Page 4 of Maybe We Can Fake It

BRENDEN

TWELVE YEARS LATER

"Daaaaaad!”

I groan as I stumble down the stairs with half-open eyes, still buttoning my work shirt. Mornings aren’t my strong suit.

“What?” I ask when I reach the kitchen.

My daughter turns to me with a mug of coffee clutched in both hands and raises her eyebrows like she’s surprised to see me standing here. As if she didn’t just yell for me like the damn house was on fire. “Nothing. I didn’t hear you get up, so I wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna be late for work.”

Fixing her with a cold stare, I say, “I was up. I know how to set an alarm.”

She holds my stare, unfazed. “You also know how to throw your phone across the room so hard it breaks, thereby turning off the alarm.”

I open my mouth to argue, then snap it shut, because she’s got me there. I did do that. But in my defense, it was onlyonetime. Paying for a new phone taught me my lesson.

May smiles and extends her arms, holding the coffee out to me like a peace offering.

Taking it, I say, “Thanks, kid.” As I step past her, I pause to press a kiss to the side of her head. “Do you want cereal or Toaster Strudels?”

“Did you remember to buy more of the raspberry ones?”

“Yup,” I tell her, preening a little. See? Even though my thirteen-year-old daughter feels responsible for making sure I get up in the morning, I’m totally nailing this parenting thing.

“Then I’ll have those, please,” she says, as she goes over to pour herself another coffee from the pot. “And Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You buttoned your shirt wrong.”

Damn it.

After tossing a couple frozen pastries into the toaster, I fix my shirt. Then I grab a plate and wait for the strudels to pop up. When they do, I attempt to grab them, doing that hot potato routine where it takes a few times of dropping them back because they’re too hot before I manage to get them out of the toaster. I’ve just finished spreading the icing on top when my phone rings.

I don’t know who would be calling me this early unless there’s something wrong at work. Setting May’s plate on the table in front of her, I slide my phone out of my pocket and answer without checking the screen. “Hello?”

“Hi, Brenden!” replies a voice much too wide awake and chipper for this early in the morning.

I manage not to sigh. “Elise. It’s good to hear from you.”

That’s a lie, but May’s head perks up at her grandmother’s name. I’m sure she’s happy to hear from her, at least.

It’s not that I dislike May’s grandparents. My relationship with them is just... complicated. They were understandably upset when they found out April wanted me to adopt May. They even talked about fighting it, but ultimately, they gave up. Presumably because they knew they had no legal ground, since April made sure she got all the paperwork taken care of in time, and after my parents’ deaths, I had enough financial means to support a child. I suspected they were also afraid that if they fought against me, I might keep May away from them entirely.

Even though they eventually accepted that I’d be May’s father, they still make me a little anxious all these years later.

“How are you?” Elise asks. Followed immediately by, “How’s May?”

I tell her I’m fine, then give her what she really cares about. “May’s doing great! Her grades are excellent this year, like always. I think she’s read her way through half of Mayweather’s local library by now.”

Glancing down, I catch May rolling her eyes at me, so I ruffle her wavy hair. I don’t mention to her grandmother that I let her dye it lavender.

“We’ll have to send her some gift cards,” Elise says, and I try not to huff in annoyance. I may not be wealthy like her and her husband, but I can afford to buy my daughter books. “She has spring break coming up, doesn’t she?”

“It starts tomorrow.”

Elise hums. “Grant and I were hoping we could coordinate a visit, but unfortunately, he couldn’t swing it in time with his work.”

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