Maybe We Can Fake It

PROLOGUE

brENDEN

I hate hospitals.

Hospitals smell like sick people, they have ugly fluorescent lights that highlight the sick people’s sick faces, and people go into hospitals and don’t come out.

That’s what happened to my parents less than a year ago, and now it’s happening again.

To my best friend.

I can’t lose April too.

I can’t.

But I’m going to.

And knowing it ahead of time doesn’t make it any easier.

Although I guess there’s no easy way to lose people.

Whether it’s sudden like a car crash or slowly like with a terminal disease.

.

.

the ending is the same.

The nurse at the desk points me toward the correct wing, and I steel myself before walking through the giant automatic doors.

As much as I don’t want to do this, I need to remember that this isn’t about me.

This is about April, and she wants to see me.

I want to see her too, only I’m worried that I won’t be able to hold it together in front of her.

Since hearing the news, the final verdict— about a month to live —I’ve cried so much that hopefully I’ll have no tears left to spill in front of her.

Losing my parents at twenty years old was the worst thing to ever happen to me.

But April was there for me through that.

She’s been there for me most of my life.

When I came out in eighth grade, she was the one who got the bullies to back off me after she kneed Jeremy Mathers in the balls and made him cry.

I finally managed to find my stride in high school, but then I was nervous about starting college and she was right there beside me, matching her class schedule up with mine.

Now I have to say goodbye.

I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to my parents.

The paramedics were able to extract them both from the car, but they died shortly after reaching the hospital.

And while I spent so many days after they were gone thinking up all the things I would’ve said to them if I’d had time, I can’t think of one single thing I want to say to April now.

Except please don’t go .

Today isn’t the day for goodbye speeches, though.

Today I just need to show up for her.

The way she’s done for me countless times in my life.

I reach the outside of room 403 and pause.

Deep breath.

All right, I can do this.

I knock tentatively on the doorframe and hear a chorus of permission to enter.

Stepping into the room, my eyes scan everything—the sterile white walls, empty cabinets, beeping machines, wires and plastic tubing, April’s parents sitting beside each other in two armchairs in the corner, the wriggling baby in Elise’s lap—before I force myself to look at my best friend.

She’s pale, lying propped up in the hospital bed in one of those ugly white gowns with a weird pattern.

Her hair is dyed light pink, a change from the teal it was two weeks ago, the last time I saw her.

It almost makes me laugh.

“Nice hair,” I say, barely able to keep my voice from cracking.

She smiles.

“What? You think just because I’m sick, that means I’ll get boring?”

“No.” I swallow around the lump in my throat.

“You could never be boring.”

A small sigh comes from her mom in the corner, and it’s hard to say what that means.

The Richardsons were always kind of strict.

Or maybe not strict, exactly, but they liked conformity.

And that clashed with April’s deep-seated desire to be original.

She used to get in trouble for things like dying her hair without permission, but she did it anyway.

Now I’d wager her parents would happily let her do whatever she wanted if that would only stop this disease from taking her.

“Too bad I won’t be able to convince you to get that tattoo with me,” April says.

The tiny laugh that escapes me is pained.

She’s been on me about getting a tattoo since we both turned eighteen.

I’m all for every person decorating their body however they choose, but needles terrify me, so I always told her there was no chance of that happening.

But you know what?

I’d walk out of here, find the nearest tattoo shop, and get a full sleeve right now if that would be enough to save her.

“Brenden,” Grant, her father, says, “why don’t you take this chair? I’ve been sitting for days. My legs could use a stretch.”

I murmur a thanks when he brings it over to me so I can sit by April’s bed.

“Maybe you two should go get something to eat,” April tells her parents.

“Oh, no, we’re not hungry,” Elise says.

“Mom.” April fixes her with the best threatening stare I assume a person could pull off from a hospital bed.

“I want to talk to my best friend alone.”

Elise looks torn between giving her daughter whatever she wants and not letting her out of her sight for even a minute.

Which is understandable.

May is wriggling even harder in her lap now, trying desperately to stand up with her tiny fifteen-month-old legs.

Yes, April named her daughter May.

She thought it was funny.

And she said if she ever has another girl, she’ll name her June.

Guess that’s not going to happen.

She also chose the name May as a bit of an homage to this small town in New England that she and her parents used to go to every couple years when she was younger.

While she’s never had the greatest relationship with her parents and tends to avoid spending time with them if she can, she loved those vacations.

The town must be some kind of magical place.

“Come on, Elise,” Grant says, gesturing toward the door.

“I can’t remember the last time we ate.”

Elise glances once more at April, frowns, and then stands, cradling May to her chest.

She walks around the bed to meet her husband by the door, and May starts flapping her arms in my direction as they get closer, so I wave to her.

“Hey, sweet girl.”

“ Bren. ”

Despite my mood coming in here, I grin.

She can’t really say my name yet, but damn if it doesn’t melt my heart hearing her try.

When Elise takes her past me, she lets out a sharp cry and fusses more in her grandmother’s arms, struggling to get down.

“Oh, no, shhh, ” Elise tries to soothe her.

“I can take her,” I say, standing up.

“I’m sure the two of you could use a break.”

Elise’s face pinches.

She looks uneasy, despite the fact that I’ve been around May since the day she was born.

Before then, I had no experience with babies.

But neither did April.

We figured it out together.

“I don’t know,” Elise says.

“That’s not...”

“ Mom. ”

Elise’s eyes swing to April again before she relents and hands May over to me.

I take her carefully, propping one arm under her butt and wrapping my other securely around her back.

Elise still looks unhappy with this, but finally she steps back.

“We’ll be right in the cafeteria if you need us,” Grant says, reaching for his wife’s arm.

Once they leave, I sit back down in the uncomfortable chair with May.

She’s quieted down now and is smiling at me.

I stand her up with her tiny feet on my thighs, holding her under her armpits to keep her steady.

God, I love this girl.

April watches me and her daughter together with a combination of fondness and sadness in her eyes.

Having a baby at nineteen certainly wasn’t something April intended.

College life had given her a first real taste of freedom, which kind of got the best of her—there was a lot of partying and random hookups.

But that freedom didn’t last long when she got pregnant and decided to keep her baby.

Suddenly, she was dropping out of school and back home living with her parents (who surprisingly didn’t disown her), ready to do whatever it took to raise May.

If you ask her, though, I bet she’ll say she hasn’t regretted her choice for even a minute.

She loves May with everything she has.

And now.

.

.

Fuck.

Now she won’t get to see her daughter grow up.

And poor May won’t even remember her.

These thoughts bring the tears I didn’t think I had left to my eyes.

I try to hold them back as May pouts at me, reaching out and poking my face with her stubby fingers.

Sucking in a deep breath, I force a smile for her, and her eyes light up as she coos.

“I need to ask you something.”

I shift my gaze to April.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to be May’s guardian.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, distracted by May bouncing on my thighs.

“Brenden.” April’s serious tone yanks my focus back to her.

“I’m asking if you’ll adopt her and raise her once I’m gone.”

Everything in the room goes still and silent.

Or maybe the low beeping of the machines has been drowned out by the sudden whirring noise in my head.

May stops bouncing, as if she’s just as stunned by her mother’s words as I am.

“You want...” I say.

“Adopt... I...”

“I know it’s a monumental thing to ask of you. It’s way more than I have the right to. But...” She pauses, gestures vaguely at her own body in the bed, at the machines she’s hooked up to, and lets out a small, humorless laugh.

“But I’m dying. So I’m asking you anyway, because I need to.”

At her bluntness, the ability to speak finally comes back to me.

“But why me? What about your parents? That doesn’t make any sense. Obviously, they’ll raise her.”

She glances down at her arm, drawing my attention to the bruising on the inside of her elbow.

They must be sticking a lot of needles through there.

Selfishly, I’m glad I haven’t been here to witness it.

“They could. But I don’t want them to. I want you to do it.”

“ Why? ” I ask again, a sharp tinge of desperation on the word.

I’m twenty-one.

I’m not ready to be a father.

“Because you love her.”

My eyes swing back to May’s perfect face.

The blue eyes, the chubby cheeks.

Of course I love her, but that doesn’t mean I’d be the best parent for her.

I have one more year of college, and then.

.

.

Well, I don’t know, really.

My future has always felt like this entirely vague concept, something I didn’t need to have all figured out ahead of time.

I’ve always had this idealistic belief that I’d just somehow end up where I was supposed to.

“And she already loves you,” April continues, making this totally crazy idea begin to sound slightly less crazy with every word.

“Yes, I know my parents love her, and I know they’d keep her healthy and safe and provided for.”

“They’d be able to provide for her better than I would,” I say.

“They’d know what they’re doing.”

She shakes her head.

“Brenden, I know you’re the right choice. She deserves more than just a roof over her head and food to eat. If she grows up to be anything like me, she’s going to need someone who will understand her, who won’t try to force her into some bullshit societal role she doesn’t want. I want my daughter to grow up in a house filled with music and games and laughter. I want her to be healthy, but also to know that sometimes it’s okay to have cookies for dinner.”

I laugh despite how much I want to cry.

This can’t be happening.

How is it fair that this little girl in my arms is going to grow up without ever really knowing her mother?

How is it possible that I’m about to lose my best friend right after I lost my parents?

How am I supposed to survive in this world alone?

“I...”

“Please think about it,” she says.

“Sometimes you doubt yourself, but you’re strong as hell. And I know May will be strong too if you teach her how.”

To prove her point, May starts marching in place in tiny little steps atop my thighs.

My need to hold tightly to her right now for my own comfort is overwhelming, but I resist the desire to crush her small body against me.

“What if I mess it up?” I ask, my voice breaking pathetically on the end.

April smiles at me, and for a moment, I imagine she’s not sick.

She’s just my best friend, and we’re talking about something silly, like whether that cute guy in my economics class was flirting with me or not.

“As long as you love her,” she assures me, “you can’t mess it up.”

My mind is racing with thoughts of what I’d need to do.

If I could stay in school, do I have enough money from my parents’ estate to hire a nanny, would I trust anyone else with May, is Philadelphia the safest place to raise a child.

.

.

And under all this is the horrible thought that I’d be doing everything alone.

Because April would be gone.

A choked sob escapes me, startling May.

I gently hug her to my chest before she starts to cry, and I stare at April, struggling to hold back my own tears.

“I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I know,” she says softly.

And fuck, I’m a piece of shit, making this about me.

It’s not, it’s not, it’s not.

She should be the one who gets to cry, not me.

But she’s not crying.

She looks calm, her eyes moving gently between her daughter’s face and mine.

And then she says, “I’ve had time to think about this. There’s not much to do in this bed besides think. So if you need time too, I understand. But Brenden. I don’t only want you to have May because I know she’ll need you. I want you to have her because I know you’ll need her. Once I’m gone, I don’t want you to be alone.”

Oh god.

The fact that she’s thinking about me at a time like this, that she’s worrying about me when she’s the one going through something terrible, is why I love her so damn much.

It’s why I don’t know what I’ll do or how I’ll make it without her.

But then I look at the baby in my lap who has brought me so much joy since the day she was born.

And with a sudden clarity, I realize what I’m seeing right in front of me.

My future.

“Okay,” I say, and the floor feels solid beneath me for the first time since walking into this hospital room.

“I’ll be her father.”