Page 48 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Mom appears in the doorway, shaking her head with a warm smile. “Children, play nice.”

“We are nice,” Conner and I say in unison, then glare at each other.

“Jinx,” I mutter, reaching for the pan of lasagna.

Conner swats my hand away. “Hey! Mom made this for me.”

“In your dreams, dorkface. Mom made it for both of us.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

We turn to Mom in perfect sync. “Mom!”

Mom laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “Don’t drag me into this. I made enough for everyone.”

She’s wearing that familiar smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to laugh at our antics. It’s the same look she wore when Conner and I were kids, fighting over the last cookie or the TV remote.

Back then, she’d solved our squabbles by making us split everything exactly in half. I remember her standing in this same kitchen, ruler in hand, measuring our slices of birthday cake to ensure they were perfectly equal. When we complained that the other person got more (because, of course, we did), she’d just say, “Life isn’t fair, but love is. And in this house, we choose love.”

Even after Dad left, she never lost that patient smile.

I stick my tongue out at Conner, who responds by attempting to ruffle my hair. I duck away, grabbing a plate. “Touch the hair and die, Conehead.”

“Aww, still using the same lame insults from middle school? How adorable.”

“At least I’ve outgrown my awkward phase,” I shoot back, loading up my plate. “Unlike some people.”

Conner clutches his chest in mock pain. “You hurt me, dear sister. And here I thought you were the nice twin.”

“I am the nice twin,” I say sweetly. “I’m just not nice to you.”

“I can see why you needed that ruler for the cake,” Victor murmurs to Mom.

I pause and look at Victor. “Whose side are you on?”

Conner uses the moment to swipe the biggest slice of lasagna onto his plate like it’s a gold medal prize. I narrow my eyes at him. “This means war, you know.”

“Bring it on, little sis.”

“We’re the same age, you dolt!”

“I’m still older by one minute.”

I open my mouth to retort, but Mom cuts in. “So, Conner, how long are you in town for?”

“Not sure yet. Thinking about sticking around for a while, actually. Got some business opportunities I want to explore, and . . .” he shrugs, that mischievous glint in his eye, “might be nice to take a breather from the city life.”

“Just try not to cause trouble with my friends this time,” I warn, remembering how he and Elaine nearly started World War III the last time he was back here. One snarky comment about her cinnamon rolls being store-bought quality, and suddenly, there was frosting everywhere. I’m still not sure how they managed to get it on the ceiling.

I can never understand what started their animosity in the first place, but they hate each other like cats and dogs.

Dinner ends up in the living room between Conner’s second helping and the start of the hockey game. The room erupts in cheers as the L.A. Titans score another goal. I’m squished between Conner and Mom on the couch, a bowl of popcorn precariously balanced on my lap. Victor perches on the arm of the sofa, his eyes glued to the TV.

“Did you see that wrist shot?” Conner leans forward, nearly knocking over the popcorn bowl. “Rossi’s really upped his game since I played with him.”

I shift the bowl protectively to my other knee and give him a flat look. “Yes, Conner. We all saw it. We’re watching the same game.”

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