Page 56 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
“Just Steve is fine,” he says.
Nope. I can see calling Josh’s mom Miss Elizabeth but there is no way this guy will ever be Steve. I smile because I feel stiff again, and any response I think of sounds wooden and weird.
Josh calls, “Game’s on,” and Mr. Brower tips his beer at me in salute before heading back to the others.
“Need help?” I ask Gramps. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to put off returning to the rest of the family.
“I do not.” He straightens and walks in, closing the patio door behind him. “Can’t let anyone else fool with it or it ruins the magic.”
I stifle a sigh and head back to the game. I try to respond to any questions or comments directed at me, but otherwise, I don’t say much. It’s just the constant feeling that whatever I say will come out wrong. It’s how I always felt around Bryce’s family too; the harder I’d tried to fit in, the worse I seemed to.
Josh shoots me a few questioning looks, but I only smile and shake my head, likeI’m fine.
The game ends and we lose, but the Brower clan takes it well since it’s as deep as we’ve gone in the playoffs in a long time. Gramps stands. “Let’s eat.”
Mr. and Mrs. Brower climb to their feet and follow him into the kitchen. I start to rise too but Josh lays his hand on my arm and holds me in place, his touch light. “They’re going to get everything ready. We’ll serve ourselves buffet style. We’ll be in charge of cleanup.”
Reagan nods. “Truly, don’t worry about it.” She gives Josh a searching look. “Have they come by to see your place yet?”
His lips flatten into a straight line for a fraction of a second before he shakes his head. “Not yet.”
She sighs. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “They’ll get around to it eventually.”
“So how’s work?” she asks.
I listen as he tells her, but I can’t help but feel like they had a much bigger, deeper conversation in that short exchange about his parents visiting his condo. He’s been living there almost three weeks. They live fifteen minutes away. Why haven’t they seen it?
I consider the interactions I’ve seen between them. If he had an open relationship with them, why would I need to be his fake girlfriend? And as I rethink more of their exchanges, I see slight undercurrents of tension I missed before.
It causes me to pay close attention when we settle around their large dining room table to eat. The slight curves bracketing Josh’s mouth. The way his dad studies him, like he’s watching for something. But for what? The way Reagan and Mrs. Brower keep the conversation moving as if they’re afraid of letting quiet moments in.
I replay balcony talks with Josh as I listen, trying to hear hints I might have missed, or spaces that appear in hindsight when you’re looking for them. A space like your parents not coming to visit the first place you’ve bought.
When dinner is over, Josh, Reagan, and Trace all stand and begin collecting plates and dishes for cleanup. I stand too, but Mrs. Brower waves me back into my seat. “You don’t have to clean, Samantha. You’re company.”
It stings. Again, it reminds me of Bryce’s family, the way his mother especially made sure I understood I wasn’t family. Maybe it’s because Mrs. Brower calling me “Samantha” feels so formal. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t call me “honey” or “sweetie.”
Whatever it is, I keep a smile on my face, and when Josh’s parents and Gramps finally rise from the table, I do too and speed into the family room, sitting with his niece on the floor and helping her with a puzzle until Josh comes in about fifteen minutes later.
“I should get you home,” he says, holding out his good hand to pull me up.
Once again, I’m distracted by how much I like the slide of his palm against mine, but it’s not even close to enough to offset the sour feeling in my stomach, the one that has grown more acidic as the evening goes on.
Neither of his parents object. There’s no “Oh, so soon?” No transparent efforts to keep Josh longer. Whenever we visit Ruby’s family, they’re constantly wheedling their kids to stay longer, and none of the kids is ever in a hurry to leave.
It’s not my problem, I know. But I’m so glad when dinner is over, and I wonder if Josh feels that way too. But that kind of information, that’s not something that’s relevant for two people on their second and final fake date. Or even for neighbors to know about each other. When we get in the car, I don’t bring it up. Maybe it was my imagination anyway.
Josh puts us on the road toward home and throws a smile my way. “Thanks for pinch hitting.”
“Sure,” I say. “But you’re lucky it was brisket because I wouldn’t have done it for anything else.”
He laughs. “Gramps wasn’t lying. It really is that good, huh?”
“It really is. I like your Gramps.”
“Yeah.” He falls quiet, but he’s still smiling, an affectionate smile, like he’s recalling a memory. “He’s the best.”
