Page 40 of Call You Mine
“Hey, do you think you can?—”
“I gotta go,” I quickly interrupt, ending the call before I start banging my head against the steering wheel.
I’m fed up and past the point of being surprised, already exhausted with the thought of calling my mom or Auggie. I know that my news—something that’s supposed to be goodand exciting and aboutmefor once—will somehow turn into another favor I’m expected to say yes to.
Usually, that wouldn’t bother me, especially since it sometimes helps with the guilt I feel whenever I say no or stick to my boundary of not dropping everything I’m doing just to go fix all their problems for them.
But I’m on edge.
Ever since I left Ava’s place last night, I’ve had this low, crawling sense of doom. Like one wrong move from me could blow the whole thing up for her—for Georgie. Like I’m one careless word or decision away from ruining the most important thing in their lives.
Ava texted me this afternoon that CPS granted her temporary custody of Georgie—the social worker went to their mom’s house this morning, and the decision was made.
Which means it was bad.
Ava’s mom and her house were in bad enough shape that CPS decided Georgie was safer anywhere else.
Safer with Ava.
Ava didn’t give me any other details—just a short message with a period at the end, finishing the conversation before it could even start.
I couldn’t even type up a response before she sent a message asking if I was free tonight to go over the rest of our plan. CPS’s investigation into her mom is moving faster than I think either of us thought it would, and that means we have to be prepared for whatever might come our way in the next few weeks—next fewdays.
Of course, I said yes and invited them to come over.
If Ava’s going to be Georgie’s guardian, then my house—the one we told Patricia we’d be moving into after we got married—has to look like a real home.
The safe, stable, andpermanenthome we promised.
Not some place we stage for meetings and inspections.
In the end, anything too polished starts to look rehearsed,and the last thing we want is suspicion—especially with CPS already starting to dig through our backgrounds, looking into everyone in our lives, asking questions, and looking for anything that doesn’t add up.
So we act normal. As normal as we can in the midst of a fake relationship… a fake engagement… a fakemarriage.
No overplaying the relationship, no fake lovey-dovey bullshit. Just us—Ava keeping me on my toes while making me want to beg for her on my knees at the same time.
It was Ava’s idea not to bother with an act. Our story’s already full of fabrications—too close to the truth to be lies, too far to feel safe. Adding another layer would only make it like swallowing glass and smiling through it.
It makes sense.
And I hate that it makes sense.
Because this fake marriage feels like permission and torture all at once.
Permission to look at her the way I already do. To touch her without overthinking it. To brush my hand against her back, lean too close, make her laugh in the hopes of seeing that stupidly perfect smile.
Torture, because how the hell am I supposed to play house with her every day and not fall harder than I already have?
We still have to decide when we’re actually getting married, and it’s something I’m looking forward to and dreading at the same time. I looked it up today, and it’s an easy process. Simple and straightforward. Like we’re filing paperwork for a car title or a new driver’s license, not legally tying our lives together or anything.
All we have to do is pick a day.
Like it’s that easy.
Pulling into my driveway, I grab the bags of groceries from the trunk and head inside to start on dinner. The girls should be here in about an hour, so it gives me just enough time to cook up a quick meal for them.
I’m straining the pasta, just having put the garlic bread in the oven, when my phone rings. I glance at it where it is sitting on my counter, and I’m surprised to see Jack’s name come across the screen.
