Page 5 of Fake As Puck
I told her I needed space.
She responded by keying “SPACE” into my truck.
Wedding risk level: Felony.
Option #4: That barista with the nose ring.
Always writes”Stay sexy, West”on my coffee cup.
Once said I have the “energy of a dad who used to model.”
I’ve never been more confused or more flattered.
Do I know her name? No.
Do I think she owns heels? Also no.
Wedding risk level: Espresso-fueled chaos.
Option #5: My sister’s best friend.
Knows my mom. Would play along.
Has also seen me in footie pajamas at age twelve.
Told me I smell like “boy math and Red Bull.”
Still not sure what that means.
Wedding risk level: She’ll roast me in the car ride there.
I groan and roll over again, smashing my face into the carpet.
There has to be someone. Someone believable. Someone hot. Someone who can survive three open bars, five dance floors, two bouquet tosses, and an Aunt Sharon.
Who do I know that can lie convincingly, pretend to like me, and not ruin my life in the process?
Shit.
I knowexactlywho to ask.
And she’s going to say no. So hard. So fast.
But I’m desperate. And mildly good-looking. And I once helped her move a couch up three flights of stairs.
Time to cash in that favor.
2
There are exactly twenty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents in my checking account, and one of these children just sneezed into my mouth.
I squeeze my eyes shut.Just fabulous.I close my mouth and pretend I don’t taste spit on my tongue.
“That one’s yours,” I say flatly, pointing to the towel. But she’s three and doesn’t care what I have to say.
I stand up to help her as she runs away. Tessa walks through the door holding two grocery bags and looking like she barely got sleep last night.Shoot.I stand tall and grin. She greets me with a single exhausted nod before setting the bags down.
“What happened here?” she asks.
