Faking It with the Frenemy

“Can your sitter stay longer?”

Guess she’s the self-centered, oblivious type. Been there, done that, got divorced for the effort. Not wasting any more time with another Geneva. “She has another gig tonight,” I lie.

The waiter returns with the bill. I sign it, leaving him an extra thirty percent.

The barest hint of a frown is marring Bethany’s forehead. “How about this weekend? I’d love to get together. You could bring your child along, if you like.”

I resist an urge to rub my forehead. Bring Vi on a date? She wouldn’t talk to me for a year. She might even run away from home. “Actually, I’m busy. Work.” I give my watch an unmistakable look. “And I gotta get going if I want to be home in time. Nice meeting you.”

Then I stand up and hurry out of the restaurant, without waiting for Bethany. The woman’s a leech, and my politeness has a limit.

Sorry, Dad. But if you were here, you’d probably tie her to the chair so I could make my escape.

The valet brin

gs my Audi around and I drive home. I’m going to have to come up with some other way to find a date to Geneva’s wedding, since neither Dane nor David seems able to help.

When I reach the complex, I park in the garage and head upstairs. I like this apartment, and the normalcy it represents, even if I am stuck next to Kim. But it isn’t like we’ll run into each other much. I’m busy and so is she. If half the stuff I’ve heard is true, her boss is difficult to please.

I eye Kim’s door as I walk past and unlock my unit. The light’s on in the living room, but no one seems to be around.

“Vi? I’m home!” I call out, hanging my keys on the rack near the door.

Not even a disdainful meow greets me. Fine. I don’t care if Princess wants to ignore me. She is a cat, after all, and I’m pretty sure she’s unhappy her real owner—Geneva—isn’t living with us.

But where’s Vi? And Lori?

Maybe they’re in Vi’s room, arranging things to her taste. She’s been…pretty particular recently. It upsets her when people touch her stuff or move something around.

I knock on her door. “Vi?” When she doesn’t answer, I shake my head. Probably has that Bose headset on and music blaring into her ears.

But what about Lori?

Sudden panic squeezes my chest. I open the door and step into the room.

Empty.

Did something happen to Vi? I check my phone for texts, but there’s nothing. What the hell is going on? Did Lori take Vi out to grab something? I frown as a thought strikes me. I hope she isn’t buying her makeup.

I call Lori.

“Hi, Mr. Westland,” she says, her voice perky and yet bored at the same time—a magic only teenagers can perform.

“Where are you?” I demand.

“Uh… Home?”

The frustration and annoyance of the evening roll through me, swelling and rushing like an ugly tsunami. “What the hell are you doing home? You’re supposed to be watching Vi today!”

“Umm… Didn’t Vi’s mom call you? She texted me that she picked her up from school…”

“What?” That makes no sense. Geneva can’t stand dealing with Vi. As a matter of fact, she hates it that she got pregnant in the first place, and said she considered Vi an unfortunate accident when we were in the middle of going through our divorce. The only value our daughter has is how good she can make her mom look, and Vi just doesn’t measure up to Geneva’s ideal.

“You might want to call her and see.” Lori sounds mildly peeved. “Or, you know, maybe check your texts.”

“I already checked. No messages from Geneva.”

“Oh.” She sounds vaguely more understanding now. “Oh. Well. Okay.”