Mister Fake Fiance

I tense at the boisterous and slightly coaxing “Are you sure you don’t love me?” tone. It’s similar to the one my father uses when he’s dealing with a mildly reluctant donor. What does he want now? I wonder, rubbing the spot on my belly. Sure enough, it’s already starting to hurt.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, pausing the training before it can launch the third video.

“I was just thinking

about you.” He says it in the same tone he might use to say, “I was just thinking about your vote.”

My dad is the mayor of Saintsville, Virginia, and like a lot of small-town mayors, he’s got big aspirations. I hate that he’s been trying so hard to make me part of them all my life. Even my relocation to L.A. hasn’t stopped him.

“I’m kind of busy with work stuff,” I say, looking at the clock on my laptop. It’s almost lunchtime. I pop more Skittles into my mouth to fortify myself. I can’t argue with Dad on an empty stomach and low blood sugar.

“On a Saturday? Do they do that out in California?” He makes it sound like another galaxy.

“Just some extra training for my job,” I say, wishing I actually were in another galaxy. What’s the closest one? Andromeda…?

“You’re still working?” He sounds shocked.

No, Dad, I’m living on a trust fund nobody knows about. The words threaten to break through my control, and I rein myself in. I can’t let Dad upset me. Emotional outbursts aren’t good. “Of course I’m working. And David says I’m doing well.”

“Doesn’t he have other assistants?” Surely, he can’t possibly have only you to rely on.

I can hear his thoughts loud and clear. It’s been that way all my life. The muscles around my jaw start to tighten, but I force myself to relax. Cracking a molar would hurt, and fixing it would be a hassle, even if I do have great dental coverage, thanks to Sweet Darlings. “No. Just me.”

“Huh.” Could he sound any more skeptical? For a normally smooth-talking politician, he’s never figured out how to speak to his own child.

Then again, I can’t vote in Saintsville.

“Look, I’ve really got to get going,” I begin. “I have some—”

“This won’t take long. It’s about Warren.”

Oh no. Warren Theodore Fordham the Fourth is the guy everyone in Saintsville decided I’d marry just because we dated for a year. I can’t even call him an ex-fiancé because he never asked me to marry him. It was just assumed. And I suppose outwardly we looked compatible enough. I was good, biddable life-partner material who needed a strong, capable man to take care of her.

Not that I could totally blame them. I thought Warren loved me back then. Until I found out he was just like my dad: he only wanted me around to make himself look like a good guy.

“He’s still single. And I think he’d make a fabulous husband for you. You must understand how difficult it is to juggle life and a career. Why do that when you don’t have to? Warren’s a good man, and he’s more than willing to provide for you. And unlike most men, he would never abandon you, no matter what might happen down the line. You know how things run on your mother’s side.”

Dad pauses, waiting for the words to sink in.

I shudder, hating the reminder that there is an expiration date on my sanity—and my life. Mom had a mental illness. Dad told me her doctor informed him it was hereditary, and the chances are very high—almost certain—that I’m going to end up like her. Dad also added that he stayed married and faithful to her because he needed his constituents’ sympathy. And he certainly got his share of that. I always thought it was sad to rely on pity votes, but he doesn’t care as long as he keeps getting returned to office.

Maybe I should look into exactly what she had and prepare myself. Well, not maybe. I should. It’s just…I haven’t been able to. Every time I consider the idea, my heart races and I can’t draw in enough air, like a child hiding in a closet, praying an unseen monster won’t find her.

So everything I know about Mom’s condition came from my father. I’m aware some of it is biased—and mean—but it’s obvious that she was mentally ill based on her outbursts and those days when she refused to even leave her bed…and it is probably genetic, since almost everything seems to be genetic, according to science.

Finally, he adds, “You getting my point? It would look bad for him to be anything but a good husband for you. He’ll work extra hard to maintain a good image. And you’ll be perfect for that, and can reap the benefits along the way.”

It sounds awful—being a burden somebody is forced to handle with outward grace while resenting the hell out of it in his heart. Dad hated having to take care of Mom. I overheard him say so. I don’t want that for myself. I’d rather be on my own than with somebody who begrudges my very existence.

And being with Warren would give me that particular future. I knew that instinctively, even back then.

I clear my throat. “Didn’t his dad resign? So it isn’t like he’s going to care about his image one way or the other.”

The senior Warren Fordham is—or was—a state senator. But he was forced to step down due to a scandal so huge that even I, somebody who rarely follows political news, heard about it.

It’s a bad form to have an affair while your wife is battling an inoperable brain tumor. It’s worse when she collapses and is rushed to the hospital, and nobody can reach you because you turned off your phone to avoid anybody tracking you via GPS while you were screwing your side piece at a swanky hotel.

But the really unforgivable thing among his political cronies isn’t that he did all those things. It’s that he got caught.