Mister Fake Fiance

“Warren the Fourth cares because he isn’t just a Virginia state senator’s son anymore. He’s a U.S. congressman!” Dad announces it like The Fourth just won a Nobel Prize in Medicine.

“Oh.” I hum, wondering what I should say. Warren was never that great of a human being even when he was younger. He was always self-important. Not that you could totally blame him for being that way. He’s good looking, charming when he wants to be, and his father is—or was—a mover and shaker in state politics. Now that he’s important in his own right, I doubt that his personality will see much improvement. But mentioning that would only make Dad upset enough to debate it with me, which isn’t how I want to spend my time. “Good for him…?”

“Yes! Exactly! Imagine if you married him and I took his father’s now-vacant seat. There’s going to be a special election.”

So that’s why he’s calling. I swallow a sigh, irritated and resigned to the fact that he’s never going to change. “I’m sure you can run on your own merits.” I don’t want any part of his bid to win the special election, especially if it requires me to marry Warren Fordham. I don’t want a husband whose main reason for being nice to me is furthering his career.

“You don’t understand! Chapped Dick is running, and I’ll be damned if I let him beat me!”

Dick Chapman has been Dad’s rival for years. I have no feelings about the man one way or the other, but in private Dad loves to rage about him all the time.

“The people whose support I need now don’t know my history. They don’t know how I took care of your mom while she was losing her grip on reality, or how I had to raise you all on my own while grieving the loss of my wife,” he continues. “They need someone they can anchor their sympathy to. You look just like your mom, Erin.”

I suck in a breath. It’s true, and it’s another thing that adds to my anxiety. What if I got more than just my physical appearance from her?

“I need you,” he says, more gently now.

“No, Dad. I can’t abandon David.” I’d rather be homeless in L.A. than to go back to Saintsville, marry Warren Fordham and be a puppet for the two of you.

“He can get a new coffee fetcher! They’re a dime a dozen anyway. And I bet most of them are better trained and more experienced than you. You didn’t even go to college.”

I cover my face with a shaking hand as old grief and rage roar through me. I didn’t go because Mom died at the end of my high school sophomore year, and I was struggling with grief and depression of my own. I couldn’t go to therapy, of course, because Dad didn’t think it’d look good—people might think I was becoming like Mom. Once Dad shared what the doctor told him about Mom’s mental health and how it’s in my genes, it seemed pointless to spend all that money and time.

“But see, honey, that be

comes a plus if you marry Warren. Voters don’t like women who are too educated. They seem…mouthy. You want to be pretty and likable, which you can manage very well. And your sympathy factor would be off the charts.”

And of course voters would think highly of men like my dad and my husband, men who are honorable enough to stay committed to someone like me.

A painful, throbbing ache starts deep in my chest. How can he still have the power to hurt me with the same old thing? Why am I not immune yet? I hate myself for feeling the pain. I should’ve developed a tougher skin by now.

“I gotta go,” I say, feeling more deflated than a slashed tire.

“Warren is the man for you,” Dad says, speaking more quickly. “You have no one. No siblings. Nothing.”

Sudden fury blazes within me. How can my own father talk like this every time we’re on the phone? Like I don’t matter. Like nobody’s going to miss me or feel sad when I’m gone.

Somebody’s going to miss me…like…like…

I rack my brain. David! He likes my work. He told me so during our annual performance review last year. But saying that my boss will miss me because I was a good assistant sounds pathetic. So I opt for the next best thing. “Actually, I have a date with my boyfriend, so I’m afraid Warren may not be the man for me.”

“A boyfriend?” Dad’s voice is torn between disbelief and outrage. “Who—”

“Gotta go. Bye.”

I hang up and count to one hundred, breathing slowly. Gradually, my hands stop shaking, and I no longer feel like my chest is about to explode with fear, rage and helplessness. I close my eyes for a few moments, trying to imagine swans gliding across a placid lake, then return to the training. Contrary to what I told Dad, I don’t have a hot date with anybody except this online course.

But about ten percent of my focus is on something else: now I’m going to have to find a date photo I can doctor to post on Instagram.

Chapter Three

David

After lunch, I feel somewhat better about the horror of having my pregnant cousin and her husband hanging on the wall. Okay, not really, but I can get ready for a charity function tonight and pretend they aren’t sharing my bedroom.

I hope Mom isn’t expecting babies to be created with Jan and Matt staring at me and my future wife. Not even Viagra would work in that scenario.

One shower, shave and tuxedo later, I climb into my lime-green Lamborghini to pick up Charlotte, a friend with currently expired benefits. Actually, the benefits came before the friendship. Now there are no more benefits to be had because we mutually decided to end that component six months ago. But we still go to social functions as each other’s date. It works great, especially when we’re both uninterested in serious relationships. Real dates can get the wrong idea and start picking out china.