Page 16 of Fall For You

“Is it really a lie, though, if you don’t know you’re lying?”

“Well, sure. Has to be, right? I mean, if it’s not the truth, what else would you call it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I even know what’s real or true anymore. Do you?”

“Maybe not,” I admit, pulling her against me once more. “But I also don’t know what the hell you want from me right now, so…”

“I think I just want you to help me forget,” she says after a moment. She sniffles a little and rubs her cheek against my shirt and I’m pretty sure she’s wiping tears from her face in the process.

“Forget what?”

“I dunno—the last ten or eleven years, perhaps?”

“Jo…”

“Look, Carter, let’s not play games. I know I hurt you, all right? I know there’s no coming back from that. So, I’m not asking for a second chance, because I know I don’t deserve one. And I’m also not expecting to get a do-over, because this is the real world and that kind of thing doesn’t happen here. But, I guess I was hoping that, just while I’m here, we could, I dunno…”

“We could what? Sleep together? Act like we’re still fake married and you’re home from school on a break? Pretend we’re a couple?”

“I mean…yeah?” she says, looking relieved and hopeful—like she has no idea what she’s asking for. Which…Fuck my life. I guess she really doesn’t know.

“Do you honestly think that’s a good idea?” I ask gently. Because I sure as hell don’t; I think it’s a terrible idea.

“Why not?” she asks. “You’re not seeing anyone, are you?”

“No. Come on. Do you really think I would’ve kissed you like that if I were?”

“Well, me either. So, who would it hurt?”

And I can’t answer that—I mean,I could. But I can’t. I can only shrug and shake my head. Because the real answer, the one I can’t give her; isme. It would hurt me. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t mean that I’m not gonna give in and do it all the same. Because fuck yeah, I want that, too. I always did. I never stopped.

Beingfake married to Jo was easy enough in the beginning. We made a good team. We spent most of that first summer working hard to convince the entire town that we were actually married—and succeeding all too well. We even had a fake ceremony, with flowers and rings, and got someone to take pictures to further our claims. Looking back, that was probably when the line between truth and fiction began to blur for us as well.

At the end of August, Jo went off to school, as planned. I stayed home and worked at the farm and dreamed about starting my own restaurant—hopefully, someday, in the not-too-distant future.

And we…dated other people. Just like we said we would. I never asked her what she was telling her partners about me, or if she was even mentioning me at all. I didn’t really want to know. On my part, however, all of my hook-ups were well aware that I was a “married man” and not looking to get seriously involved.

It wasn’t until the following year that things began to slip sideways. Jo and I had been keeping in touch on a more or less regular basis. We called each other (on average) a couple of times a week, texted almost every day, sexted when we were in the mood to. When I could get the time off from work, I drove out to see her—but that was a lot less often than I would’ve liked.

My parents had found out, fairly early in the game, that we were married, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Why I thought we could keep it a secret from them is a mystery to me now. They hadn’t taken it well. As my boss, my dad could certainly have let me have more weekends off, if he’d wanted to make things easy for us. Apparently, he’d rather punish us for being, in his words, dumber than a box of rocks.

Jo’s trips home were more infrequent than mine, and a lot more irregular. She rarely planned her visits ahead of time and almost never called to tell me she was on her way. Mostly, she’d just show up at my trailer late at night, which occasionally led to somewhat awkward encounters—like the one that occurred nearly two years into our pretend marriage…

I hadn’t heard from Jo in almost a week, at that point, which generally meant she was hooking up with someone new. I was feeling pretty salty about that, if you must know; and more than a little sorry for myself. So, on Friday night, I let himself be picked up by a woman I’d slept with a couple of times the previous year. Nancy followed me back to my place—because I was and am a selfish bastard; I didn’t want to inconvenience myself if there was a door number two to choose instead.

I’d taken off my shirt within minutes of getting home because the AC had been off for the few hours I was gone, and it had gotten hot. Nancy had removed her jeans—either to get more comfortable or to show off her legs, which (I have to admit) were well worth showing off.

We were lying in bed, just starting to mess around, and yeah, I was into her. It wasn’t pretense; I was definitely DTF. I mean, she wasn’t Jo, but she was here, half-dressed, in my bed—all things that Jo was not—and I really had not wanted to be home alone tonight. But all the same, when I heard a car pull into my drive, I paused, mid-kiss, to listen. Headlights arced across my bedroom wall, and my breathing stalled. I lifted my head and waited.

The familiar tread of Jo’s feet on my front porch, brought a smile to my lips. My pulse kicked up as she let herself into my house and called out, “Honey, I’m home.”

Nancy gasped and whispered. “What the hell? Who’s that?”

“That,” I told her, “Would be my wife.”

Jo pushed open the bedroom door, causing Nancy to squeal as she dived off the bed, fumbling for her jeans.

Jo paused in the doorway, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Oops,” she exclaimed as her gaze met mine. “Is this a bad time?”

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