“Yeah.” David flips the gadget around, showing me the text.
–Trent: Bro, what’s going on? You’re engaged to a girl who’s engaged to Warren Fordham???
“What is he talking about?” And more importantly, how in the world did he reach that outlandish conclusion?
David makes a helpless gesture. “No idea.” David texts his brother.
Another beep. David groans like Marion the office manager when the copier jams.
“What?”
“They totally twisted what I said. When I was pulling you away from those vultures”—he waves toward the window—“they kept screaming about you and Fordham being engaged, so I said you were mine.”
Oh my. I’m…his? I blink, not recalling that he said anything like that at all. But then, I was panicked and freaked out, so I probably just blanked it.
He shifts his weight in his seat, running a hand across his jaw. “And I meant you were my assistant, in case you’re wondering.” Sighing, he presses his forehead against a corner of his phone, his eyes closed.
Right, I tell myself as I try to rein in fluttery emotions and ignore a vague and annoying sensation that feels suspiciously like disappointment. Except I can’t be disappointed. David couldn’t have meant it like I was his his.
But isn’t this better than people thinking you’re engaged to Warren?
The thought brings me up short. Well, yes. Yes, it is.
And isn’t it better for David, especially when his ex lied about your relationship with Warren? He has to know she’s scheming to get him back, no matter what it takes.
A fake engagement would stop my dad from trying to get me to marry Warren. Or bringing up how mental illness runs on my mom’s side of the family, and how I’m likely to develop it too…because…well…genetics and science and all that.
I’d love that level of peace. An end to the reminders of an ugly possible future.
Actually, according to your dad, you are going to go crazy. It’s just a matter of time.
“Do you want to go for it?” I blurt out.
David lifts his head and looks at me blankly. “Go for what?”
“This, um, particular misunderstanding. We could be, you know. Fake engaged.” I don’t even know where this recklessness is coming from. This isn’t like me, but somehow fortified by M&M’s and my post-adrenaline and -panic state, I’m saying the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever had because it sounds like the thing to try.
David goes quiet. Too quiet.
As the silence stretches, my stomach starts feeling queasy. I pop more M&M’s like antacids. Maybe I should take it back…?
“Did you like him?” David asks suddenly.
“Who?”
“Fordham.”
“Uh, no,” I say before I can consider a different response. As always when it comes to Warren and my past. “Our being together was sort of…expected. It’s hard to explain, but everyone in my town thought we’d end up getting married.” The rumors and expectations were stoked by my dad as well. Then I realize I should come as clean as possible. It’s only fair that I give David some disclosure as to what he’s getting into. “My father is the mayor of Saintsville.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s a small town in Virginia. He wants to be a state senator, and he thinks the upcoming special election—for Warren’s dad’s former seat—is his chance. He wants to use me to leverage Warren’s popularity.” Then I pause, unsure how to explain the rest, the whole sympathy factor thing. But that makes me sound so pathetic that I can’t tell David.
It’s terribly important he doesn’t pity me.
The battle of emotions on David’s face ceases. He leans back in his chair, a couple of fingers on his chin as he thinks.
I let him. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s like this. While he ponders, the rest of the M&M’s disappear into my belly. I wonder if the dev team’s going to be mad if I filch another bag from their stash.