeks. Which is why I obnoxiously yell, “Mom, I’m home!”

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