Page 13 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
"Yes," I say, and I'm surprised by how much I mean it. "I am."
Something in my voice must convince her, because her expression softens. "Well then. That's what matters." She pats my cheek. "Though I still think your father is going to have questions. Many, many questions."
"I'm sure Garrett can handle it," I say, more confidently than I feel.
When we return to the living room, my father and Garrett are engaged in what appears to be a surprisingly comfortable conversation about vintage Jeeps. My father, who restores classic cars as a hobby, is actually smiling.
"Dinner's almost ready," I announce. "Dad, can you help me set the table?"
As my father follows me to the dining area, I catch Garrett and my mother exchanging what can only be described as wary glances, like two cats assessing each other's territory.
"He seems... decent," my father says quietly as we arrange plates and silverware. "Military background explains a lot. How did you two actually get together? You're not exactly the type to go for the strong, silent routine."
I launch into our practiced story about the leaky faucet and banana bread, trying to keep my voice casual. "He asked me to dinner, and I said yes. We just... clicked."
My father makes a noncommittal sound. "And does he support your, ah, graphic design work?"
The slight hesitation before "graphic design" doesn't escape me. My parents have never quite accepted that my freelance career is legitimate, always referring to it as if it's a phase I'm going through before getting a "real job."
"Actually, he does," I say firmly. "Garrett understands the value of doing work you're passionate about."
As if on cue, Garrett's voice carries from the living room: "Sunny's latest website design increased her client's conversion rate by thirty percent. She's incredibly talented."
I nearly drop the fork I'm holding. We never discussed my work in our preparation. That specific project was something I'd mentioned in passing over the fence weeks ago, never expecting him to remember it.
My father looks impressed despite himself. "Well. That's good to hear."
The timer beeps from the kitchen, saving me from further conversation. "That's the lasagna," I announce, perhaps too enthusiastically. "Let's eat!"
Dinner itself goes surprisingly smoothly. The lasagna is perfect. Layers intact, cheese browned just right. Garrett sits beside me, occasionally placing his hand over mine in a gesture that feels both protective and possessive. It's all for show, I remind myself, even as warmth spreads through me each time he touches me.
"So, Garrett," my mother says as we're finishing the main course, "Sunny tells us you live next door. What did you think when she moved in? She can be quite... exuberant."
I tense, waiting for him to mention my loud music or late-night work sessions.
Garrett's lips curve in what might almost be a smile. "I thought the neighborhood could use some color," he says. "Sunny brought that in spades."
"He complained about my music constantly," I add, trying to keep things honest and light. "Still does."
"Not constantly," Garrett corrects, his hand finding mine under the table. "Just when it's past midnight and I can feel the bass through the walls."
My parents exchange a look I can't quite interpret.
"How did you end up in Cedar Falls, Garrett?" my father asks. "Not exactly a military town."
"After my discharge, I wanted somewhere quiet. My rehab therapist was based here, so it made sense." His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand as he speaks, and I wonder if he's even aware he's doing it.
"Rehab?" my mother asks, concern creasing her brow.
"Shoulder injury," Garrett explains briefly. "It's fine now."
I squeeze his hand, knowing there's more to that story than he's sharing. We hadn't discussed his injury in our preparation, and I find myself genuinely curious about what happened.
The conversation shifts to safer topics. My parents' drive up from Portland, my father's latest car restoration project, my mother's book club. Throughout it all, Garrett plays his partperfectly, asking thoughtful questions and offering just enough about himself to seem engaged without revealing too much.
What surprises me most is how natural it feels. The way he refills my water glass without asking. How he seems to sense when I'm feeling tense and diverts the conversation. The protective arm he drapes across the back of my chair when my mother begins subtly probing about my financial stability.
If I didn't know better, I'd think we really were a couple, comfortable in each other's space, attuned to each other's needs.
