Page 30 of Bullied Pretend Mate
And by the time I turned sixteen, I was doing everything in my power to make sure nobody was linking me to Maeve Villareal.
Still, there were several times I ended up giving her a ride. A few times, when nobody was around, or it was raining, or I just didn’t want to resist the pull of her. Once, when we were forced to pair up on a science project, collecting twigs from the surrounding forest.
Each time, I’d silently pass her the cord, letting her pick the music that would make her comfortable.
On our ride to this wedding, she’d happily taken the cord and plugged in her phone, surprising me when show tunes came blaring through the speakers.
“Really?” I’d laughed, raising my eyebrows at her.
Maeve had laughed, too, leaning back in her seat and starting to sing along. At the first break, she looked over at me and said, “I am not trying to impress you anymore, Felix Rana.”
It’s funny because it implies that she was, at one point, trying to impress me. And now that she’s stopped trying, she’s the most impressive person I’ve ever met.
We glide through the crowd at the wedding, actually managing to blend in, and I’m glad I let Maeve take a look at my suit. I’d helped her find a sewing machine to do some adjustments. The fit feels sharp, and I’m even wearing a matching red pocket square to complement her dress.
The ceremony is just as extravagant as the rest of the wedding. A string quartet plays in the corner, and an artist stands opposite them, working hard to capture the moment in oil. I watch the various elements come together, knowing someone worked very hard to bring them to fruition.
For the first time in my life, I find myself wondering about my own wedding. If I’d even bother with any of this stuff. What it might look like.
What my bride might look like.
“Felix?”
I jerk back to the present and look up, finding Maeve standing in front of me, one of her eyebrows raised as she stares down at me.
“What are you daydreaming about?” she asks, holding out her hand to me. “You were, like, in a trance. It’s time to head over to the reception.”
“Oh,” I say, not wanting to tell her the truth about what was on my mind. She, in a white dress, is standing in front of a chapel like this. Waiting for me. Holding my hands in hers, reciting vows.
I’ve never seriously thought about something like a wedding before—a human tradition that more and more shiftersare taking on as their own—but now it’s in my head, and Maeve is right at the center of it.
Luckily, I’m saved from having to answer her question as we walk into the reception and take in everything that a lot of money has to offer. We grab a themed drink—named after the couple’s pet—and find a standing table, mingling with some of the other guests.
Maeve is charismatic and light, and when she discovers one of the other couples is from Los Angeles, they spend the next twenty minutes talking about traffic, trying to find a good apartment, and how much it’s been raining in the past year.
“What do you do for work over there?” the woman asks, her glass halfway to her mouth.
“Well,” Maeve clears her throat, and I get the sense that this is something she’s uncomfortable telling people about. “I’m actually an influencer.”
“Oh!” the woman squeals, pulling out her phone. “I love it. What’s your handle?”
Later, when we’re leaving the quick cocktail hour and heading for the reception hall, Maeve leans into me.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, looking up and meeting my eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, a softer color than her dress, and I struggle to tear my eyes from her.
“Sorry?” I repeat. “Sorry for what?”
“Just, like, dragging out that conversation. Especially when you didn’t really have anything to talk about.”
“Maeve.” I tug on her hand until she stops, turning to look at me. “I was happy just to be there. To watch you doing your thing.”
“My thing?”
“Wowing them,” I say, waving my hand through the air.
She laughs, reaching up and taking my wrist, pulling it down again. “I waswowingnobody,” she says. “That’s your thing.”
“It could beourthing,” I say before I can stop myself.
