Page 92 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
I opened a water bottle and took a sip. “Why St. Nacho’s?”
“You probably don’t need a lot of background to know my parents are perfectionists. It’s virtually impossible to get their approval, so I grew up feeling judged every minute of every single day.”
“I’m sorry, Epic. I know that must have hurt you very much.”
“I had my grandmother. She made up for a lot of the bad things”
“I'm glad.” I took his hands in mine.
He wrinkled his nose. “I have happy memories from childhood too. Despite our current conflict, I love my parents. But I love it in St Nacho's too. The minute I smell the ocean, I’ve come home. All my problems drop off my shoulders. I can be exactly who I am. Nobody judges me. Nobody tries to change me. What I do matters—whether I wait tables or invent the next iPhone—whatever my job is, only being my best self matters here.”
“I understand.” It would be awfully tempting to stay.
“The people here make me want to do everything better, but there’s no pressure. Does that even make sense?”
“Yes.” I’d felt the weight fall off my shoulders when I’d arrived in St. Nacho’s too, though I had attributed it to having my first vacation in years.
What if it wasn’t about the time off but the place?
What if I could finally find balance here?
“Will you go with me when I talk to my parents?” he asked.
“That seems like a bad idea.” I couldn’t imagine anything more awful. “Isn't it something you need to do on your own?”
“But I need them to understand what you do. I want them to meet you because then they can’t say the job I want doesn’t exist, or I can’t make a living, or—”
“Epic, taking me with you to talk to your parents is the very worst thing you could do. It negates the argument that you’re independent.”
“I know, I know. But hear me out—”
“What would your grandmother say?” I stood, took the steps out of the water, and picked up my towel.
“She’d say, yes, it might make them think I’m taking guidance from you, and yes, that might seem like I’m not thinking independently. But she might also say that if I were going to talk about my future, I should consider making my case alongside people I want to be in that future.”
I turned, heart pounding hard. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” Epic came out of the water like some sculpture, all chiseled planes and taut muscles. He jutted his jaw at me belligerently. “You’ve become really important to me.”
“I—”
“And I’m important to you. Don’t try to deny it. I won’t believe you.”
“Even if that were true—”
“Oh, it’s so true.” He wagged a finger at me. “You think I’m adorable.”
God help me, he had me there. “Even so, I live in Canada. I work a sixty-hour week when I’m slacking off. I travel for business about a third of the year. I’m not looking for a partner.”
“But we’re good together, Ryan.” He held himself rigid. “Don’t make it seem like we’re friends with benefits. We’re more than that, and you know it.”
I did not want to have this conversation.
Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But certainly not while his parents were giving him three hours to make good on a deal he’d made last year.
“Oh, Epic. I’m so sorry. This”—I gestured between us—“is a holiday. We had a fantasy weekend in a wildly expensive resort with fabulous food, alcohol, and great sex.”
“Go on.” He sounded smaller somehow. Deflated.
