My Fake Fiance's Secret Baby

“Hey,” I said, sitting down across from him.

“Hey,” he replied, leaning in to kiss me, putting the binder safely away first.

“What did you want to see me about?”

“I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

Conjuring an elegant, ivory-colored envelope, seemingly out of nowhere, he handed it to me, his face unreadable.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

I did as instructed, carefully slitting the side of the envelope with one of the two knives already set on the table, not wanting to completely destroy something so beautiful and pulled out two opera tickets.

“H-how?”

“My mother is the lead, she gets them for free,” Chris said casually.

I admired his modesty. If my mother was a headlining opera star, it would likely be one of the first things I would say when meeting someone new. I knew a bit about his family, mostly how he didn’t connect to them, but this had been the first time he’d mentioned that his mother was an opera singer. I couldn’t help but wonder what his dad did. It would be pretty funny if he was a conductor or something.

I’d never been to an opera before, let alone in an opera box. When we went later that day, Chris even rented those little opera glasses and dammit if I didn’t feel like a princess! I had thought I had left such notions long behind me, but apparently, it took someone like Chris to remind me of it.

The performance was gorgeous and moved me in ways I didn’t think possible. Since the divorce, I hadn’t really had time to indulge myself. I was mostly just trying to keep my head above water. It was a bold move, but I reached over and squeezed his hand. An act of intimacy to be sure but one that felt right, and he didn’t seem to mind, gently squeezing back.

The intermission came, and we went down to the lobby for over-priced food and drink, Chris paying for everything I wanted. I was a bit embarrassed to be treated like that, but he pretty much insisted.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It was amazing!” I enthused mouth full of fancy canape.

“I’m glad you like it,” Chris asked, seeming embarrassed.

“You don’t?”

“Sure, I do. It is excellent. I just don’t seem to feel the same soul-shaking reverence that most people seem to.” He grimaced. It was like he was bracing for impact like he expected me to mock him for not getting into the show or try to educate him on the wonders of music. Something I was pretty sure he would have heard a lot from his family.

“It’s okay, people react differently to different things,” I said, gently squeezing his am.

“Don’t I know it. My parents are music people, then again they had my brother to dote on, look at him now, one of the main vocalists in Dante Street Massacre,” he said, looking at the floor.

“Chase Stewart is your brother?” I asked, shocked.

“Yeah, ain’t that a kick in the head? He’s younger than me too.”

He didn’t come right out and say it, but I could read between the lines. It might be an exaggeration to say that Chris had been neglected as a child, but he certainly seemed to be isolated. Especially when his brother came along. I could imagine how hard it would be growing up in a family where I had nothing in common with my relatives.

“I prefer art too,” I said with a wink.

That at least got a smile out of him, which was really lovely to see. I had really come to care about Chris and didn’t like the idea of him feeling bad, particularly for something over which he had no control.

The opera ended about as expected, the experimental director throwing in a few twists, and we gather our coats to move to the exits.

“Want to meet her?” Chris asked.

“Seriously?” I asked.

It had come out of nowhere and was yet another mixed message. Did he just think I would be interested and was trying to be nice, or did he want me to meet his mother in a more serious, blessing-for-the-wedding way? It could be either really.

“Sure.”

Backstage at the opera house was almost as lovely as the main part — all plush carpeting and gold embellishment. An extravagance which extended to Chris’s mom’s dressing room, in particular the food table which actually had a white tablecloth on it. I tried to keep my mouth from gaping.

Unlike most performers, Chris’s mom, Gwen, was as glamourous out of her makeup and costume as she was with them. She was lounging on a Victorian fainting couch that looked like it had been looted from Buckingham Palace when we came in.

“Darling!” Gwen declaimed, replacing the bunch of grapes she was eating to the bowl.

“Hey, mom.”

“And who is this pretty young thing?”

I had never heard such flattering words said in such a flat tone.