Page 12 of Fake Dating the Next-Door
My father steps in behind her, giving me a brief hug. "The place looks... colorful," he says, eyeing my yellow walls with the same expression he'd use for a modern art exhibit he doesn't understand but feels obligated to appreciate.
Then, as if just noticing the large man standing beside me, both my parents' gazes shift to Garrett. My mother's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline, while my father's expression changes into something more guarded.
"Mom, Dad, this is Garrett Stone," I say, squeezing his hand probably harder than necessary. "My boyfriend."
The silence that follows is exactly what I was hoping for—complete, stunned shock.
My mother recovers first. "Your... boyfriend? Well! This is certainly a surprise. You didn't mention you were seeing anyone, Sunshine."
"It's still relatively new," I explain, leaning slightly against Garrett's solid frame. "We wanted to be sure before making any announcements."
"Three months isn't that new," Garrett says, his deep voice rumbling beside me. He extends his free hand to my father. "Mr. Bloom. Nice to meet you."
My father shakes his hand, and I can see him noting Garrett's firm grip and direct gaze. "Three months, hmm? And you live...?"
"Next door," Garrett supplies. "I've owned my place for a while."
"Garrett's ex-military," I add, knowing this will score points with my dad.
Sure enough, my father's expression softens slightly. "Which branch?"
"Army. Fifteen years, three tours in Afghanistan."
"My brother was Navy," Dad says, a new note of respect in his voice.
"I gathered as much from the USS Enterprise model in Sunny's childhood photos," Garrett replies smoothly.
I blink in surprise. I'd shown him those photos? No, I hadn't, but he must have noticed them on the bookshelf during dinner last night. The man doesn't miss a detail.
My mother is circling Garrett like he's an interesting specimen she's trying to classify. "And what do you do now, Garrett?"
"Custom furniture restoration, mainly. Some construction and renovation work when the projects interest me."
I can practically see my mother mentally adjusting whatever narrative she'd been crafting. Garrett doesn't fit neatly into any of the boxes she expected.
"How fascinating," she says, in that tone that could either be genuine interest or polite dismissal.
"Mom," I interject, "let's get you both something to drink before the interrogation continues, shall we? Garrett brought a lovely red wine."
"That would be wonderful, dear." She follows me toward the kitchen, while my father continues questioning Garrett about his military service.
In the kitchen, my mother immediately leans in close. "Sunshine," she whispers urgently, "he's at least fifteen years older than you!"
"And so what? Age is just a number."
"But he's so... serious. And those scars..." She glances back toward the living room where Garrett is showing my father something on his phone, probably military photos. "He doesn't seem like your usual type at all."
I busy myself opening the wine, choosing my words. "Maybe that's a good thing, considering how my previous relationships turned out."
"Well, yes, but—"
"Mom," I cut her off gently, handing her a glass of wine. "Garrett is kind, responsible, and he treats me well. Isn't that what you and Dad always wanted for me?"
She takes a sip, studying me over the rim of her glass. "Are you happy, Sunshine? That's all we've ever wanted."
The question catches me off guard. In our rehearsals, I'd prepared for skepticism, judgment, even disapproval, but not this simple, direct inquiry about my happiness.
Am I happy? The strange thing is, standing in my kitchen, playing this charade with Garrett, I realize I am. Happier than I've been in a long time, actually.
