Page 12 of Faking It Right
RYKER
Mom practically vibratedwith excitement as we approached, her eyes sparkling like a kid’s on Christmas morning. She let out a delighted squeal that could’ve shattered glass.
“Biscuit! I’m so glad you’re here!” She rushed forward, wrapping me in a hug so tight I dropped my overnight bag with athud. Her familiar floral perfume acted like a time machine to every scraped knee and bad report card. “And Harley! My other favorite son!”
She released me only to throw her arms around Harley, who accepted her enthusiastic embrace with far more grace than I had. He lifted her slightly off the ground, eliciting a giggle like a schoolgirl.
“Look at you two!” She stepped back, hands on her hips, assessing us like a seasoned critic at a fashion show. Her floral wrap dress fluttered with her animated movements, the vibrant colors a perfect match for her bubbly personality. “You’re both skin and bones! Don’t they feed you at that college? Or are youboys too busy getting wrapped up in each other to remember to eat?”
My face heated up at her implication. “Mom, we eat plenty.”
“Nonsense! I can practically see your ribs through your shirt, biscuit.” She reached out to pinch my cheek, but I ducked away. “And Harley, darling, your face looks so thin. You both need some hearty home-cooked meals.”
“We’d never turn down your cooking, Jacinta.” Harley flashed her his most charming smile. “By the way, is that a new haircut? The layers frame your face perfectly.”
My mother preened under his attention, patting her dark bob. “Thank you! I had it done last week. Danson didn’t even notice until I pointed it out. But you’re a dear boy who always notices the little things, aren’t you, Harley? Ryker could learn a thing or two from you.”
“Someone has to pay attention to the important details,” he said, flashing a smile so charming it could melt butter from across the room.
“You must be ravenous after that long drive! I’ve made?—”
“Mom, let them at least get through the door before you start force-feeding them your lasagna.” Sawyer’s voice cut through my mother’s enthusiastic rambling as she descended the grand staircase in the foyer.
Her turquoise-and-lavender hair cascaded over her shoulders, complementing her fashionable wide-leg pants and fitted, cropped sweater that showed a hint of skin. A few dainty rings adorned her fingers, while a knowing smirk played on her lips as she surveyed the scene.
I had never been more thankful for my sister’s timely intervention.
“Sawyer!” My mother pivoted, her gaze zeroing in on her daughter. “Don’t they look a bit thin to you? And doesn’t Harley look like he just stepped off a runway?”
My sister bounded down the stairs, giving me a quick hug before pulling Harley into one of her signature hug-your-soul embraces. “I promise they haven’t forgotten how forks work, Mom. And yes, Harley always dresses like he’s auditioning to be God’s personal stylist while the rest of us are over here rocking clearance rack chic.”
And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Harley was poured into a jeans so tight they should have come with paparazzi photographers snapping shots of his ass. It paired with a patterned shirt unbuttoned just low enough to suggest he might be allergic to modesty and a sharp blazer. Even his belt and shoes were coordinated, like he’d gotten a memo from Heaven’s wardrobe department labeled “smite them with style.”
My mother ushered us into the house, closing the door behind her. “Don’t just linger in the entryway. Harley, you know where everything is, so make yourself at home, honey.”
As we strolled through the house, nostalgia hit me like a brick to the face. The eclectic art collection my mother had curated over the years was exactly as I remembered, yet it felt different now that I was here with Harley playing the role of my “boyfriend.”
Her taste in art had always been unique. A massive abstract piece dominated one wall, all swirls of vibrant colors that she insisted represented “the journey of life.” The built-in shelvesoverflowed with quirky figurines and knickknacks from her travels, each with a backstory longer than a soap opera.
“I’ve kept your room exactly as you left it,” my mother announced as we followed her through the living room. “Well, mostly. I may have dusted a bit and swapped out those ghastly posters for some more refined artwork.”
“Mom, please tell me you didn’t,” I groaned. Her redecorating habits rarely enhanced my style.
“Don’t worry, I saved your precious band posters,” she reassured me.
Sawyer snickered behind me. “She replaced them with Renaissance art. Hope you’re cool with naked cherubs watching you sleep.”
“They’re classical representations of divine love,” my mother corrected. “I figured he could use the inspiration for when he meets Maylin for their date.”
Harley caught my eye and bit his lip to stifle a laugh. I shot him a warning glance, which only cranked the amusement in his eyes up to a blinding wattage.
I refrained from delivering a zinger about not needing divine intervention for a date that wasn’t happening. Instead, I caught Harley’s eye again, silently begging him to rescue me. He winked at me, clearly relishing my discomfort way too much.
As we walked through the familiar hallway, past the gallery wall of family photos that chronicled our lives from infancy to college, I noticed my mother had added several new ones. Among them was a candid shot of Harley and me from last Christmas, caught mid-laugh on the couch. In hindsight, itwas no wonder everyone assumed we were more than friends. Harley’s expression was halfway between “I want to fuck you” and “I want to love you,” making me feel like I’d accidentally swallowed something alive that was now exploring my insides with reckless curiosity.
The living room was a cozy space dominated by my father’s oversized recliner, which he treated more like his royal throne. The walls were painted a warm teal that my mother claimed “brought energy to the space,” while a Persian rug she’d haggled for in Turkey partially covered the hardwood floors.
Dad was already entrenched in his recliner, while Sawyer cozied up with her girlfriend, Gia, on the love seat. Gia’s arm draped over my sister’s shoulders, pulling her in closer for a cuddle. They’d been dating for four years, so Gia had become like an older sister to me.
