Say It's Not Fake

“Completely sure, Mom. I don’t know why you’re worried. It’s Kyle.” I took the pearl necklace that my dad gave me for my sixteenth birthday out of my jewelry box and put it on. I brushed my hair over my shoulder. Mom had twirled my hair into braids in a fancy half up/half down style. It looked amazing.

I reached for my lipstick, but my mom grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Sweetie, it’s Kyle.” She said his name with emphasis. “The same man that caused you to stress about your wardrobe choice only a week ago. You’re telling me that this marriage is in name only? Who are you trying to kid? Me or yourself?”

I didn’t like her questions. Mostly because part of me was concerned about the same thing. I had decided to marry him on impulse. The look on his face when he talked about possibly losing Katie had torn me apart. I was flattered that he chose me to be the one to help him; that, despite what happened between us before, he was trusting me with the future of his child.

But after agreeing, things moved quickly. Almost too quickly. And he was asking what color I wanted him to paint my new room and what flavor coffee I preferred. I had been thrown headlong into the planning of this temporary life and started to get lost in the fantasy of being Kyle Webber’s wife. Which was stupid. This wasn’t real. It never would be. He needed me to sell this story, and it made sense I was the only one that could.

Only a handful of people knew the truth of our arrangement. To everyone else, we had fallen into a whirlwind romance.

I had the misfortune of running into Chelsea Sloane—Adam’s ex-wife and Josie Robinson’s former best friend—in the grocery store only days after the tale of our quick engagement started to make the rounds in the Southport gossip circles.

I had always loathed Chelsea. She had tried to play like she was queen bee when we were in high school, making my sister’s life a misery. I took every opportunity to put the snotty bitch in her place. And given that I, not Chelsea, was the queen bee of our high school, it wasn’t that hard.

She hated me. Almost as much as she hated Meg. Which was just fine with me. I was never concerned with what people thought of me. Or I hadn’t been until I moved to L.A., and the opinions of others were your only currency.

“Well, if it isn’t the soon to be Mrs. Kyle Webber.” Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard. I thought about ignoring her but figured might as well get the unpleasantness over with.

Chelsea was holding two bottles of red wine, her shirt uncomfortably short, and her leggings so tight I could see the outline of absolutely everything. What did Adam ever see in a fake woman like that?

“I’m surprised to see you slumming it in Southport, Chelsea. I thought you had finally moved on. But I’ll make sure to tell Adam and Meg you said hello.” I kept my voice bland and uninterested, but it was too much fun twisting the knife.

Chelsea’s expression soured, but only for a moment. Then she was smiling, showing off a mouthful of veneers. It was blinding. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen, Whit,” she tutted loudly.

“What are you talking about?” I had asked her, knowing I shouldn’t have.

Chelsea flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I mean, look at you. One-time Homecoming queen, moved to California, became some big shot hairdresser—”

“Makeup artist. I was a makeup artist,” I corrected through clenched teeth.

“Whatever. Then you move back to pokey little Southport, and now you’re marrying Kyle Webber? The same Kyle Webber, who you never gave the time of day to in all those years he followed after you like a sad little puppy dog?” She put her hand on her hip. “I just don’t get it.”

“We fell in love. That’s what people with hearts do, Chelsea. You would know if you had one.” I checked the time on the watch I wasn’t wearing. “Oh, look at the time, I should get going—”

“Josie was pissed as hell when she found out.”

The mention of Katie’s mother made me pause. Chelsea, realizing she had my attention, went on. “She’s very curious about the timing and all.”

I felt myself go cold. This was not good. People couldn’t question the marriage; otherwise, it wouldn’t work. “Stop talking bullshit, Chelsea, and get to your point.”

Chelsea shrugged, slowly and deliberately. “With Jos filing for custody and all that. Now here you are, getting hitched. If one of you were a foreigner, I’d say it was for a green card.” She giggled in a way a lot of men probably found appealing. Mostly because the majority of men thought only with their dicks.