Page 14 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
"Sunshine always had such creative friends," my mother says as I serve dessert—the chocolate cake I'd stress-baked last night. "I admit I was worried when she dropped out of college to pursue this freelance... adventure. But it seems she's finding her footing now."
I tense at the backhanded compliment. "Mom, I've been supporting myself entirely for three years now. I'd say I found my footing a while ago."
"Of course, dear," she says dismissively. "I just meant it's nice to see you settling down a bit. Finding some stability."
I feel Garrett's hand on my knee under the table, a steadying pressure.
"Sunny's one of the hardest working people I know," he says, his voice measured but firm. "She built her business from nothing, and she's successful because she's talented and dedicated. That's not 'finding her footing', that's impressive by any standard."
The table falls silent. My mother looks taken aback, my father assessing. I'm frozen, fork halfway to my mouth, stunned by Garrett's defense.
"Well," my mother finally says, "I suppose you're right. We just worry, that's all. It's what parents do."
"I understand that," Garrett says, his tone softening slightly. "But maybe trust that you raised someone capable of making good choices."
My father clears his throat. "Fair point," he concedes, surprising me. "The cake is excellent, by the way, Sunshine."
Chapter 6 - Garret
I've overstepped. I can see it in the way Sunny's parents exchange glances, in the slight stiffening of her posture beside me. This isn't my place. These aren't my battles to fight.
But watching her mother casually dismiss years of Sunny's hard work sparked something protective in me that I couldn't quite tamp down.
"Any interesting projects currently?" Mr. Bloom asks, breaking the awkward silence as he takes another bite of cake
I accept the olive branch, grateful for the change in subject. "Working on a 1940s mahogany dresser right now. Original brass fittings, dovetail joints. Previous owner painted it teal, unfortunately."
"Criminal," Mr. Bloom says with feeling, and I find myself warming to him slightly. He may not fully understand his daughter, but there's genuine care beneath his gruff exterior.
"Exactly," I agree. "The wood underneath is in excellent condition, though. Just needs patience to bring it back."
"Like most worthwhile things," Mrs. Bloom interjects, her gaze flicking between Sunny and me.
Sunny's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing in what feels like gratitude or solidarity. I return the pressure, trying not to focus on how natural this contact has begun to feel.
"Do you have photos?" Mr. Bloom asks, genuine interest in his voice.
I pull out my phone, finding the before pictures of the dresser. As I show them to Sunny's father, I'm aware of Mrs. Bloom watching me closely, her assessment almost tactical in its precision.
"Garrett was in Special Forces, Mom," Sunny says suddenly. "Isn't that impressive?"
I shoot her a questioning look. We never discussed my specific military role, and I certainly never mentioned Special Forces.
"Were you really?" Mrs. Bloom asks, her eyebrows raised.
"Yes," I admit, wondering how Sunny knew. "Though it's not something I usually advertise."
"How fascinating," Mrs. Bloom says, leaning forward. "That must have been challenging work."
"It was a job," I say simply, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I served with good people."
Sunny's hand tightens on mine, and I realize she's thrown me this conversational lifeline intentionally—distracting her mother from our earlier tension by giving her something more intriguing to focus on.
Smart.
"Did you always want to serve?" Mr. Bloom asks, handing my phone back.
"My father was military," I explain. "It seemed like the natural path."
