Chapter 14
Magnolia
It’s been a solid week of pretending. We go see his grandfather for short visits, and I tell Alexander about the new recipe Piper and I tried making.
The bar she works at is connected with a local distillery, and they let us come learn from them and experiment with our own stuff. They get the benefit of free help and new flavors, and we get to use their facility.
Turns out, being fired wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to me. I’ve had time to create and do something I really enjoy. The problem is, it’s pushing me further and further from my own goals. I can’t put fake fiancée on my résumé.
I have other regrets as well. Yesterday afternoon, when I was walking through the park—something I do quite often now that I am unemployed—I witnessed a man propose to his girlfriend.
My pang of regret came in the form of FOMO.
Nash hadn’t actually proposed to me.
Therefore, I don’t have a great story to tell.
I need to talk to him about that.
The door down the hall slams open, and Piper stumbles out.
Her hair sticks out at crazy angles from her bun.
She reaches a hand out to steady herself against the hall wall.
She’s not wearing pants, and her eyeliner has smeared to her cheekbones.
A fake row of eyelashes sticks to her eyebrow.
If it were someone else coming down the hall, I’d assume they’d been on a bender last night.
But it’s Piper. She wakes up like this every day.
She’s allergic to mornings. Charlie, on the other hand, tends to take mornings by storm.
Quite often, she’s already left the apartment by five a.m.
Piper walks into the kitchen, her left hand in the coffee-mug-holding position.
Her eyes still aren’t open.
“A little to your left,” I call out as she tries to blindly find a mug.
She eventually makes it to the living room to sit on the pink couch next to me.
“Still fired?” she croaks out.
“Still fired,” I reply. The eyelashes are bothering me, so I lean over and pluck them off her eyebrow.
“Thanks.”
I drop them in her open palm.
“How’s life?” I ask.
“Same ol’, same ol’. No good-looking men rushing in and offering to pay me to be their fiancée.”
“I know a guy. Maybe he has a friend.”
“How’d it go playing pretend this week? Would you recommend this as a career path for others?” she teases.
I snort. “It’s been strange, to say the least. The family is toxic from what I’ve picked up. We usually leave before they get there because Nash tries to avoid them. His grandfather loves me, but I’m scared he’ll find out it’s fake and die.”
Piper peels the other set of fake lashes from the other eye. “So, don’t let him find out.”
“Right. Because it’s that simple. Just don’t let him discover the truth.”
“Well, if he’s healthy enough that he wants to get back to normal life, surely, you could tell him you’re not the real fiancée!”
“Maybe. But have you ever had someone’s life depending on you?”
Piper shrugs. “Good point. Sorry I’m grumpy. I guess I’m just scared we won’t be able to get that business loan with only my work.”
Now I feel like a complete jerk. Piper and I have made plans to start our own restaurant and distillery.
Unfortunately, it takes quite a bit of capital to start something like that, and we have both been working full-time so that we can qualify for a business loan together.
However, with me losing my job last week… it’s going to put us behind—a lot.
“I’m so sorry, Piper. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
She sighs. “I know. Your boss is awful, so we should have expected something like this. But I guess I’m just nervous about how this will change our plans.”
“I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll be able to get my job back, and then it wouldn’t look like any interrupted work history.”
Piper’s face brightens. “That’s a great idea! We’re just so close to making it happen.”
“It’ll happen.” I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge. I scan the shelves and settle on pulling out the butter and milk.
“Please tell me you’re stress baking.”
“I’m stress baking.”
“Hallelujah! Save me something tasty for after my shift.”
The cinnamon rolls are delicious. The new maple frosting I made is to die for. The more stressed I am, the better I bake. It’s a direct correlation.