Page 75 of Fake Married to the Grumps

"Bryce, you didn't tell me you were back in town! I had to hear from Marissa to know you were back." She scolds, her tone a mix of annoyance and concern.

"Sorry, it's been a bit hectic."

"Well, you should've called. I'm worried about you. Mom and Dad are worried too. They want you to come over for dinner."

I scoff. "Worried? About me? Please, they've got more important things to worry about. Besides, you know I'm not exactly the poster child for family gatherings."

Cindy's voice softens, a hint of sadness creeping in. "They're your parents. They just want the best for you. Also, Dad is actually proud of you. He's seen how far you've come and how happy you are pursuing your passion. Mom says he regrets being so harsh on you in the past."

I clench my jaw, the mention of our parents being concerned about my well-being stirring up a familiar mix of resentment and defiance.

"Yeah, well, I don't want to see them. End of story."

Cindy sighs. "Come on, Bryce. It’s been ages since we had a family dinner. Mom’s been anticipating seeing you, but she says you won't take her calls, and Dad ... well, you know how he gets."

I groan, already dreading the thought of facing our father's disappointed glares and thinly veiled disapproval. It's exactly the reason why I left home in the first place, and I don't think I'm ready to put up with his shenanigans all over again.

"I don't know, Cindy. I've got a busy schedule."

"Please. Just this once. For Mom's sake, if not for mine."

Despite our strained relationship, Cindy knows a great deal about what I went through living in that pathetic excuse for a home.

And as much as I hate to admit it, she's right—Mom deserves better than a son who avoids his family like the plague. But they didn't exactly give me much of a choice.

"Fine," I concede, "I'll be there."

Cindy's sigh of relief is audible through the phone. "Thank you, Bryce. It means a lot."

I grumble, "Yeah, yeah. Don't get too sentimental on me."

She chuckles. "I'll see you tonight, then. And don't be late."

Family dinners—the bane of my existence. But for Mom's sake, I'll put on a smile and endure the inevitable interrogation from our father.

I end the call and drop the phone on the counter with a clatter. Breakfast. I stare blankly at the frying pan on the stove, motionless. Childhood dinners creep into my thoughts, those tense affairs around our modest little table.

Dad's eyes follow my every move, his brow furrowed, lips pressed into a firm line. Another deep sigh escapes him, and he shakes his head—that familiar gesture of disapproval.

Beside him sits Mom, eyes darting between us, pleading silently for a ceasefire. Her hands fidget in her lap, fingers twisting the napkin.

I've always been the black sheep of the family—the rebellious son who dared to defy his father's expectations.

Dad's always been a person who won't settle for anything less than perfection, especially from me. He had it all mapped out—me following in his footsteps, taking over the family business—a real estate empire, and living the life he chose for me.

But I had my own dreams. My choice to pursue acting instead of the life he prescribed has strained our relationship ever since. I don't need his approval.

Family dinner will be another painful reminder of the chasm that separates us. For Mom's sake, I'll plaster on a smile and play the dutiful son,

I turn abruptly from the stove. My appetite is gone. I shower and throw on a pair of jeans and a white shirt. Grabbing my keys, I head out the door, steeling myself for another day in the spotlight.

I step out of my apartment, my mind still clouded with thoughts of the upcoming family dinner. I need a distraction, something to ease the tension that coils within me. As if on autopilot, I wait outside the apartment building and lean against my car, waiting for her to emerge.

The air is crisp, a hint of autumn lingering in the breeze. It's a picture-perfect morning, the kind that makes you forget about your issues for just a moment.

I glance at my watch, tapping my foot impatiently as I wait for her. When she finally appears, a vision of casual elegance, my breath catches in my throat.

There's something about Marissa—an effortless grace, a quiet strength—that draws me in, despite my best efforts to maintain a safe distance.

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