Page 58 of Maybe We Can Fake It

By “us” I’m assuming she means her and all the other busybodies in this town. And I wince, because,yes, I’ve been keeping secrets for a long-ass time. But I hope she’s referring to something inane, rather than the biggest secret that I like to sleep with men. Or damn, she couldn’t know about me and Brenden pretending to date, could she?

“What do you mean?” I hedge.

She wags her finger at me. “You know very well what I mean. I heard you’ve been spending quite a lot of time at a certain Brenden Sanderson’s house lately. What’s going on there?”

Crap.

“We’re friends,” I tell her, which is true enough. “He’s just needed my help with some things around the house.”

“Oh, but I still haven’t gotten you to do my rain gutters. I see how it is.”

I resist the urge to ask this woman why she feels entitled to my time just because she’s known me since I was born.

“Anyway,” she goes on, “are you sure it isn’t more than that? Because Brenden is a lovely man, you know. And he’s gay as can be.”

“I’m not—Uh—We don’t—”

Fucking hell, make a sentence.

Why is she bringing this up with me? She doesn’t know I’m gay. She can’t possibly know. Nobody knows but Brenden.

“Relax dear,” she says, shaking her head. “I know you don’t swing that way. I’m only saying...”

“What?” I ask, though I’m afraid to know.

She reaches out a veiny hand to pat my forearm. “People can change, can’t they? You never know. Can’t say I’d ever want to take a dick up the ass, but to each his own. And you’ve been alone for so long. Wouldn’t you like to find someone? I’m only saying, it might be nice. Might be a good match.”

My eyes have grown so wide I’m afraid they might fall out of my skull. Pretty sure I heard Ellie, the children’s librarian, choking on her food at the dick-up-the-ass part.

Okay, I need to get myself together and shut this down before gossip leaks back to my dad.

“Mrs. Morris,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “This isn’t an appropriate conversation to have here while I’m working. Not sure where you got these ideas, but it’s not really appropriate for you to ask me about my sex life at all.”

“I’m not asking about your sex life, I’m asking about your dating life,” she counters. As if the wordsdickandassdidn’tcome out of her mouth in a horrifying way that I’ll never be able to forget.

“Either way, I don’t think my personal life is any of your business.”

“I only want to know you’re happy, dear. We all want you to be happy. Especially your father. He’d be thrilled to see you finally settle down. He worries about you, you know.”

He wants me to find awomanand settle down, I think bitterly. Pretty sure he wouldn’t be thrilled if he found out I was dating Brenden.

Not that I really am. Or ever will be.

“I promise you, I’m happy,” I tell her. And if the words feel forced...

“If you were happy, you wouldn’t be such a grouch all the time.”

Someone laughs at that, but I don’t look to see who. I’d give anything for this not to be happening.

Gritting my teeth to avoid yelling at a senior citizen, I ask, “Mrs. Morris, would you like to order anything?”

She looks at me like I’m the crazy one, then says, “No dear, I already ate. Have a nice day.” And with that, she turns and strides out, leaving behind a trail of her overly floral perfume.

In her absence, I risk a glance around the room. Most of the tables are filled with customers. Neighbors. Gossips. And everyone’s eyes are on me.

“What are you all looking at?” I snap. “Eat your food or get out.”

That does the trick. Everyone returns their focus to their plates and their dining companions, but I’m left reeling.

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