Page 3 of Pretend You're Mine
“Mhmm,,” Teren said in the tones of someone who may be won over if significant groveling was involved.
“And right now, I’m sticky and sweaty and I just want to go home and take a shower and pass out, ok?”
“Fine, but I can tell you’re holding out on me. As soon as you get cleaned up and get some rest, you’re gonna spill it sister. Or else,” he said, tossing me a sideways glance.
“Just take me home please,” I begged. “Whatever,” he said, pressing his foot into the gas. “You’re just lucky I didn’t meet my own tall, dark stranger last night, because then you’d be on your own.”
I smiled thinly. Teren was right in more ways than one. Pretty much every other night we’d gone out, Teren was usually the one who ended up drinking too much and hooking up. Last night should’ve gone that way too, and would’ve, if it weren’t for all this stress about Eighteen.
Although Teren had his own things to worry about too. He still hadn’t mustered up the nerve to introduce any of his longer-lasting boyfriends to our parents, and I couldn’t blame him. Mom and Dad were the ultra-conservative, cross-wearing, every-Sunday-church-going types, and the only thing I can ever remember them saying about homosexuals was that they were “abnormal” with disgusted faces I’d never forget.
Despite Teren’s precautions, including a half-hearted attempt at a ‘girlfriend’ that had lasted all of two weeks when he was eighteen, I think they were starting to get suspicious.
Right now, as we drove, Teren was glaring at the non-existent traffic and green lights, getting us back to my place in record time. His silence was getting to me. I’d had enough bullshit in the past twenty-four hours to have to deal with his attitude too.
“Stop pretending you’ll hate me for all eternity,” I said. “I’m really sorry. It was a total bitch move to just ditch you and then not answer my phone. I won’t do it again.”
Teren gave an exasperated sigh. “All right then. I suppose I will forgive you.”
“What a martyr you are,” I quipped, rifling through my purse until I found my forgiveness bribe.
When I handed him the extra-large Oh Henry bar, Teren’s expression didn’t change.
“The things I do for my sister,” he said, taking a big melancholy bite of it.
My smile was cut short when my phone went off. The text was from an unknown number, but as soon as I read it – I wasn’t kidding – I knew exactly who’d sent it.
The picture attached to the message showed a marriage certificate which would’ve been unremarkable, even with Xander Peterson signature scrawled on the left-hand side. Except, there at the right-hand side, was mine: Naomi Peterson.
2
Xander
“Yes, Papa, I got married,” I said, bored, as he burst into expletives and then finally descended into a morose, “When were you planning to introduce us to her?”
“Christmas, of course.”
“And you thought that marrying a woman you’ve known for less than a year and had never introduced to your family was a good idea because…”
“I love her,” I said simply.
That shut him up good. Papa knew better than to argue – he and my mom had eloped when they were just eighteen.
He started to say something else, but the deed was done, I was ready to get to work.
“Listen,” I told him, “I’ve got to go work now, but she’ll be here for you to meet when you come in a few days.”
“I should hope so,” he growled. “Being your wife and all.”
“Goodbye Papa,” I said firmly.
“Goodbye,” he said.
As I hung up, I checked my phone.
Still no response from Naomi.
I rose and went over to my office door. Although I was tired and sulky, it was time to get to work. I’d gotten there through pure willpower – forcing down the coffee, ignoring the whining inner dialogue, and now I planned to continue to do the same. Work, work, and more work.
It would do me good to go into work mode. Declutter my thoughts. Last night had been insane, to say the least. No point in spending all day Sunday having Saturday night roll around my head.
When I opened the door, Mrs. Birmingham was already there, Chanel bag and headache-orange-red scowl in tow, evidently having muscled past my receptionist. Mr. Birmingham looked miserable, as usual, beside her.
“Our appointment, ” the old bat said, pointing to her watch.
“I was two minutes late,” her husband complained.
Mrs. Birmingham protested, throwing up both her fleshy hands as if her words were guns. “Yes, I’m sure your morning was stressful. What? One of your floozies forget where she tossed her panties last night?”
The insult sounded suspiciously like a line from a movie, which wasn’t unheard of. Mrs. Birmingham was a C-list actress and channeled all her energy from her unsuccessful career into making life a living nightmare for her husband. Not that he wasn’t a character himself.
