Page 121 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

I nod, the silence stretching between us like an abyss. A clock ticks somewhere in the apartment, marking each second of awkwardness with painful precision.

“You look so much like your mother,” he says finally, his voice quiet, almost careful. His hand lifts slightly, as if he might reach across the space between us, then falls back to his lap. “You have her smile. Her hair.”

“Mom’s remarried,” I blurt out, the words sharp and sudden, too much like an accusation. I wince. “Victor. He’s good to her.”

His mouth presses into a thin line, and for a second, I wonder if he even heard me. Then, slowly, he nods.

“I’m glad,” he says, and surprisingly, he seems to mean it. His shoulders slump slightly, some invisible tension releasing. “She deserves that.”

More silence. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. A car alarm goes off somewhere down the street, then stops. Years of unspoken words created a canyon I have no idea how to cross.

“Why are you here, Isla?” he asks gently.

The question breaks something loose inside me. “I’ve spent my whole life wondering why you left.” My hands curl into fists in my lap, nails digging into my palms. “Why did you never come back? Never even called. Never sent either of us a birthday card.” My voice cracks. “Were we that forgettable? Was there something wrong with me that made it so easy to pretend I didn’t exist?”

His face crumples like I’ve physically struck him. He recoils, shoulders hunching, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. When he opens them again, his eyes are a little red, like he’s been holding too much in for too long.

“No, Isla. No. There was nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why?” The question comes out small, like they’re from the child I was when he walked away.

He sinks deeper into his chair, staring at his hands—hands I vaguely remember teaching me to tie my shoes. They looked bigger, stronger then. Now they tremble slightly as he spreads his fingers, then curls them into loose fists.

“I need to start from the beginning,” he says. “If that’s okay.”

I nod, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Did your mother ever tell you about my father? Your grandfather?”

I shake my head. “Mom never talked about your family.”

“My father walked out when I was twelve. Just disappeared after a fight with my mom.” He gives a bitter laugh. His foot taps against the floor. “He slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. And that was it. No warning. No note. He just vanished.”

I frown, something unsettled curling in my chest. “I didn’t know that.”

“My mother worked three jobs to keep us afloat. I watched her exhaust herself trying to be both parents.” His gaze turns distant. “I hated my father, but . . .” His fingers curl into his palms, knuckles whitening. “I was so scared I’d turn out like him. We shared the same blood. So I never let myself get that close. Never wanted a relationship.”

He rubs his face, a shaky exhale escapes him.

“I met your mother at a volunteer program she was part of. Some outreach thing her university did at the community center where I worked.” His expression softens, the hard lines around his mouth easing. “She was everything I wasn’t. Smart, confident, from a family where money and education were a given. I don’t know what she saw in me, but for some reason, she kept coming back.”

“Mom loved you.” I shift on the couch, uncrossing and recrossing my ankles.

“She did. And I loved her too, more than I knew how to handle.” He looks up, meeting my eyes. “Her parents hated me. Made it very clear I wasn’t good enough for their daughter. But Christina didn’t care. She defied them to be with me. Even eloped when they threatened to cut her off financially if she married me.”

I’d never heard this part of their story. Mom had always been vague about her parents, saying only that they’d drifted apart over “differences in values.”

“We opened a small family restaurant right after you and Conner were born. Nothing fancy—just good food, good people. Those first few years were good, Isla. Really good. But as the business grew, your mother just shone. She knew exactly how to make customers feel like family, how to turn a simple meal into a memory.”

“That doesn’t explain why you left,” I say, a hard edge entering my voice.

“No, it doesn’t.” He sighs deeply. His gaze drifts to the window, where city lights flicker against the growing darkness. “The truth is, I never felt that I deserved her. Every day, I waited for her to wake up and realize she’d made a mistake marrying me. That I wasn’tworthwhat she’d given up.”

Something uncomfortable twists in my stomach. This isn’t the villain origin story I was expecting.

“The more successful we became, the more I felt like a fraud. I couldn’t stop thinking that she could’ve done even more if she hadn’t given everything up for me. Just like how her father saw me.” His voice drops lower, rougher, like he’s choking on the weight of his own confession. “I was just waiting for everyone to figure out I didn’t belong there.”

He stands abruptly, pacing to the window. His reflection is ghostly in the glass. “I didn’t realize back then that it was my own demons talking. I only knew one thing—I didn’t deserve any of it.”

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