Page 74 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“Or you’ll fall back asleep,” I say, because he hasn’t gotten out of bed yet.

His smile is entirely unashamed. “That’s also a possibility.”

The way he looks right now in the morning light, lazy and happy and beautiful, has me tempted to crawl back into the bed and sleep for a bit longer too, just to be close to him. But I have to do the responsible adult thing and go run my business.

“I’ll meet you guys on the green later,” I remind him.

The idea of going to MayFest with him, May, and the Richardsons is pretty nerve-wracking. Not because I don’t like going to the town festivals (although I don’t), but because being out in public with them will be dangerous. But Brenden and I already talked about how we have to be careful, balance Elise's and Grant's expectations of our relationship with what we’re letting the town see.

At least it isn’t unheard of for Brenden to drag me around with him to do things I don’t want to do. We just can’t act too much like a couple while we do this.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he assures me.” Even though I know he’s not entirely relaxed about this thing either.

“Right. Yeah. I’m gonna...” I gesture toward the bathroom.

“Right,” he repeats. “Go ahead. I know you need to hurry.”

I’m doing okay on time, but I do hurry in the shower, not wanting to give myself any extra time to stress. When I come out of the ensuite ready to leave, I’m not surprised to find Brenden back under the covers, eyes closed, breathing softly in sleep.

I allow myself a few moments to watch him, taking in every detail, then cross to the bed, unable to resist placing a featherlight kiss on his temple before I get out of here.

Don’t get used to this, I warn myself as I close his bedroom door quietly behind me.

Walkingoutofthediner and heading over to the green, I feel like I might be walking to my own death. This fake dating arrangement was complicated enough when we only had to do it in the privacy of Brenden’s house. Now it’s gotten even more complicated, since we somehow need to pull it off in public without anyone else catching on.

But would it really be so bad if they did?

I remember Mrs. Morris the other day, her colorful way of suggesting I give dating men a try, and I almost laugh. Then I think of my dad and those words he shouted to the football players on the TV screen, and the urge to laugh disappears.

You can see the green from the diner’s glass front. It’s right across the road, and yet I manage to cycle through all too many emotions by the time I’m stepping onto the grass. But then I spot Brenden and his little group standing off to the side on the outskirts of the festival activities. May is pointing out one of the booths to her grandmother, Grant is frowning down at his phoneas he types something, and Brenden is looking right at me. He’s smiling, and the smile only grows as I walk his way.

And now suddenly, the only thing I feel is pretty damn happy.

I’m not sure what I ever did to deserve this man smiling at me like that. Like I’m the one person he most wants to see. But somehow amongst my questionable decisions and shitty attitude, I must have managed to dosomethingright.

Brenden steps closer when I reach him, as if he might hug or kiss me. Then he stops, catching himself, and just says, “Hey.”

May’s grandparents both greet me simply as well, while May gives me a smile to rival her dad’s. My face is doing something funny, almost unfamiliar, as I greet them all back. It takes me half a second to realize I’m smiling. I’m smiling, and it’s not forced at all. I’m smiling, and I mean it.

Yes, I do smile on occasion. Especially when Brenden’s around. But something about this moment feels different. Important. It feels like I’m a part of their group, like I belong here with these people. People whose company I actually enjoy, even Elise and Grant. And people who somehow, inexplicably, seem to enjoy my company in return.

Turns out I kind of like this feeling. Who knew.

Brenden’s eyes are curious as he watches me, as if he can tell there’s some weird inner workings going on in my mind. Rather than share anything I’m thinking though, I ask if everyone’s ready to check out the festival, and Brenden tells May to lead the way.

She heads off, bypassing and weaving around booths like she knows exactly where she wants her first stop to be. When she comes to a halt in front of a plain looking booth, I glance up at the small wooden sign hanging over it that features nothing but a painted illustration of a cinnamon roll.

Colleen Barlow stands alone in the booth, ready to greet us. She’s in her fifties, teaches second grade at the elementaryschool, and is known around town for these cinnamon rolls. She could probably put the bakery out of business if she wanted to, but she says she only bakes for the joy of it and that baking for a profit would ruin that joy.

Although I’m sure she makes a killing selling at the festivals. I always hear people complaining afterward about how she sold out before they could get to her. That’s probably why May ran directly here.

Brenden looks equally as excited as May as the two of them peer at the display of obscenely enormous cinnamon rolls. They’re practically drooling.

Elise, however, isn’t impressed. “Shouldn’t we have something substantial for lunch before you eat sweets?”

“Grandma, you have to get them before they sell out,” May insists.

“It’s true,” Brenden says, backing her up. “Trust me, you guys don’t wanna miss out on one of these.”

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