Fake Marriage Box Set

We arrived at the restaurant shortly afterward, with him opening my door and closing it behind me this time. I slipped an arm through his elbow, laughing to myself as he tensed.

“Remember to look surprised, after the dinner,” he said. “I have a professional photographer coming to shoot us.”

“Should I ask in what way?” I asked. Gavin frowned and raised an eyebrow. “Never mind the bad joke. Sorry.” A host led us to the only hibachi grill that was on, and I was thankful that our table was a classic two-seater marble table with a hibachi attached to the left side. The host pulled out my seat as Gavin took his, and we faced one another as the chef started cooking beside us.

“I’ll be honest,” I said as our waiter poured each of us a glass of wine. “This is a lot fancier than I expected.”

The restaurant itself was a dim room with at least six giant hibachi grills, and a giant aquarium lining the black and gold themed walls.

“Two cups of sake, please,” Gavin asked the waiter and turned to me. “What, did you expect me to propose to you at some random one-star Japanese restaurant where the meat source is suspicious? I do have some standards.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess I did sort of misjudge you a little.” I took a sip of wine as the chef started a little show on the grill. He grilled vegetables and chopped up several chunks of chicken while adding in a scrambled egg and white rice.

“My father loved hibachi grills,” Gavin said as we watched the show. “He never spent much money on himself, only on us, but the only thing he ever wanted on his birthday was dinner at a hibachi restaurant. So, Mom would make it happen for him every year. He’d get the fried rice, chicken tempura, sushi, grilled beef, anything on the menu.”

Our waiter returned with two small ceramic cups of sake. “And always washed it down with sake.”

I sniffed it. “I’ve had it a few times at parties,” I said. “But never at a proper restaurant.”

“Sake with a side of chicken tempura was Dad’s favorite,” Gavin said and held his cup to mine. “A toast, maybe?”

I clinked mine with his.

“To your father,” I said. “It sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

“He really was.” Gavin smiled and took a long sip. The flavor was light and mild on my tongue, a stark contrast to the strong and bitter taste of my wine. “Mom worshiped the man. Even when he was off for months at a time on business trips, she didn’t look at another person. They were in love.”

“Sounds like my parents,” I said. Our chef placed two plates full of fried rice in front of us. We both broke our chopsticks open and dug in. “They could be homeless, living on the streets, but would still be happy as long as they had each other.”

“I guess both of our parents gave us impossible standards to live up to, huh?” he asked.

“I always thought it was naive,” I admitted. “Hoping for a love like theirs. Or even having one. They’ve given up so many better opportunities for our lives because they didn’t want to be apart.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“My father was offered a position at one of his old jobs that paid a six-figure salary,” I said. “But it was in another state, one where my mom wouldn’t be able to transfer her work for another two years. At the time, I was 15 and working at a grocery store. I think it was illegal how many hours I worked, and because I was always there, my grades were awful. I had to quit soccer because of it, and couldn’t even buy school lunch because all of my money was going toward their bills. But,” I took another long gulp of wine. “He didn’t take it because they weren’t okay with being two states apart for two years.”

“Did you pay for your college?” he asked. I shook my head.

“I have enough student loans that even with your money, I’ll probably barely make a dent,” I said.

He leaned against his chair. “Two different types of love,” he said. “I guess we’re trying to find a good balance in between.”

“You can try,” I said, feeling the effects of both the wine and sake. “I’m pretty sure I’m done looking. If anything, love is waiting for me in Hollywood in the form of a movie script.”

Gavin laughed. “And my love is waiting for me in the form of a book deal,” he said.

“You’re writing again?” I asked and leaned forward. “You have to let me read it.”

“If you can promise to be honest with your feedback, sure,” he said. We finished our fried rice, and the chef began grilling shrimp and seasoned beef. He gave me one to try, and I offered a thumbs up.

“Let’s both go to Hollywood,” I said, a little surprised at my outburst. It seemed liquid courage was backing me up. “I’ll get a movie deal, and you get a book deal, and we’ll be happy in our own little world with our own type of love.”

For a split second, it seemed that Gavin was going to agree. His eyes lit up, lips curved into a smile, and he drank his sake. But then he realized something and pulled out a box in his pocket.

He was thinking about his mother, I realized.

“Before I can be happy with anything,” he said, “I have to make sure someone else is happy.”