Page 20 of Pretend for Me

“Can you stop saying penises?” Nisha drones.

“All I’m saying is, with the way I like to be fucked, a micropenis will not do.”

Sarina snorts out a laugh, quickly snuffing it with her hand when Nisha shoots her a derisive look.

“I don’t know, Piper,” Nisha continues. “This seems like a disaster waiting to happen. You can fool anyone else, but youcan’t fool us. Ever since Andrés, you’ve been scared to commit?—”

“Oh, here we go,” I huff, rolling my eyes to the ceiling, as if pleading for divine intervention. “You know my feelings about commitment aren’t solely based on my asshole ex-boyfriend from high school.”

“Yes, but you haven’t been exclusive with anyone since him, either. I don’t know . . . this is new territory for you in so many ways.”

“And what?” I ask, rising off the couch, partly to refill my glass from the pitcher on the kitchen counter and partly to escape Nisha’s penetrating gaze. “You’re afraid I’ll fall in love with him?”

“Or worse.” She turns on the couch to watch me walk back with a full glass, which I accidentally brimmed, so now I have to take a big swig to make sure it doesn’t spill over the sides. “Hurt, heartbroken.”

Nisha has had an interesting history with love and heartbreak, having married her high school sweetheart not too long after we graduated. Except after a few years of being married, they divorced when he made his pursuit of Hollywood a priority over their marriage. And though she’s been single for years, I know she still pines for her ex. Hell, just yesterday I caught her watching one of his movie trailers, only for her to quickly close the tab when she saw me. She swears she’s over him, but Sarina and I know the truth.

I shake my head as if the notion of being heartbroken is preposterous. Fool me once and all that. Won’t be going down that path again. “You don’t have to worry about that. When no hearts are involved, none can be broken. Plus, you know my rules. They’re ironclad.”

Nisha shakes her head with an exhausted sigh. “Dear God, not your rules.”

“They’re ironclad,” I repeat. Because they are.

Sarina, who’s downed most of her drink in the time Nisha and I have been talking, finally chimes in, “I’d like to officially register my vote that this is a monumentally bad idea.”

“Noted,” I reply, taking another sip.

“But seeing as you’re hell-bent on forging ahead,” a smile overtakes her entire face as she lifts her almost-empty cocktail glass in a toast, “let’s get the party started, bitches! To micropenises!”

Nisha groans, lifting her glass as a reluctant smile forms over her face. I join next, lifting mine to clink with theirs. And right as we’re settling back into the couch, my phone buzzes on the table—a FaceTime call from Mom.

I excuse myself, leaving my friends to their concerned whispers, before answering my phone. A smile spreads across my face as my mom’s familiar features paint my screen.

While Rowan and I have eyes the same golden-green color as the man we unfortunately call our father, Mom’s are a warm honey-brown, the same shade as her and my hair. Her shoulder-length locks look freshly trimmed, in contrast to my long and straight hair, cascading to my waist.

“Hey, Mom!” I greet her. “Love the haircut. The bangs work for you!”

“Hey, sweetheart!” she chimes, swiping a hand over said bangs. “Thanks, I just wanted a change.”

“Well, it looks great!” I say, noting how the new hair seems to have taken a few years off her features.

Like Rowan, my dad was a famous hockey player at one time, but unlike my brother, he was always a shit person—a coward and a narcissist. After nearly two decades of marriage, during which Mom dedicated her life to him and to raising us so he could further his career, he left her for a woman almost half her age.

Just like that. Snap of his fingers and two decades of love evaporated intothin air.

Rowan and I watched Mom pour all of herself into that marriage—her youth, her needs, her identity. And what did Dad do? Just up and left.

For years, Dad never spared a glance for the family he abandoned. And after years of hoping and waiting for him to get his head out of his ass, Mom also gave up, settling down with her second husband—a man who treats her like the queen she is—in Tampa.

I couldn’t be happier for her, really. But I also can’t deny that watching her heart shatter like that, remembering the nights where she cried herself to sleep, fundamentally altered my perception of love and commitment.

So, see? It wasn’t Andrés who brought on my issues. They were firmly in place prior to him.

In some ways, losing Dad brought Mom, Rowan, and me closer. While Dad was in our lives, Mom was always on edge, trying to be the perfect wife. She’d fret over every detail, from keeping a spotless house to making the most perfect meal every night, while Dad treated us all like we were a burden he had to carry. He had some respect for Rowan because of their shared interest in hockey, but me? He treated me like a disposable trinket.

And while it took Rowan years to sever those ties with Dad, I closed the door on him long ago. My life is not a rent-free apartment. If you want space in it, you have to earn your place; pay the rent. I simply have no room for people who haven’t earned the right to be there, including my father.

Sure, my parents are just one example of a failed relationship. Perhaps I shouldn’t be as jaded as I am, but then I saw it happen again to both Nisha and Sarina—relationships that left them broken and picking up their pieces.

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