Chapter 4
FOUR
Max
Meeting the parents wasn't in the contract. At least, not in the first week of our fake relationship. But when Lena called, voice tight with panic because her monthly family dinner coincided with her cousin's engagement announcement and "showing up alone would be social suicide," I heard myself agreeing before my brain could catch up with my mouth. Which is how I find myself standing on the doorstep of a brownstone in Park Slope, wearing the only blazer I own and feeling like an imposter in more ways than one.
"Remember," Lena whispers, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress for the fifth time, "we met at The Copper Key when you made me a specialty cocktail. We've been dating for almost three weeks."
"I know the script." I adjust the wine bottle in my grip—a Cabernet that cost more than I'd normally spend but still probably falls short of Carter family standards. "Relax. This isn't my first rodeo."
"You regularly pretend to date women in front of their families?"
"No, but I've met parents before. The principle's the same, whether it's real or fake."
She gives me a doubtful look. "My family can be…intense."
"So can drunk bachelor parties at 2 a.m., and I handle those just fine."
The door swings open before she can respond, revealing a woman who is unmistakably Lena's mother—same dark hair with expert highlights, same elegant features, though etched with fine lines that suggest Lena twenty-five years from now.
"Sweetheart!" Mrs. Carter embraces Lena, then pulls back to examine her. "You look thin. Are you eating enough?"
"I eat plenty, Mom." Lena's voice shifts into a higher, brighter register that I haven't heard before. "This is Max. My boyfriend."
Mrs. Carter's assessing gaze turns to me with the precision of a military-grade laser. I resist the urge to check if my shirt is tucked in.
"Max Donovan." I extend my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carter."
"Diana, please." Her handshake is firm, her smile professional but not particularly warm. "Come in, both of you. Everyone's in the living room."
The brownstone interior is exactly what I expected—tastefully decorated in neutrals with strategic pops of color, artwork that probably costs more than my annual rent, and not a single thing out of place. It's beautiful but feels more like a magazine spread than a home people actually live in.
Lena's hand finds mine, squeezing with what feels like genuine anxiety. I squeeze back, surprised by the instinctive desire to reassure her.
The living room contains what appears to be the entire Carter extended universe—an older man I assume is Lena's father, a young couple accepting congratulations (presumably the newly engaged), and various relatives in expensive casual wear, all holding wine glasses and maintaining the exact same level of polite laughter.
"Everyone," Diana announces, "Lena's here. With her boyfriend, Max."
The room goes quiet, all eyes turning toward us with varying degrees of curiosity and surprise. I feel Lena stiffen beside me.
"Max," the older man says, rising from his armchair. "I'm Robert Carter. Lena's father."
His handshake is firmer than necessary, his gaze direct. I match his pressure, maintaining eye contact.
"Good to meet you, sir. Thanks for having me."
"Bit of a surprise," he says. "Lena didn't mention she was bringing anyone."
Lena's smile tightens. "I told Mom last week, Dad."
"Did you?" Diana looks perplexed. "I don't recall?—"
"When we spoke about the menu. I specifically asked if we could avoid shellfish because Max has an allergy."
I don't have a shellfish allergy, but I nod solemnly. "Very considerate of her."
"Well," Diana recovers smoothly, "more wine is always welcome. Robert, why don't you open Max's bottle?"
As Robert takes the wine, a young woman about Lena's age approaches, her smile genuine where others' seem forced. "I'm Jess, the lucky cousin who gets to steal some spotlight tonight." She holds up her left hand, where a diamond catches the light. "This is my fiancé, Brian."
Brian looks like he was assembled in a lab specializing in East Coast preppy boyfriends—khakis, blue button-down, and a smile that suggests active participation in at least three nonprofit boards.
"Congratulations," I say, meaning it. "That's quite a ring."
"Thanks, man." Brian clasps my shoulder. "So how'd you meet our Lena? None of us even knew she was dating anyone."
All eyes swivel back to us. Lena slips seamlessly into the rehearsed story. "Max made me this amazing cocktail at The Copper Key. Something with ginger and bourbon that wasn't on the menu."
"She looked like she needed something stronger than her vodka soda," I add, trying to match her easy tone. "And she left me a phone number with her tip."
"Bold," Jess says approvingly. "So unlike you, Lena."
"People change," Lena replies, a brittle edge to her lightness.
"And you're a bartender, Max?" Robert asks, returning with wine glasses.
There it is. The polite disdain I was waiting for.
"I am," I say, accepting a glass. "At The Copper Key in Williamsburg."
"Fascinating." His tone suggests it's anything but. "And is that your career, or...?"
"Dad," Lena interjects, "Max has his master's in music composition. He's just taking some time to focus on other projects."
It's technically true, though I haven't touched my "other projects" in over a year.
"A musician." Diana nods, as if this confirms something. "How creative."
The way she says "creative" makes it sound like "unemployed," but I keep my smile fixed. For Lena's sake.
"What instrument?" Jess asks, seeming genuinely interested.
"Guitar, primarily. Piano, some percussion."
"Max was in a band," Lena says, and I'm surprised she remembers this detail from our park conversation. "They toured nationally."
"Really?" Brian perks up. "Anyone I would've heard of?"
"Probably not. We were called The Last Remark."
Recognition flashes in his eyes. "Wait, seriously? You guys opened for Lunar Drive a few years back. I caught your show in Boston—you were incredible."
The unexpected praise catches me off guard. "Thanks. That was a good tour."
"Why'd you guys break up?" Brian asks. "You seemed on the verge of breaking through."
I feel Lena's curious gaze on me. "Creative differences," I say, my standard deflection. "Sometimes things just run their course."
Robert clears his throat. "Dinner should be ready. Shall we move to the dining room?"
As we follow the family through to an equally pristine dining room, Lena whispers, "You never told me your band was successful."
"We weren't, really. Just had a few good opportunities."
"Still. That's impressive."
There's genuine admiration in her voice that makes me uncomfortable. I'm not here to impress her. This is business—a fake relationship with clear boundaries and an expiration date. The less she knows about the real me, the better.
Dinner is an elegant affair—roast chicken with herb sauce, fingerling potatoes, and asparagus arranged with the precision of a high-end restaurant. I find myself seated between Lena and her aunt, directly across from her father.
"So, Max," Robert begins as soon as we're served, "what are your long-term plans? Bartending is hardly sustainable."
"Dad," Lena warns, "don't interrogate him."
"It's just conversation, sweetheart."
I take a sip of wine, buying time. "I'm considering a few options. The bar pays well, and the schedule gives me flexibility."
"Flexibility for what?" Diana asks. "Are you working on music again?"
The "again" feels pointed, as if they've already researched me and know about my hiatus.
"Among other things," I say vaguely.
"Max is very talented," Lena jumps in. "He's just selective about his projects."
Robert looks skeptical. "Selective is one word for it."
I feel a flash of irritation. Not at Robert's judgment—I've heard worse—but at the way Lena keeps trying to make me sound more accomplished than I am. As if bartending isn't good enough for her family.
"Actually," I say, setting down my fork, "I like bartending. It's honest work. I connect with people, create things they enjoy, and I'm good at it. Not every job needs to come with a corner office to be worthwhile."
The table falls silent. Lena's hand finds my thigh under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze that might be warning or support.
Robert studies me for a long moment, then surprisingly, his expression softens slightly. "Fair enough. What's your specialty drink?"
The conversation shifts to safer territory—cocktail trends, Jess and Brian's wedding plans, Diana's charity committee work. I relax marginally, focusing on my food and offering opinions only when directly addressed.
"Has Lena taken you to her favorite childhood restaurant yet?" Jess asks during a lull. "That Italian place in the Village?"
"Not yet," I glance at Lena. "But I'd like to try it."
"It's nothing special," Lena says quickly. "Just sentimental."
"Nonsense," Diana interjects. "Salvatore's is an institution. Their tiramisu is divine."
"You should absolutely take him," Jess insists. "Lena used to order the same pasta dish every time. What was it called? The one with the creamy sauce and?—"
"Fettuccine Alfonso," Lena finishes, looking uncomfortable. "I was a boring child with predictable tastes."
"You were a child who knew what she wanted," I say without thinking. "Nothing wrong with that."
Her smile is small but genuine. "That's a charitable interpretation."
"Speaking of charity," Diana says, smoothly changing subjects, "how's your fundraiser campaign going, Lena? Have you hit your engagement targets?"
Lena tenses beside me. "It's paused temporarily. We're reassessing the strategy."
"I told you that wellness angle was overdone," Robert says. "Everyone's a self-care expert these days."
"It wasn't that," Lena says tightly. "There were…other factors."
"Cameron?" Jess asks bluntly.
The table goes silent again. I feel Lena's entire body go rigid.
"I don't think we need to discuss that," Diana says, too late.
"It's fine," Lena's voice is controlled, her smile fixed. "Cameron and I have been over for months. Ancient history."
Brian, bless him, attempts to diffuse the tension. "Anyone see that new Marvel movie? The one with the time travel?"
I reach for my water glass, eager to help change the subject, but my elbow catches the edge of the gravy boat. It happens in slow motion—the boat tipping, rich herb sauce arcing through the air, landing with spectacular precision across my lap and splashing onto Lena's cream-colored dress.
"Shit," I mutter, then catch myself. "I mean—sorry. I'm so sorry."
Diana jumps up. "Oh dear. Let me get some club soda."
Lena looks down at the green splatter across her dress, her expression unreadable. I brace myself for anger, for the mask of polite tolerance to crack, revealing the fury beneath.
Instead, she starts laughing.
Not a polite titter, but a full-bodied laugh that transforms her face. "Your expression," she manages between gasps. "You look like you just ran over someone's puppy."
Her laughter is startling, infectious. I find my own lips twitching. "Well, I did just murder your dress."
"Please," she waves dismissively, still giggling. "This dress has seen worse. Remember the sangria incident, Mom?"
Diana returns with club soda and a towel, her own smile reluctant but present. "How could I forget? An entire pitcher, all over her white graduation dress."
"The stains never came out," Lena confirms, dabbing at her dress. "This is nothing."
"Still, I'm sorry about the mess," I say, accepting the towel and trying to salvage my pants.
"It's actually perfect," Jess says with a grin. "Now Lena and Brian have matching 'first family dinner disaster' stories. When Brian met our parents, he knocked over an entire bottle of red wine."
"All over their white carpet," Brian confirms cheerfully. "I offered to pay for professional cleaning."
"Rookie mistake," Robert says, surprising me with actual humor in his voice. "Never acknowledge the full extent of the damage. Carter family rule."
"I'll remember that," I say, relaxing slightly.
As Diana clears the soiled tablecloth and Lena helps me blot the worst of the stains, something shifts in the atmosphere. The formality cracks, replaced by genuine warmth that feels unscripted.
"So, Max," Robert says once we're settled again, his tone lighter than before, "tell us about this specialty cocktail that won our daughter over."
And just like that, I'm no longer the interloper being interrogated but a guest with a story to share. I launch into a slightly embellished tale of the night Lena came to the bar, describing the custom bourbon and ginger concoction I made her (which I never actually did, but could easily recreate now).
Lena plays along beautifully, adding details about how impressed she was with my intuition about what she'd like. Our fabricated meet-cute sounds almost plausible as we weave it together, her hand occasionally touching my arm for emphasis, her smile directed at me with convincing affection.
By dessert—a delicious tiramisu that lives up to Diana's praise—the conversation flows easily. I find myself genuinely enjoying the Carter family dynamics, especially seeing Lena in this context. She's different here—still polished, still careful, but with moments of the unguarded laughter I witnessed after the gravy incident.
When she excuses herself to the bathroom, Jess slides into her chair.
"So," she says quietly, "you're good for her."
I blink, caught off guard. "I…try to be?"
"No, I mean it. I haven't seen her laugh like that in years." Jess studies me with surprising intensity. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
Before I can respond, she returns to her seat, leaving me with an uncomfortable pressure in my chest. Guilt, I realize. Because I'm not actually "doing" anything. This isn't real. It can't be real, because in three weeks, it will end as planned.
Lena returns, her hand automatically finding mine as she sits. It feels natural now, this physical connection, where just days ago it felt awkward and staged.
"What did I miss?" she asks.
"Nothing important," I reply, squeezing her hand, trying to ignore how right it feels.
As the evening winds down and we prepare to leave, Robert pulls me aside while Lena is collecting her purse.
"Lena's been through a rough patch," he says without preamble. "That Cameron fellow did a number on her reputation. On her confidence, too, though she'd never admit it."
I'm not sure how to respond. "She's stronger than people give her credit for."
Robert nods, seeming pleased with my answer. "Yes, she is. But even strong people need someone in their corner." He fixes me with a direct gaze. "Are you in her corner, Max?"
The question hits harder than he could possibly know. Am I in her corner? Or am I just playing a role, all while making a bet that guarantees I won't develop real feelings for her?
"I am," I say, and it doesn't feel entirely like a lie.
Outside, waiting for our Uber, Lena leans against me in the cool evening air. "That went better than I expected."
"Even with the gravy incident?"
"Especially with the gravy incident." She looks up at me, her expression soft in the streetlight. "You were good in there. Really good."
"Just playing my part."
"No," she shakes her head, "you were being yourself. That's why they liked you."
Our car arrives, saving me from having to respond. As we slide into the backseat, Lena rests her head lightly against my shoulder, the gesture so casual it seems unconscious.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For doing this. For being…real with them."
Her gratitude makes my stomach twist with guilt. Because while I was busy charming her family, making her laugh, holding her hand like it belonged in mine, I was also consciously reminding myself of the bet. Of the need to maintain emotional distance.
"Anytime," I reply, and mean it more than I should.
As the car moves through Brooklyn streets, Lena's breathing deepens, her body heavy against mine as she drifts into a light doze. I look down at her, this woman I barely know yet somehow defended to her father as if her reputation mattered to me personally.
My hands feel numb from clenching them too tightly in my lap, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt. Because despite my protests to Ryan and Drew, despite my confidence that I could handle this arrangement without complication, I'm starting to worry that I might be in trouble.
Not falling for her—that would be absurd after less than two weeks—but enjoying this pretense more than I should. Finding comfort in the weight of her head on my shoulder. Feeling pride when I made her laugh. Wanting to be the person her family thinks I am.
"Just a job," I whisper to myself as Brooklyn slides past the window. "Just a job."
But as Lena shifts in her sleep, her hand finding mine even in unconsciousness, I'm no longer entirely convinced.