Page 5 of One Week Wingman

And everyone was delighted. So, I just sort of ran with it. And by ‘run,’ I mean a full-out sprint—breathlessly describing our romantic meeting, incredible dates, and general loved-up bliss every time conversation turned to my otherwise unimpressive life.

Which was a lot.

Funny, isn’t it, how everyone assumes your life must be worth something when a man is sharing it? Roxy the Bartender gets helpful suggestions about learning to code or applying for grad school. But Roxy, girlfriend to Stefano? She gets ideas for romantic weekend getaways, and cooking tips from Mom’s favorite blogs (because the way to a man’s heart is apparently through his stomach, and not the organ ten inches lower, like modern dating has led me to believe).

For going on ten months, I’ve managed to keep up the fiction, and it’s turned out to be more useful than I ever dreamed. Mom wants me to show her book club buddies the sights of the city? Sorry, I’m just heading upstate with Stefano for the weekend. Daisy calls when I’m settling in with a takeout pizza and aFleabagmarathon? Oh dear, I’m just on my way out the door, Stefano’s taking me to dinner. It’s like he’s my own personal Bunbury, fromThe Importance of Being Earnest.

The ultimate get-out-of-inconvenient family commitments card.

But all good things must come to an end, and I know, I’m going to have to stage a big breakup soon and let Stefano go gently into the good, fictional night.

I just have to get through this reunion week from hell first.

“Babe!”

I’m a half-hour from home, doing eighty on the highway in my beat-up old Honda, when my best friend from high school, Nita, calls.

“Hey, lady.” I hit the hands-free setup, and smile. Nita is the only reason I can actually stand the thought of this reunion. She could put the fun in a funeral, and we’re long overdue a catch-up.

“Are you here yet?” she demands. “I have hot goss, and nobody to share it with.”

“Saucy.”

“I wish,” she giggles. “All I’ll say for now is Brian Peterson is still buying cream at the pharmacy, but these days it’s not for acne.”

I laugh. “Poor Brian.”

“Poor Brian’s unsuspecting hookup from the bar last week, more like,” Nita says darkly. “Do you think I should put up a poster, warning that the after-effects might… linger a while?”

“You won’t need to, if Masie Finnegan is still working at the drugstore,” I reply. “Remember when she got drunk and told everyone that the mayor has a standing order for Viagra?”

“She’s lucky it made his poll rating shoot up,” Nita cackles. “Didn’t know the old man still had it in him.”

“In Mrs. Mayor, you mean,” I quip, and we laugh.

“Ah, this is why I’ve missed you,” Nita says.

“My love of petty gossip?”

“Exactly. I’ve been storing it up. Although, you were a hot topic at the market today,” she adds, “Everyone’s very disappointed the great Stefano won’t be making his big debut.”

I wince. “Word gets around, huh?”

“Don’t worry, I made a big deal about the wells in Guatemala,” Nita says cheerfully. “His shiny fictional halo is still intact.”

“It’s Peru, and thanks,” I tell her, smiling. Nita knows all about my Big Fake Boyfriend, hell, she’s the one who’s invented most of his heroic backstory. “The last thing I need is the town buzzing about a potential breakup before I arrive. They’d probably all take his side in the split!”

I hang up, switching the music to something spooky and fall-like as I turn off the highway and cross the old Ashford Bridge towards town. Nestled in the Connecticut country, surrounded by picturesque woods and farmland, Ashford Falls is like a Hallmark movie set come to life. Tourists flock year-round to enjoy our classic Main Street, hiking paths, and quaint town square. And this time of year… Well, even I can admit the place is something special. Trees ablaze with red and gold foliage, pumpkins on every front porch, and a schedule packed with fun town events. Fall is kind of our specialty: There’s apple picking at the local orchard, Halloween parades, and even a hay bale maze at one of the farms just outside town.

It’s delightful—to visit. But growing up here? Well, let’s just say even the most charming small-town can’t escape the fact that it’s small.

I turn off Main Street and drive the few short blocks home. I grew up in this house, a sprawling old Victorian, and as I let myself in and haul my duffel across the threshold, I can’t help feeling like I’m stepping back in time—even though there have been plenty of changes since I left. They opened up the wall between the old living room and den, and now there’s a gleaming new kitchen, too, with a fancy range that I swear my mom loves more than any of us.

“Hello?” I call, looking around.

“Back here!”

I dump my bag and head out to the back porch. Mom is kneeling in the yard with a trowel in one hand and a pair of underwear on her head.

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