Page 92 of Maybe We Can Fake It

Brenden chuckles. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

“I’m not stubborn.”

“Who said I was talking about you?” he asks, eyes sparkling playfully.

“I’mnot,” I argue. Even though, sure, I know I can be. But I’m not like my dad.

He doesn’t respond, just raises his wine glass to take a sip, hiding his smile behind it.

And okay, I’m probably making his point, but whatever. “If I’m so stubborn, then how come you can convince me to do just about anything you ask?”

His teasing expression fades into something much softer. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I...”

I have no idea what to say. Because I’m afraid the truth of it isn’t something either of us is ready for.

Once again, I’m saved by the waiter when he comes over to deliver Brenden’s lobster bisque and my side salad, along with a basket of hot rolls that smell amazing. We thank him, and as soon as he’s gone, I stab my fork into my salad and shove a large bite in my mouth like a coward.

Brenden idly stirs his spoon through the soup for a minute. Then he says, “I like that you always give in to me. But I hope you know I don’t take it for granted. I don’t... I would never takeyoufor granted.”

My heart does something odd then. Skips a beat, or flutters, or whatever dumb cliché you want to call it. He can’t say stuff like that and expect me not to fall even harder for him.

Is this still not supposed to be real?

“You make my days better whenever you’re around,” I say, the words escaping me before I can stop them. But he deserves to hear the truth.

He gasps softly and asks, “I do?”

God, how has he not already realized this?

I suppose I make it hard, since I don’t exactly offer my emotions too freely. Not the positive ones anyway. But shit, he makes me want to try.

So I reach for his free hand again. “You do. And you don’t even have to do anything. When I see you walking into the diner, I—” I break off, shaking my head. “You just make me happy. There’s something about you, like you make everyone happy. I’m sure you know that.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “I try to make people happy. I remember things about them, compliment them, because I know it’ll make them feel good. I’m not saying it’s not genuine, but itissomething I’m consciously doing. I don’t do all that with you though. Because for starters, I don’t think it would work onyou. But it’s mostly because I can simply exist with you. I don’t always have to be on and sunny if I’m not really feeling it.” He adjusts our hands so our fingers intertwine. “When I’m around you, I’m comfortable just being me, like that’s enough for you. And that makesmehappy.”

I’m struck speechless again, and this time the waiter doesn’t come over to save me. I’m trying to be open with him, letting him in when it’s never something I’ve been good at. But I’m afraid of beingtooopen, of revealing too much and scaring him away.

He said this wasn’t a real date. But he’s still holding my hand.

Apparently, I wait too long to respond, because he gives me a small smile and slowly slips his hand from mine. Then he takes his first taste of his soup, completely unaware that my heart is now practically beating itself out of my chest.

The soup must be delicious, because he moans softly around his spoon. Which does things to me that aren’t appropriate in a fancy, crowded restaurant. When he glances up and catches me staring, he blushes.

“This is really good. You need to try some,” he says, nudging the cup carefully toward me.

I try a spoonful. It’s creamy and perfectly seasoned, but I’m happy to slide the cup back to him so I can watch him enjoy it.

By the time our entrees arrive, we’re keeping up a normal, friendly conversation like we would in any other setting. Somehow the topic veers back to my dad, and I find myself sharing memories from my childhood and teen years that I haven’t thought about in forever.

It was just me and him for most of the time I was growing up. And while we’re not super close now, I idolized him when I was much younger. He taught me how to throw a baseball, how to drive, how to tie a tie (though I hated occasions when I had to wear them). When something went wrong, he knew how to fix it. It seemed like he was capable of anything.

But neither of us were the best communicators, which is likely partly to blame for the invisible wall that exists between us now. And that’s how I grew closer to my grandfather as I got older. He was a talker. Standing side by side in the diner’s kitchen, we talked as he taught me how to cook.

Cooking was one of the few things my dad didn’t have much skill for, and he had no interest in it. But I ended up loving it. And the more time I spent at the diner with my grandfather, the less time I spent with my dad.

Brenden gives me a contemplative look when I pause my stories to eat. “So one time, years ago,” he says, “May was walking home from a friend’s house, and she tripped on the sidewalk and skinned her knee. Your dad saw her crying as he drove by in his work van. So he stopped, used his first aid kit to clean and patch her up, then drove her home.”

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