Page 40 of Not Your Valentine
“Have you already talked about getting married?” Mom gasps. “Is he thinking of proposing? Is he—”
“Mom!” I say, a little too loudly. “I was joking.”
“So we can’t meet his dad at the wedding, but we can meet him earlier?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
I throw up my hands. “Fine. You can meet him at the wedding.” Saying that word nearly makes me shiver, which is good. It’s more normal than some of the other reactions I’ve had lately, like thinking a real relationship might not be a terrible idea after all. “But don’t expect the wedding anytime soon. I would never get engaged to someone I’d been seeing for less than a year.”
“But it’s different with Taylor because you’ve known him since high school.”
Yes, it’s different with him.
I don’t say that silly thought out loud; instead, I glare at my mother, but she’s annoyingly unbothered by the glare. She just calmly looks at the menu and picks up the pencil, ordering the same things we always get. We’ve been here many times, and we know what we like. Why mess with a good thing?
As she places our order, I think about the fact that I voluntarily set myself up for this situation. If I hadn’t gotten a fake boyfriend, we wouldn’t be talking about weddings. No, we’d be having different conversations and my mom might shoot me looks of pity.
I suppose this is better, but only a little.
“Bring Taylor next time,” Shirley says to me. “By the way, remember my friend Skylar from high school?”
I nod. Skylar was over at our house quite a bit.
“Her brother’s friends with Taylor. Quentin was in your year, I think.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know him well.” Taylor, however, had many friends; he was one of the rare people who seemed to transcend cliques in high school.
“I saw him the other day and mentioned you were dating Taylor. He seemed surprised.”
I try not to stiffen at my sister’s words. Is she suspicious about my so-called relationship? Did Taylor recently tell Quentin that he’s single—is that why? When we ran into his friend from badminton, Taylor introduced me as his girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean he’s lying to everyone.
“Why’s that?” I ask, trying to sound cool as a cucumber.
Shirley shrugs. “I don’t know. Couldn’t figure it out.”
I slowly release a breath. My lie is safe…for now.
“Anyway,” she says, “could you give me Taylor’s number? I wanted to send him an article.”
Apparently, it’s related to something they talked about at New Year’s, when I was in the kitchen with my mother. I figure Taylor won’t mind, so I tell her, then give him a heads-up that he might hear from my sister.
I can’t help feeling pleased that he seems to be popular with my family, but then I chide myself. He’s not actually my boyfriend, and my family will probably never see him again…and what if Shirley figures out the truth? I don’t think she’d tell our parents—unless she accidentally lets it slip—but I still don’t relish the thought of explaining myself to anyone. It makes me vaguely nauseous, and I feel like everything is spinning out of control.
Maybe a fake boyfriend was a step too far.
On Wednesday, I decide that getting a fake boyfriend was a stroke of genius.
Because he’s sent me a chocolate bar in the mail, and it’s fucking adorable.
I always check my mail when I enter my apartment building after work, even though I rarely get anything worthwhile, but on Wednesday, there’s a small package. I open it up in the elevator and grin when I see a gourmet chocolate bar from a fancy Toronto chocolatier.
I text Taylor to thank him as soon as I’m inside my door, before I’ve even stripped off my winter clothes.
I wonder if this is the sort of thing he does for his real girlfriends.
I’m about to open the chocolate bar and try a square when I realize I should take a picture of it. An Instagram story as “proof” of our relationship. After all, that might be part of the reason he sent me chocolate: so I could have something to post.
