2. Rosie
2
ROSIE
Mother Dearest: Did you get that package I sent you?
I huff a humorless laugh at the text message and glare at the bottle she had delivered. Some new kind of diet pill she hunted down just for me, since my curves are apparently a disgrace. I’m a size twelve, for crying out loud. I’m normal. I’ve got a butt and boobs and hips and thighs and cellulite. It’s not the end of the world. But tell that to my almond mother. I think she’s on a diet involving cashews and raisins at the moment. Or maybe that was last month’s craze. I can’t keep up, and I don’t want to. Truly, I feel sorry for her. She has an illness; it’s consumed her life, and, unfortunately, mine by proxy.
Me: Yep. Thanks for the box of condoms.
Don’t parents usually send boxes of goodies from home to their kids? Fresh baked goods and cutesy things like notebooks and pens or even a stuffed animal?
Mother Dearest: I didn’t send you condoms! Who sent you condoms?
She’s so dense sometimes. Sarcasm goes right over her head.
Me: It was a joke.
Mother Dearest: Did you get the package or not?
I sigh. She’s not going to let it go, so I snap a picture and send it to her. This way she can see with her own two eyes that I received her lovely care package. The pills will be going into the trash as soon as this conversation is over. I should’ve thrown them away as soon as I opened the box, but I set them on the desk and stared at the label that promised I could lose fifteen pounds in one week, wondering if maybe I did need to lose weight.
Then I cursed myself for letting her issues get into my head.
At the end of the day, I pity her. It consumes her, the obsessive thoughts about every piece of food she puts in her mouth and its calorie content.
The most ironic part? While her BMI is probably in the normal range, mine would be in the overweight range. Yet I’m healthier. Her body has to be begging for proper nutrients.
Mother Dearest: Oh, good. Muffy said she lost thirty pounds in less than a month using it. I got some for myself as well.
With a shake of my head, I use my foot to spin my desk chair in a circle. My dad forced her to check in to a facility that specializes in treatment for eating disorders. I told him it wouldn’t work, not when she didn’t want to go and refused to believe she had a problem, and shocker, I was right.
I want her to get better as much as he does, but she won’t. At least not until she wakes up and realizes she has a problem with food, along with what could very well be OCD.
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It just makes me sad. For her. For me.
And, despite being happy with my body and being comfortable in my own skin, my insecurities still claw their way out into the light of day from time to time.
Especially when my own mother makes it obvious that what I look like, the number on the scale, is more indicative of my value as a person than who I am as an individual.
Me: I have homework.
I set my phone down, intending to focus on my textbook and push away thoughts of Daire’s weird-ass proposal.
Literal proposal.
There’s no way one of his brothers didn’t dare him to do it. Or maybe it’s some sort of hockey player prank.
When my phone buzzes on the desk, I know I shouldn’t look, but I’m clearly a glutton for punishment.
Mother Dearest: Let me know how it goes with the pills! Send a picture of the scale every morning. I’ll track your progress! ??
The stupid smiley face just adds insult to injury.
I will not be sending her any sort of pictures of a scale. I don’t even have one in my dorm room. I loathe scales.
I take screenshots of her messages and send those, along with the photo of the pills, to my dad.
His only response is I’m sorry, sweetie.
He can’t really do anything to help her, and it’s not for lack of trying. When the rehab didn’t work, he took her from therapist to therapist. There was acupuncture and even a hypnotist involved. Any time he’s encountered a technique that has the potential to help her, he’s tried.
I throw my phone onto my unmade bed.
Frustrated doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel.
Is it too much to ask to be loved for who I am by my own mother?
God, what would she be like if I were bigger? Would she resort to pressuring me into even more drastic measures like surgery?
Sadly, it wouldn’t surprise me.
You are not and will not become the product of her problems.
With a deep breath in, then back out, I focus on that phrase. In the past, moments like this would lead me to binge or even starve myself. Anymore, though, I can mostly let her words roll off my back.
I open my laptop, determined to focus on the essay I’m working on for my nutrition class. I have my mom to thank for my chosen career path. Not that I’ll ever have to work. Not with the money I’ll inherit from my dad, the heir to an entire hotel chain empire, as well as my mom, a successful nepo-baby model.
It’s because of her that I’m pursuing this career path, a split between nutrition and therapy. I want to help people like her and maybe, in the process, save little girls from a life like I’ve led due to my mother’s issues.
I’ve only written a few sentences, poor ones at that, when the door to the shared dorm space bangs open.
I stand up, my desk chair wheeling away.
“We’re through! For real this time!” My roommate and best friend slams the door in the face of her on-again, off-again boyfriend. Storming through the open area between our rooms, she kicks her shoes off and lets out a small scream. “Oh,” she says when she catches sight of me standing in the doorway of my room. “I didn’t think you’d be back yet. Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
I never met Beatrice “Bertie” Carthwright before we were tossed together as roommates, but we clicked and became instant best friends. It’s a wonder we never met before, with our families moving in similar social circles. Her family name is emblazoned on the packaging of one of the oldest candy bars in America. A person can’t go into a grocery store or gas station without seeing a Carthwright Bar.
She runs her fingers through her hair in agitation. “He drives me nuts.”
I struggle not to laugh from my perch in the doorway. “I’m aware.”
Bertie and Tommy’s relationship is volatile, to say the least. It’s not abusive in any way, but they’re both the jealous type and like to play games. See how far they can push the other’s buttons. Tommy isn’t a bad guy, but he’s not the guy for her. She just hasn’t seen that yet.
As her light blue eyes fill with tears, she wiggles her nose in an effort to keep them at bay.
“We’re really done this time. I mean it.” She throws her hands out in an X motion. “Done. I am done.”
“What did he do?” I move away from the door and envelop my friend in a hug. She’s one of very few people on this campus who actually likes me. I don’t know what I’d do without her. While her ups and downs with Tommy can be exhausting, I want to be there for her like she has for me.
“He was flirting with Margo Thompson. Do you know her? Strawberry-blond hair?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, I don’t.”
Her lip quivers. “He said it was to make me jealous, but how did he know I’d be coming into the dorm at the exact moment? Huh? Answer: he didn’t,” she rambles, hiccupping through her cries. “I hate boys.”
Forgetting about my essay for the time being, I hug her closer and give her a solid pat on the back. “Go shower and put on comfy clothes. I’ll make brownies. We still have vanilla ice cream, right?”
“We should.”
“Good. Now go.” I shoo her out of the space and to the bathroom.
I’m not the best baker, but boxed brownies are pretty foolproof. I pull the box from the cabinet and dig around for our baking pan. The dorms at Aldridge are set up like apartments, with the bedrooms surrounding the living and kitchen area. The units in this building have either two or four bedrooms and share a single bathroom. We lucked out with a two-bedroom dorm, thank God. I’m not sure I’d survive living with three other girls.
I have the brownies in the oven and the sink full of dirty dishes when Bertie opens the bathroom door and a cloud of steam escapes.
“I already feel better.” She inhales a lungful of air as she shuffles into her room.
I’m glad one of us does. My brain keeps seesawing between my conversation with Daire and my mother.
He wasn’t lying when he said my mom always pictured the two of us getting married. Stupidly, I did too. For far too long. I shake my head to rid myself of the memories of a much younger Daire and me. He hung the moon and stars and all the planets in the sky when we were little. I thought he could do no wrong.
Until he did.
I check the timer on my phone. Twenty minutes until the brownies are done.
Bertie will be occupied for a while, doing her skin care routine, so I grab my computer and settle on the couch. Even if I only get a paragraph or two done before I’m interrupted, it’s better than nothing.
As my shitty luck would have it, though, I’ve barely parked my ass on the couch when there’s a knock on the door.
I groan. It’s probably Tommy, tail tucked between his legs, coming to apologize.
The universe clearly doesn’t want me to write this essay.
With an aggravated huff, I swing the door open. Only it’s not Tommy on the other side.
Daire is so close that I could count each individual eyelash if I wanted, and he’s got a lot of them. He towers over me, making me feel small, which, at five-ten, is rare for me. He’s got to be six-four, maybe taller. I have to crane my neck back to peer up at him. It’s been a long time since the two of us have been this close. Even earlier, as he proposed marriage, he kept his distance. Like he thought if he got too close, he’d catch cooties.
It takes everything in me to keep from stomping my foot. “What are you doing here?”
This is unfair on so many levels. Despite my best efforts, I’ve harbored a crush on this guy since I was eight and he was teaching me how to dive into his family’s pool. Even after he broke my heart when we were sixteen, it lingered. And the damn thing persisted even when he accused me of following him here, even though we both know I’d always wanted to attend Aldridge University.
“I need you.”
Without my permission, my heart does a somersault. Isn’t that what I always wanted? For him to need me the way I needed him?
Remain strong.
“No.”
“Rosie.” My name rolls off his tongue in a growl. “I am begging you.”
I turn to walk away, wishing I could slam the door in his face. But there’s no point in trying to get rid of him. He won’t walk away until he gets tired or hungry. Whichever comes first. I was lucky to escape him at lunchtime.
“Is that what you want?” he asks from behind me. “Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg? Because I will.”
I turn around in time to see him do just that.
“Marry me, Rosie?”
A gasp sounds in the room. Not my gasp. Not even a ghost’s gasp. Nope, it’s Bertie, who’s chosen this inopportune moment to finally come out of her room.
With a hand over her mouth, she squeals. “Yes,” she shouts, now clutching both hands to her chest. “You have to say yes!” She gives a giddy shimmy. “Oh my God, I can’t believe this. It’s so exciting.”
My heart stops and my jaw falls open.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The room remains in focus.
What the fuck is happening? I have to be dreaming.
“Come on, Rosie, say yes.” Daire smirks up at me, far too smug for a guy who’s literally on his knees begging me to marry him. He knows that I’m cornered.
I glower down at him. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no again, but in my periphery, Bertie is swooning at what she thinks is a romantic scene—apparently without a single concern for why I’ve never mentioned Daire to her before.
Panic crawls up my throat, and my heart starts again and instantly takes off at a breakneck speed.
“I… isn’t it too soon… honey?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Darling, it’s never too soon when true love is involved. Come on, say yes. Make me the happiest man alive.”
Sweating through my clothes, I wring my hands, searching for a way to end this ridiculous moment. “I… I… are you sure? We should wait.”
“Rosie,” he grits out.
My knees wobble, and the room spins just a little. I feel like I’m going to pass out—from stress, certainly not from any sort of joy.
“We can make it work, baby,” he goes on, ignoring my panic. “Whatever you’re worried about, we’ll get through it together. We’re a team.”
His eyes plead with me, begging me to give in.
They say Rosie, I need you.
And isn’t that what I’ve wanted for years? For Daire Hendricks to need me?
But not like this.
“Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I bite out, not one bit happy about it. Jaw clenched, I narrow my eyes, silently telegraphing a clear you owe me.
I’m not doing it for this Daire. The one who’s combative. The guy I’ve grown to loathe. I’m doing it for Daire, the boy who was once my best friend.
He gets up and pulls me into his arms, swinging me around. I roll my eyes as he spins me. This ridiculous display is solely for Bertie’s benefit. Asshole.
He lowers me to the ground, and as I right myself, I take a step back, ready to put some distance between us.
Daire has other ideas. His warm hands swallow my face, and I barely have a second to comprehend what’s happening before his mouth is on mine.
I used to fantasize about this moment. I was certain he’d be my first kiss, my last too, and every one in between. But that never happened. Now, I’m finally getting a kiss from my childhood Prince Charming, but it’s a kiss full of lies. A show for Bertie’s benefit.
My body feels like ice, and yet it traitorously angles into him, responding to the way his mouth curves over mine. He slides one hand from my face, down my side, and settles it on my waist.
Twelve-year-old me is screaming with glee because I’m kissing Daire Hendricks.
Twenty-one-year-old-me hates that I like it.
My lips part beneath his of their own accord, and in response, he sweeps his tongue inside my mouth with gentle strokes.
Bertie makes a squeaking sound that has Daire letting me go and backing up to put a good foot of space between us. His eyes are hooded, and his normally light blue irises have darkened to a denim color. Chest rising and falling with labored breaths, he gives me a funny look, his gaze lingering on my mouth for a smidge too long.
“I didn’t even know you two were dating!”
Bertie looks like the embodiment of the heart eyes emoji. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes have tripled in size. She looks like she’s going to swoon at any moment. All her anger and annoyance at Tommy has vanished. She’s a sucker for love. The girl’s room is lined with romance books, and we’ve just handed her what looks like an epic love story that I’ve been keeping a secret.
Frankly, I want to shake her for thinking I’d hide something like this from her, but that’s Bertie. She lives in her own little world most of the time.
“Six months, right, babe?” Daire recovers first, wrapping an arm around my waist and closing the space he created between us only a moment ago.
I plaster on a smile. It would be easy to tell her it was a joke. But instead, my mouth takes over and, with a mind of its own, says, “We reconnected over the summer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bertie skips toward the kitchen, practically floating on air. “Do we have wine? This calls for wine.”
“That’s on me. I wanted to keep it a secret.”
My heart pangs at the lie and the confidence with which he spits it out. How is it so easy for him?
“A secret?” she repeats, searching for the wine we don’t have because I drank the whole bottle by myself the other night when I was feeling particularly down. “Why?”
He shrugs and hits me with a smile that is anything but friendly. It’s shocking, really, considering I’m not the one who needs a marriage. “She’s dated most of my teammates. We figured it would be better to keep it quiet for a while.”
And by dated, he means I’ve fucked them.
I don’t date. Not for lack of trying, and not because I don’t want to. But guys only seem to want me for one thing. I enjoy sex as much as the next person, so it’s not like I’m going to deny myself. But it pisses me off that if I were a guy sleeping with half the cheerleading squad, I’d be applauded, yet because I’m a girl sleeping with athletes, I’m looked at as a slut even by the guys who use me for sex.
“I wish you would’ve told me. Did you think you couldn’t trust me with your secret?” She sticks out her bottom lip, pouting. “I thought we were best friends.”
I rack my brain for an excuse that will appease her. “I… uh… you’ve been, you know, having issues with Tommy. More so than usual. I didn’t want you to feel bad that I was—am”—I shoot a panic-stricken look at Daire—“happy.”
“Tommy,” she says forlornly, tears returning. Sniffling, she turns away from us.
“Her boyfriend,” I mouth at the man beside me. “They break up a lot.”
He nods, lips twitching in an effort not to laugh.
Bertie snags a few tissues from the box on the counter and blows her nose. The sound that comes out of her is more fitting for a grown man than a petite college girl.
“That was sweet of you,” she says, tossing the tissue into the trash, “but I still would’ve been happy for you.”
“We can talk about this later,” I assure her. If I don’t shut this down now, we could be here having this conversation all night. “Right now, I need to speak to my fiancé,” I say through gritted teeth.
Before either of them can protest, I grab ahold of Daire’s arm and tug him into my room. Luckily, he doesn’t put up a fight, because there’s no way I’m strong enough to pull him by myself. I close the door and turn to face him, hands on my hips and ready to give him a piece of my mind. But he’s not paying any attention to me. He’s too busy looking around my room.
I wonder what it looks like through his eyes. The hints of red—my favorite color—the desk stacked with books and a worrying number of pens. My bed is made, the white comforter big and fluffy. I got it because it reminded me of marshmallows, and who doesn’t think about diving into a big pile of those things from time to time?
He studies a picture on the shelf above my desk. In it, I’m flanked by his brothers. It’s one of very few photos I have with them that doesn’t include him.
“Why do you have this?” he asks, frowning at me.
“I still talk to them sometimes.” I whisper the confession. Especially Roman, his younger brother. But that’s none of his business. They were all my friends, but Daire was my best friend.
“Hmm,” he hums, the sound full of what could be annoyance, though maybe it’s only curiosity.
I cross my arms over my chest. It may come off as defensive, but I don’t care. I learned a long time ago to guard myself against him in any way I can. Marrying him? Out of the question. “This isn’t going to work,” I tell him. “We hate each other.”
He finally looks away from the picture. “That’s exactly why it will work.”
“Come again?”
“We hate each other,” he reiterates. “Therefore, we don’t have to worry about feelings getting involved.”
I wrinkle my nose. “This is crazy. I… you would owe me. Big time.”
I’m not actually considering this, am I? Did I bump my head? Am I suffering from a concussion? Maybe all of this is a dream and I’m about to wake up and have a really big laugh about it.
“I know,” he says. “Money, cars, whatever you decide you want, it’s yours.”
“All this because of a kid?”
I ignore the stabbing pain in my side at the thought. As a little girl and into my teenage years, I was convinced that I would be the mother of his kids one day. I even picked out names, for crying out loud.
“All because of my kid.”
I wet my lips, stalling for time, turning his proposition over in my head. I hate that I’m even considering it, that even though I hate him, the little girl inside me is jumping up and down with excitement. Apparently, she didn’t get the memo that this is fake.
“What are these?” he asks, picking up the diet pills and frowning at the label.
I close my eyes and pull in a breath through my nose. Dammit. Why didn’t I throw them away the second I opened the package? I snatch the bottle from him and hold it behind my back. “Nothing.”
“They’re diet pills.” His voice is higher than normal, and his eyes are wide. “Why would you need diet pills? Your body is perfect.”
Those words send a bolt of elation through me. I try not to preen under that statement, but it’s hard.
“My mother sent them.”
He zeroes in on them as I drop them into the trash, then regards me, frowning. “She’s still doing that shit to you?”
My heart speeds up, and a pit forms in my chest as a memory flashes through my mind. The day my mother took me dress shopping for the middle school dance. How she wouldn’t let me buy the one I fell in love with because she said it didn’t flatter my figure.
“Obviously,” I bite out. The last thing I want to discuss with him is my mother. “Sit,” I point at my bed.
He looks from the bed to me, arching a brow several shades darker than his natural blond hair. “Already inviting me into your bed? I’m not surprised.”
I bite back a growl. I’ve never wanted to kick someone in the face more in my entire life.
“Don’t act like you aren’t familiar with falling into girls’ beds.” I cross my arms over my chest but quickly drop my arms to my sides. Something about him makes me incredibly defensive. “I need you to be straight with me. What all does this entail?”
My stomach rolls. Why am I even considering this?
He swallows, looking away like he knows there’s a good chance I’ll go running and screaming for the hills.
“We’ll need to get a place together. I need to have a proper home.” He glides his long fingers through his hair. “According to my lawyer, they’ll do home checks.” Rubbing his palms over his jeans, he cocks his head to the side. “They’ll interview us too, to make sure we’re competent.”
Great, Daire getting custody of his kid is reliant on me proving I can handle a child.
My chest is so tight it’s hard to breathe. “How old is this kid?”
“He’s a few months.”
I choke on my own saliva, hacking so hard that he actually gets up and hovers close, his hands held out in front of him like he’s not sure what to do. Clearly, he has some work to do before he can be deemed competent enough to take care of a child.
Note to self—sign up for parenting classes.
Jesus, why am I taking this so seriously?
“Sorry,” I say, breathless. “Swallowed wrong.”
Instead of sitting on my bed again, he pulls out my desk chair. His big body makes it look like a child’s chair.
He presses his hands together, almost in prayer. “I need you, Rosie.” The words are soft, though his shoulders are rigid and his mouth is set in a firm line, like it hurt to make that admission. “Please don’t back out on me.”
I lower my attention to the floor between us. I can’t look at him right now. “When would we have to get married?”
“As soon as possible,” he answers without hesitation.
If my stomach sinks any lower, it’ll be on the floor. “I want a wedding. A real one.” I tilt my chin up defiantly. I’ve always dreamed of an elaborate wedding—thousands of flowers, an orchestra playing my favorite modern love songs, an elegant white gown.
The relationship may be fake, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve a wedding.
He groans. “No.”
“Fine.” I smile. “Then get out. No deal.”
He clasps his hands and glowers at me. “I know you’re not going to stop at a wedding.”
“Obviously not.”
He looks away. “We get married as soon as possible. A simple courthouse ceremony?—”
“That—”
“But…” He holds up a hand, cutting off my protest. “Once we secure a custody agreement, then you can have your wedding.”
We. Why the hell does that word make my heart squeeze in a giddy way?
“And you’ll wear a tux?”
He blinks at me. “Yes.”
“And dance with me?”
He sighs heavily, pinching his brow. “Yes—we do have to keep up appearances.”
“What about…” Heat rises to my cheeks as I work up the nerve to get this next question out. I’ve never been a prude, but suddenly, I find myself embarrassed to put it into words. “What about relationships?”
Confusion ripples across his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Ducking my head, I survey the pale pink polish on my freshly pedicured feet. “Are you planning to stay celibate for this entire farce of a marriage?” I snap.
I have zero claim over Daire Hendricks, but that doesn’t stop my stomach from turning over at the thought of him sleeping with other women while married to me. Even if it is fake.
You’re so stupid. He was never yours and he’s not yours now. Get over it. There’s no quieting the voice in my head that’s reminded me for years that he never cared about me the way I cared about him.
I inhale, waiting for his response, keeping my expression neutral despite the negative thoughts swamping me.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” he says carefully, like he’s wondering to himself why he didn’t consider this fact. “I don’t want either of us sleeping around until after custody is finalized. In case it could be used against me. Think you can handle that?”
“Think you can handle that?” I mimic in a sarcastic tone.
Sighing, he sits up straight. “It’s a legitimate question, Rosie.”
Annoyance crawls up my spine. “You know,” I spit, “if I were one of your buddies or teammates, you’d give me a pat on the back and congratulate me for fucking my way around this school.”
His eyes narrow on the word fucking, but I don’t give him time to comment.
“Don’t act so high and mighty.”
“Fine.” The word is hissed through clenched teeth. “Sounds like neither of us should have a problem with it then.”
“Good.” I lift my chin. “We’re in agreement then.”
We stare each other down for a long moment, neither of us breaking eye contact. It feels like a full minute, maybe even longer, before he looks away.
That’s a point for me!
“I have one rule that you absolutely can’t break.” He wiggles his index finger at me.
I arch a brow. “What’s that?”
His blue eyes narrow on me like he’d love nothing more than to rip out my tongue right now. “You can’t fall in love with me.”
With a snort, I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me ever breaking that rule.” Not anymore, at least. “But the same applies to you. You can’t fall in love with me either.”
Silently, he holds out his hand, and we shake on it.
Daire gets up from my desk chair, leaving it spinning round and round in his absence, and heads for the door. With one hand on the knob, shoulders tense, he pauses.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
He glances back at me so quickly I almost miss it. “Thank you,” he grits out.
Sure, I’m owed a thank-you—for even considering this, let alone agreeing—but I wasn’t expecting one from him.
I’m frozen in place as he disappears. He mumbles something to Bertie on his way out, and then the main door shuts behind him with a loud click.
I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.
My bedroom door swings open, startling me and sending my heart racing.
With one hand encased in an oven mitt, Bertie holds the entire pan of brownies out. In her other hand, she holds up two forks.
“Spill everything.” She plops onto my bed and offers one of the forks to me.
Quickly, I spin an elaborate story. A story that’s far too easy to dream up, considering Daire and I have a shared past. It only serves to prove his point that I’m the only one who can do this for him.