Page 88 of Pretend for Me

Oh yeah? Then it must be that crossword you left for me to finish. Honestly, Menon, how do you call yourself a genius? I had to erase your answer to forty-six across. The eight-letter name for a variety of apple often used in baking wasn’t Braeburn; it was Cortland. Which is why you weren’t able to solve twelve-down: Constable. As in John Constable, the painter famous for his depiction of clouds.

Dev

Firstly, I don’t call myself a genius. And secondly, no, it isn’t the crossword I want to see, either. Stop being purposely obtuse.

And even if our fun banter was destined to end shortly in the future, along with our fabricated relationship, I had a smile as wide as the Mississippi River stretched across my face the rest of the day.

“So, how has it been living with him?” Nisha asks, settling into a chair after taking off her light jacket and showing off her full sleeve of tattoos.

Even with her hair pulled into a messy ponytail and literally nothing but a dab of lip gloss on her face, my best friend is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. A warrior-goddess walking amongst us plebeians.

Beneath that tough exterior lies not only the soft soul of a fiercely loyal friend, but also a badly broken heart she guards with all her might. She often teases me for being closed off about my past, but I’m nowhere as reserved as she is.

Not that I’m reserved, per se. I don’t know anyone who would use words like “shy” or “private” to describe me. I’m a ball of energy with a dab of eccentricism thrown in for balance. Okay, so maybe a little more than a dab, but who’s really measuring, anyway?

As for my past? It’s just not a story I like to lead with. My dad was—and still is—a toxic asshole, and my ex intensified the insecurities my dad instilled in me throughout my childhood. I’ve witnessed firsthand how promises turn into lies and how love morphs into hate and resentment, and I’ve cultivated my distrust for romantic love and my skepticism toward commitment.

You don’t have to be Freud to determine I have a few underlying issues that I overcompensate with my adventurous spirit, but I’d argue that I’m not living a lie, either. I actuallyamhappy. I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

Does that mean my insecurities and doubts don’t sneak up on me? No. I’m only human; a work-in-progress. Does that also mean I’m immune to someone trying to scale my high walls? No . . . I see him, and he’s succeeding.

“I feel like with how busy we’ve all been, we haven’t properly chatted about your billionaire since you went to Disneyland,” Sarina adds, grabbing two glasses of the Bloody Marys I’d set out, bringing one to her sister before settling into her chair. “Rome told me how much fun he had?—”

“It was the best!” Rome yells from the family room, examining a new handmade structure of the solar system Dev got made especially for him. “You should have seen Mr. Dev’s face when he was on Space Mountain. He almost peed his pants, Mom! I didn’t. I was prepared for it. I knew it would be scary, but I wasn’t worried.”

Sarina, Nisha, and I giggle before I decide to irritate my little smart-Alec nephew with one of my dumb questions. “Rome, do you think we came out of Space Mountain younger than when we went in because we went at the speed of light?”

Rome slaps his forehead and shakes his head, making us all laugh.

“No, Aunt Piper,” he groans, feeling second-hand embarrassment for me. “We can’t travel at that speed yet.”

“Oh.” I pout. “I really thought we were going that fast.”

Rome sighs. “Where’s Mr. Dev? He knows so much more about space.”

“He should be here soon, buddy,” I answer, still giggling.

“Okay, so give us the deets before your man comes home,” Sarina whispers out of earshot of Rome. “Have you guys . . . you know?” She wiggles her brows, making her meaning clear.

I can’t even help the smile that spreads over my face.God, have we ever.

It’s not like me to blush or have butterflies swoop through my stomach, but just the thought of Dev does that to me. Like, seriously, who the hell is he turning me into?

“Maybe,” I respond coyly.

Sarina gasps. “You hussy! I knew it! And? How was it?”

My thoughts filter back to the past week and a half. I can no longer remember how many times we’ve had sex—the most incredible sex, in fact, where my lady bits sing and weep and dance and dream. Basically, my vagina feels like she’s in her own little Broadway musical. But the aftermath of each night is etched into my memory with alarming clarity.

Whole.

Happy.

Like I was floating on clouds.

Floating on clouds? Christ. Am I serious with that analogy?

When did I start waxing poetic?

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