Chapter 13
ONCE MORE WITH FEELING
STATEN
In some freaky turn of events, Knox Mulligan is coming over to my house for a tutoring session. My small, ramshackle house that probably costs less than one wing of his assumed mansion. I never let people see my home.
The sound of rain slapping against the pavement peals throughout the kitchen, and my shoulders levy a millstone-sized weight that won’t hesitate to fall if his meticulously planned ambush goes off without a hitch.
I don’t know any place more intimate than someone’s house. The privacy, the vulnerability of my childhood bedroom, my slightly shameful collection of plushies. It’s not on his level cost-wise. I mean, he already knows I’m dirt poor, but still.
And to make matters worse, he’s coming with a delicious bribe to get on my mother’s good side.
Anxiety froths in my belly like spume gnawing on a tide’s edge as I set the last cloth napkin on the table—an illusion of luxury only brought out to impress guests and subliminally distract them from the fact that the paint on our walls is chipping.
If this dinner goes well, I wouldn’t put it beyond Knox to make a copy of my house key so he can drop in at random like a one-person elite tactical unit.
We are boyfriend and girlfriend, after all. Fake boyfriend and girlfriend, but I digress.
Considering my friend circle has only consisted of Leif and Hassie for years now, it goes without saying that my mother is more than ecstatic that I’m bringing a boy home. Hell, she even got one of her coworkers to cover her shift at the hotel tonight.
This is all getting too real. The thought of Knox Mulligan being more than just my study buddy calcifies in my brain with a permanence that can’t be uprooted.
The thought of the whole school knowing we’re together?
The thought of our artifice going statewide?
If I’m not careful, our little white lie will do more harm than good.
The weather rages on outside, responsible for slamming cambered tree branches against the windows as beads of moisture slide down the reticulated veins of wet, paper-thin leaves.
The moon is missing from the onyx sky, submerging the basin of Maple Grove into a well of evanescent darkness.
The only luminescence is provided by sporadic flashes of lightning which create a vignette behind a conglomeration of charcoal-daubed clouds.
My mother irons out the wrinkles in her best dress with shaky hands. “Do I look alright?”
I sigh, staring down at my sweater and skirt combo that a high-end clothing store wouldn’t be caught dead carrying. “You look beautiful, Mom, but you don’t need to impress him. It’s just dinner.”
She shushes me. “Stop that. This is the first boy you’ve ever brought over. This is important.”
Damn. I really do sound like a virgin loser.
I can’t stop thinking about what Leif said to me—about Knox and I being incompatible. He isn’t necessarily wrong, but he was so harsh about it. In that single moment, I wanted to stand up for Knox.
No, Staten. Bad. Think about the end goal here.
You and Leif, happily married. Two little girls running around the house barefoot.
A golden retriever that you brought home one day under peer pressure.
A log cabin overlooking a lake. Knox so far gone that you don’t know whether he’s alive or dead.
But that’s expected, isn’t it? Someone like him—with his star quality and skirt-chasing tendencies—never sticks around for very long.
Before I can dispute my mother’s well-intentioned remark, there’s a knock at the door, and my body can’t decide whether to freeze or flee for the nearest exit…
which would be the window to my left. So, in theory, I could make a great escape into the forsythia bushes to elude my unmenacingly slow pursuer.
And maybe I would have if it wasn’t for the rain.
Dragging myself over to the door at a snail’s pace—worry elongating over my heart like vines of ivy reclaiming an abandoned city—I inhale before opening the partition.
The now-ajar entrance sucks all the warm air out like an oversized vacuum, and my antithesis stands on my doorstep, dripping wet, holding out a casserole dish with some aluminum foil wrapped over the top.
Droplets of dew frost his hair, his six-foot-something silhouette limned in broken bursts from the lightning.
He doesn’t try and budge his way inside. He just waits, squinting from the cascades of rainwater that run over his rocky bone structure and down the canyon in between his brows. “I brought mac and cheese,” he shouts.
Every time I see Knox, there’s this animal inside of me that wants him—that attempts to chew a hole through the barbed wire fence separating civility and debauchery. A creature that’s been repeatedly reprimanded for its actions but couldn’t care less.
I take the glass hardware from him—still warm—and welcome him inside, closing the door quickly to conserve the house’s heat.
“Thanks for the food,” I say very loudly, proving to my mother that I can play nice.
She greets Knox not with a handshake but a hug of all things, practically cooing over him like he’s the savior we never asked for.
“I’m Marjorie. It’s so lovely to meet you.”
“I’m Knox,” he wheezes, foolishly glancing at me for help. “Thank you for having me, Ms. Renault.”
She lets go of him. “Please, Ms. Renault was my mother. We’re on a first name basis here. Marjorie is just fine. I’m so ecstatic to finally meet Staten’s boyfriend. She’s so secretive about her love life.”
Hold up. WHAT?
Oh, no. No. God, no. My mom thinks Knox is my boyfriend.
I wasn’t planning on telling her anything about our arrangement.
The less she knew, the better. What am I supposed to say?
Should I tell her the truth? Should I break her fragile little heart and shatter her dream of becoming a grandmother at forty-nine?
How could she just…assume…something like this?! Someone’s getting fucked in the ass tonight, people, and that someone is me.
Heart bleating, I’m relieved when my mother excuses herself to the kitchen to bring in the other side dishes she slaved over all day, leaving me and my partner in crime to discuss what the hell just happened. At least Knox looks as nervous as I feel.
You know how grid waves signal incoming rip currents of death and destruction? This is our grid-wave moment.
“Your mom thinks we’re together,” he says. “You told her we’re dating?”
“I didn’t tell her. I guess she just assumed.”
I worry my bottom lip, barely cringing when copper geysers over my tongue. “How the hell are we going to pull this off?”
Knox pats me on the head, completely unfazed by the prospect of having to lie his way through family dinner.
Now that I think about it, I don’t think this man has ever felt the nettle of anxiety in his entire life.
He’s like…he’s like Superman without a Kryptonite weakness—which is equally as impressive as it is terrifying.
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got this under control. They don’t call me Casanova for nothing.”
Babe? BABE?!
I snort. “Nobody calls you that. You couldn’t pay me to call you that.”
Knox stretches his arms above his head, purposefully making his slightly damp T-shirt rise above his chiseled V-line and the neat trail of hair arrowing down to the heat he packs in his pants. Knox has a lot of…obnoxious…faults, but the worst one, by far, is his hot-dude self-awareness.
“Au contraire, everyone calls me that. Girls, guys. I have universal appeal.”
Ugh. I don’t have time to debate the validity of his statement. There’s a war drum behind my eyes—a pulse that heralds an inexorable headache. Unfortunately, it pairs terribly with my dry throat syndrome. “Fine. Just don’t make a big dea—”
My mom comes waltzing back into the room, her arms loaded with a variety of dishes that have turned Knox’s contribution into a full buffet spread. Oblivious as ever, she begins to plate the table, humming to herself under her breath.
She only hums when she’s happy. Knox and I are going to hell.
Pulled BBQ pork sliders, sautéed green beans, homemade iced tea, buttered bread halves, and shoestring French fries sprinkled with garlic parmesan sprawl over the surface, barely leaving any room for our individual plates and highlighting what is Knox’s triple-cheese monstrosity.
My mom has never worked this hard to impress anyone before, and I didn’t know Knox could cook pasta without burning the house down, let alone cook something that belongs in a Michelin restaurant.
Knox and I sit across from each other while my mother claims the head of the table, already acting like the gracious host she is and cramming our guest’s plate with enough food to feed an entire hockey team.
“This looks incredible,” Knox says in awe, accepting his bulky portion.
Despite the redolence diffusing the air, I’m too jittery to eat anything, and my belly is a bubbling cauldron of acid and nerves. I don’t overshoot when I scoop a small molehill of mac and cheese onto my plate, opting to stick with as minimal grease as possible.
“Oh, thank you. I’m glad someone enjoys my cooking,” my mom jests playfully, her eyes sliding over in my general direction. “This girl could live off Top Ramen. I have to force her to sit down and eat a homecooked meal every now and then.”
Shit. This has to be a humiliation ritual.
It’s the only explanation. How could I forget that my mother—who has a lockbox of all my most embarrassing habits—is just as much of a loose cannon as the man who has the mouth of a sailor and a shared interest in seeing me crumble before dessert.
It feels like I’m trying to bail water from an already sinking ship.
“Well, Marjorie, if you ever need a plus-one, I’ll gladly join you for a home-cooked meal,” Knox drawls, wearing pure animal magnetism.