Chapter 20 Clark
CLARK
On Sunday morning, Mom wakes us at seven, declaring, “He is risen!” The kitchen smells like resurrection rolls.
She also repeatedly announces that we’re leaving for church in just over an hour to get parking—then proceeds to count down in fifteen-minute intervals—and a reminder to wear something nice!
My twin brothers groan, but dutifully pull on their church clothes.
The service is a beautiful celebration of the Lord’s sacrifice, saving work on the cross, and resurrection.
It’s also much as I remember it—sure, the music has changed, but Mrs. Connoly still sits in the front with her purse on her lap, and while the Johnson family has doubled in number, they still tower over most of the congregation.
Mom radiates pride at having all of us here.
Afterward, she introduces April to everyone.
She shakes hands and smiles at neighbors who remember her from high school.
After the service, we return home to find Easter baskets waiting for us. Mine has candy and a mini Lego set. April also has candy and a small succulent plant.
Even the dogs get one filled with toys and treats.
“This is so thoughtful,” April says, touched.
Mom says, “Clark mentioned once that you don’t have a green thumb. Succulents are low maintenance.”
April’s eyes are suspiciously shiny. “Thank you, Cheryl.”
“Oh, honey.” Mom pulls her into a hug, and I have to look away because the whole scene is making my chest tight. I happen to know that April’s mother doesn’t hug her.
By noon, the house starts filling with family friends and neighbors for the Easter celebration. Mom has outdone herself—ham, scalloped potatoes, three kinds of salad, rolls, cheesecake, carrot cake, and my personal favorite, rice crispy treats.
“April and Clark, can you two make the deviled eggs?” Mom asks, already on to the next task.
We move to the kitchen island without discussion and get right to work. I peel eggs while April prepares the filling. We don’t talk about it or plan it. We just do it.
“Done,” April announces fifteen minutes later, wiping her hands off on a dish towel.
“Already?” Claudia pokes her head in. “Wow, you two make a good team.”
We share a look. Claudia’s eyebrow raises, but she doesn’t comment as she takes the tray to the other room with all the appetizers and snacks.
“Are we supposed to be a bumbling new couple?” April whispers.
“If so, we probably should’ve taken longer.”
“Or is it like since we’re friends, we just kinda, like, you know—”
I do know, but I’m not exactly sure how fake dating your best friend is supposed to work. In fact, I think it’s rare because it typically doesn’t work. It’s one of those doomed-to-fail things, which isn’t something I want to be thinking about.
Later, after an epic play session with the dogs to tire them out, my mom calls to us, “Can you two set the table, so it’s ready ahead of time?”
We do it in five minutes flat, moving around each other like we’re a stock team at a car rally.
Mom says, “April and Clark, you’ll sit together at the end.”
But we were already setting the little chalkboard place cards that she always pulls out for holidays in that exact spot because this is where we always sit when we’re here.
When we go back outside to mingle, my cousin Bart looks us over and asks, “Did you coordinate your outfits?”
April and I look down, then at each other.
We’re both wearing variations of blue, but hers is more of a purple shade and mine is slightly gray.
However, the pattern on my button-down picks up the periwinkle detail on her dress, and the stitching on it is almost an exact match to my slacks. We definitely didn’t plan that.
My cousin chuckles. “Oh, you two have this down. Next thing you know, you’ll be retired and wearing matching track suits.”
“Well, we do have his and her Knights merch—” April starts before trailing off.
Internal panic sets in. We’re supposed to be a new couple. Shouldn’t we be awkward and uncertain as we figure things out? Instead, we’re acting like we’ve been together for years.
Because I realize with alarm, we basically have been.
But what will April think of that? Ordinarily, we could play it off as a brother-sister thing, but I do not have sibling-like feelings for her. So how does this work?
Before brunch—or more accurately, “linner” since it’s past lunchtime but before dinner and my mother’s zeal and hospitality almost always make her run late—she insists on photos. Group shots first, then couple-adjacent shots where April and I hover near each other but not touching.
My mom says, “Oh, just you two! Real quick in front of the lilac tree!”
We stand together, and now the awkwardness decides to kick in. Where do I put my hands? On April’s waist? Her shoulders? Just hanging at my sides like a weirdo?
She seems to be having the same crisis.
Claudia physically adjusts us, putting my arm around April’s shoulders and pulling her closer to my side.
The world tilts slightly when she settles against me, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of everything—her lilac scent, the way her hand rests naturally on my chest, how her breathing syncs with mine without either of us trying.
“There,” Claudia says, stepping back as she holds her fingers in an invisible frame. “Much better.”
Mom calls, “Say, ‘Cheese,’”
But this proximity is like coming up for air after being underwater, crushed beneath breaking wave after wave of denial. April fits perfectly under my arm, her head just reaching my shoulder. Like we were supposed to be this way.
My heart shifts into overdrive, but outwardly I’m frozen, terrified that if I move or breathe wrong, she’ll realize how perfectly she fits here and pull away.
“Move closer together. You’re not dogs. Dogs bite. You’re in love!” Mr. Grayson from next door yells from the porch.
Everyone laughs, and April buries her face against my chest, her shoulders shaking with a fit of giggles.
My body wants to take a bath in that sound, in her scent. My arm tightens slightly, my thumb traces an absent circle on her side, and angle my head toward hers. This isn’t practice or performance. This is muscle memory for something that’s never happened before.
If only this could be forever.
Mealtime is a gauntlet of questions from well-meaning neighbors and relatives.
“Where did you two meet?” Mrs. Patterson, a neighbor, asks.
April answers, “Back in high school.”
“Gordie was missing,” I say. “And she came to the rescue.”
My sister frowns. “I miss Gordie.”
“You always said he got hair all over your clothes,” one of the twins says.
“Good thing she doesn’t only wear black anymore,” my other brother says.
Claudia shoots eye daggers. “It was a phase!”
Aunt Louise asks me, “Is she a good cook?”
Before we can answer, my aunt offers a long missive on the importance of feeding a man well.
April says, “Actually, Clark teases that I have the diet of a toddler. He’s the chef between the two of us.” Before Aunt Louise can offer her opinion, April has the table captivated by all her favorite dishes that I prepare. Some of them are even news to me. The appreciation feels good.
Mom beams. “A pro hockey player and a cook. I’d say he’s a keeper.”
“He’s definitely going to make some—”
The tips of my ears heat, but when April doesn’t finish her sentence, the room feels disturbingly quiet.
“I mean, yeah, he’s a keeper.”
Was she going to say that I’m going to make some woman happy one day? Or something else? Some yummy meals? My exhale comes out choppy.
Bart asks, “Who’s the messier one?”
We both point at each other, laugh, and then gesture to the dogs.
“Where was your first date?” Aunt Louise asks.
April and I improvise the answer like it’s our debut in a theater. But somehow, our responses complement each other. When I mention the first official date was at the Ice Palace, she adds details about the kiss cam.
Claudia coughs into her napkin, clearly hiding laughter.
Then Mrs. Patterson from down the street says, “Young love. You two just make sense.”
Not, You’re so cute.
Not, How sweet.
Just, You make sense.
Like we’re a solved equation. A completed puzzle.
Inwardly, I freeze and catch April’s eyes.
Is she thinking the same thing I am? Do we come clean and tell everyone this is fake?
But then what? Announce to my family and friends that we’re putting on a show?
What will they think of us? Will we be exposed, ruining April’s chances at getting the Love at First Wag payday? After all, we did sign an NDA.
After dinner, I volunteer to help with dishes—something I never do, which makes Dad raise his eyebrows—and follow Mom into the kitchen.
I need to talk to her privately. Whitaker used to tease me about being a Mama’s Boy, but I’m also my father’s son.
I look up to them both, so he can stuff it.
Yep, Whitaker and I will definitely be having a conversation. Soon.
“Everything okay, honey?” she asks, running water in the sink.
“I need to tell you something.”
She doesn’t look surprised. Just turns off the water and lowers her voice. “About you and April?”
I nod. “The dating thing isn’t exactly—”
“Real?” She smiles gently. “I know, honey.”
I feel like I was just shoved in the dishwasher with the power cycle turned on. “You know?”
She winks. “Call it motherly intuition,”
“Then you’d have known that I liked my room the way it was.”
“Oh, don’t pout.” She playfully swats me.
“I’m glad you get a craft space,” I say.
As I scrape plates and she rinses, in a hush, she says, “You’ve been in love with April for ten years. I was wondering when you’d finally do something about it. Just didn’t expect it would be so roundabout.”
“Mom, we’re not—it’s for a campaign. The charity I mentioned. We’re fake dating.”
She smiles as if she’s well aware that something was up. “And how’s that working out for you?”