Chapter 10 The Parent Trap
The Parent Trap
SYDNEY
Ipull up to my childhood home, a craftsman charmer with a multitude of quirks.
The knot in my stomach tightens—partly from excitement about my new job, partly from dread about telling my parents Brooks and I are dating, except we’re not really dating, we’re fake dating, but I slept in his bed, and oh God, what have I gotten myself into?
Weatherwise, today warmed up to a pleasant sixty-five degrees, a more normal Idaho temperature for the beginning of October.
Tomorrow, it’s supposed to hit seventy. My parents are already on the porch swing, engaged in their morning coffee ritual—a tradition as reliable as the Dickens water tower leaking every third Tuesday.
Mom spots me first, waving with the enthusiasm of someone who’s had three cups already.
Dad pretends not to see me, hiding behind his newspaper in a move he’s perfected in almost thirty years of dad jokes.
“Sydney!” Mom nudges Dad with her elbow. “Tom, look who’s here!”
Dad peeks around his paper with surprise. “Well, I’ll be darned. Is that our daughter? The one who only visits when she needs something?”
“Very funny.” I climb the porch steps. “I was here last Sunday for dinner. As always.”
“And you ate all the chili.” Dad points out, folding his newspaper. “Left nothing but scraps for your poor father.”
“You had three helpings!” I say, but I’m smiling. This banter is safe territory before I drop my bombshell.
Mom pats the wicker chair next to her. “Sit, honey. I’ll get you some coffee. You look like you need it.”
She’s right. I barely slept last night, the heat radiating from Brooks’ body, the conversations we had, how tempted I was to…
God, it’s hard to admit, even to myself. But how tempted I was to cuddle into him. Why?
It’s got to be because of my accidental two-year celibacy—since the implosion of my toxic relationship with Jake.
Then, during my weather report this morning, I kept expecting someone to call me out as a fraud—which has left me running on fumes and anxiety.
“Thanks, Mom.” I sink into the chair. It creaks welcomingly.
When she returns with a steaming mug—my favorite one with the chipped handle that says, “Idaho Forecast: It’s f*cking cold,” a gag gift from Jonah three Christmases ago—I wrap my hands around it.
“So.” Dad eyes me over his reading glasses. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?” I say, though I know exactly what he means.
“The ‘I’ve done something amazing or something terrible’ look. The same one you had when you scored the winning goal at state finals and when you backed my car into the mailbox.”
Mom settles back onto the swing beside him. “You might as well tell us, Syd. Your father won’t stop guessing until you do, and you know it’s going to get more ridiculous by the minute.”
Dad nods. “I’m about thirty seconds from assuming you’ve joined a traveling circus as the human cannonball.”
I take a deep breath, then a sip of coffee. “They’re giving me the sports anchor position at the station.”
Mom claps her hands together, face lighting up. “Oh, honey! That’s wonderful!”
“Congratulations, Syd.” Dad’s joking demeanor’s replaced by genuine pride. “You’ve worked hard for this. When do you start?”
“Saturday afternoon, reporting live from the opening Trout game. Donny will take over the weather until they find a replacement, and now, I’ll be at the sports desk for morning and evening broadcasts.
” I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
Despite the complicated circumstances, I got my dream job.
But Mom, with her uncanny maternal radar, tilts her head. “That’s great, honey. Then why do I hear a ‘but’ coming?”
I inhale, focusing on the familiar scent of Mom’s flower garden mixed with Dad’s aftershave. It’s now or never.
“Brooks and I are faking a relationship,” I blurt. “That’s how I got the job over Donny and his social media domination.”
I brace for shock, confusion, maybe even disappointment. What I don’t expect is Mom’s face breaking into a knowing smile and Dad chuckling like I’ve just told him the punch line to one of his jokes.
“Well, that’ll be a good boost for your career, honey.” Mom sips her coffee with maddening casualness. “I think you two will work well together.”
I blink, certain I’ve stepped into some alternate reality where my parents are pod people. “What do you mean, ‘work well together’? Aren’t you surprised? Or concerned? Or something?”
Dad shrugs, the swing creaking beneath him. “All that bickering might just be foreplay.”
“Dad!” I gasp, nearly spilling my coffee.
“You never know.” He exchanges a look with Mom that makes me feel like I’m missing something. “Your mother and I couldn’t stand each other when we first met. I thought she was a stuck-up know-it-all, and she thought I was—”
“A buffoon.” Mom pats his knee. “And I was right. But he grew on me.”
“Like a fungus.” Dad winks.
“Eww.” I set my mug down on the small table beside me, trying to process their words. “Okay, but I just told you I’m in a fake relationship with Brooks Kingston. My nemesis. The guy who Jonah made promise he’d stay away from me. And you’re both just... fine with it?”
Mom and Dad exchange another of those infuriating parent looks.
“Honey,” Mom says gently, “last night, Maisie spilled the beans on the Beaver Bookies group chat.”
The Beaver Bookies have a Zoom meetup and a group chat?
Mom plunges on with, “Maisie wrote everything in all caps. Said you two finally admitted your feelings for each other and are madly in love.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times, no sound emerging. Maisie messaged her book club? Within hours of our confession?
“We knew you two probably swung a deal.” Dad reaches for the thermal coffeepot to refill his mug. “But who knows. These things have a way of evolving.”
“Evolving?” I sputter. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Mom says, her twinkling eyes suspect, “that arrangements of convenience sometimes turn into the real thing. Especially when there’s already a foundation of... intense feelings.”
“The only intense feelings Brooks and I have for each other are annoyance and exasperation.”
Though even as I say it, I know what I felt last night—the cuddling thing. And our conversation—the easy flow, the shared memories, the moments where it felt like we were seeing each other clearly for the first time.
Dad makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like “Mm-hmm,” which I choose to ignore.
“What I don’t understand,” I say, “is why you’re both so calm about this. I expected... I don’t know, shock? Concern? Warnings about the perils of lying to the world?”
“Oh, Syd.” Mom leans forward to pat my knee.
“I don’t like the lying part, but it’s for a good cause.
I love what it’s doing for Maisie. And, well, I want to see you get the job of your dreams. It’s easy enough for you and Brooks to ‘break up’ when it’s time.
And we’ve known Brooks since he was nine.
He practically lived here throughout middle and high school.
He’s a good boy—man now, I suppose—underneath all that brooding. And wild-oat sowing.”
“Besides,” Dad adds, “we’ve had twenty-four hours to process the news, thanks to Maisie’s loose thumbs. Got all our shock out of the way last night.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “This is a disaster. We were trying to keep it quiet until we could tell Jonah in person.”
“Smart move,” Dad says. “Pick him up from the airport tomorrow and plead your case.”
I push myself up from the chair, suddenly needing to move. “This is a nightmare. Jonah’s going to kill Brooks, then me, then Brooks again just to be sure.”
“He’ll understand once you explain,” Mom says unconvincingly. “It’s for Maisie, after all.”
“And your career,” Dad adds. “Jonah knows how much that sports desk means to you. He’ll come around.”
I’m not convinced. Jonah can be fiercely protective, especially since Jake the Snake.
He’s convinced I’m more fragile than I let on, that I need to be shielded from additional stress and complications.
And in his mind, Brooks Kingston—with all his baggage, one-night stands, and injury he’s dealing with—is the definition of complicated.
Plus, hello, I don’t need to date another hockey player.
“For Maisie’s party, you need to have your stories straight,” Mom moves along. “What’s your cover story? How did you get together? First date? First kiss? People will ask, and you don’t want to contradict each other.”
I stare at her, wondering when my mother became an expert in orchestrating fake relationships. “We, uh, we came up with the story to tell Maisie.”
After I fill them in, Mom says, “That’s good. Simple, plausible, ties in with Maisie. But you need details, Sydney. The devil’s in the details.”
“Like who made the first move?” Dad wags a finger. “At whose house? Did he bring flowers? Did you kiss first, or did he?”
“Dad! Please.”
“You’ll need to know all this stuff if anyone asks. Especially for Saturday. The whole town will be here, and they’ll all want the scoop on Beaver County’s hottest new couple.”
Mom has a mischievous smile. “You remember the time you made Jonah invite Brooks to your birthday party in fourth grade? You wore that blue dress you saved three months of allowance for, then spent the entire party pretending you didn’t notice he was there.”
“I did not,” I hiss.
But the memory hits me with humiliating clarity.
It was a few months before the ponytail incident, and I had noticed Brooks, of course.
Noticed the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he helped my mom clean up without being asked, the way he casually handed me my gift—a soccer ball signed by my favorite player—like it was no big deal.
I’d slept with that ball next to my bed for months.
“Everyone has embarrassing crushes at nine,” I mutter.
“You did that dance partner thing when you were sixteen,” Dad piles on, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “And you clearly enjoyed—”
“Okay, that’s enough memory lane for one day.” I stand. “I need to go. I have to find Brooks and make sure we’re on the same page before the questions start.”
Mom stands and pulls me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and home. “I’m proud of you, Syd. For the job, and for helping Maisie. Whatever happens with Brooks—real or fake—just remember to be honest with yourself.”
I’m not entirely sure what she means by that, but I hug her back. “Thanks, Mom.”
Dad joins our hug, his familiar arms wrapping around both of us. “And if you do decide to make it real, I call dibs on the first ‘I told you so.’”
“Dad.” I groan.
As I head down the porch steps toward my car, Mom calls after me, “You and Brooks need to pick up the cake for Saturday!”
“Don’t forget,” Dad adds, oh so helpfully.
“On it,” I call back, fishing for my keys from my purse.
Dad gives me a thumbs up.
As I drive away, the weight of our situation settles over me like the wintry fog that hit on Tuesday. Our fake relationship is a shit-ton more complicated than I’d originally thought. The town’s gossip. Jonah. My sudden urge for cuddling.
And there’s something else nagging at me.
Something about my parents’ easy acceptance, their knowing looks, their hints that this arrangement might evolve into something real. It’s as if they see something I don’t, something about me and Brooks that seems obvious to everyone but us.
Or maybe just to everyone but me.
Because this morning, when I slipped out of bed before dawn to get ready for my weather report, I caught Brooks watching me through half-lidded eyes. His warm and unguarded gaze made my breath catch and my heart skip in a way that had nothing to do with our arrangement.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. This is fake. A business arrangement to benefit both of us. Nothing more.
So why can’t I stop thinking about how right it felt to fall asleep next to him? How much I liked helping him get dressed? How comfortable it is being with him because I can just be myself?
I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. “Focus, Sydney.” Prepare for tonight’s weather broadcast. Plan my first sportscast with Brooks. Prepare for Jonah. Survive the next forty-eight hours and make it through Maisie’s party without ruining everything.
Simple.