Chapter 14 Fake Dating #2
“First of all,” said Wes, “stop trying to be controversial, Brooke. You’re overheating your last remaining brain cell. Secondly, don’t act like you handle everything yourself. Mom oversees Dad’s estate, not you.”
“Mom? Our mom? This morning, she got confused by the map on the bottom of a Whitman’s Sampler box.”
Wes and Brooke peered over their shoulders, and Sasha followed their gaze.
A petite silver-haired woman in a floral sheath dress was dancing with a seven-foot-tall giraffe.
He’d paired his wide-shouldered, burgundy suit with a matching fedora.
Sweet Willy Watson. Sasha recognized him from several mayoral elections.
The speakers played “Best of My Love,” and they both body-rolled toward each other.
“They’re adorable!” raved Sasha.
“They’re kissing,” gasped Brooke. “Ugh, let me go pull Mom away from that pinkie-ringed pimp. Wes, circulate. Act like you’ve been somewhere before. Sasha, it’s lovely to meet you. Hope I see you again.” With that, she swanned away.
“Wow,” said Sasha. “She’s . . . a firecracker.”
“She’s an emotionally lawless villain,” he retorted. “Crazy to think she was the golden child, while I was the problem child.”
“I honestly can’t imagine you being anyone’s problem, Wes.”
“I mean, I wasn’t easy. I was mischievous, but I got pretty good grades, and I was everyone’s friend.
I got in trouble for fighting at school sometimes.
He hated me for that. Told me I embarrassed him.
Said I was ‘physically undisciplined.’ That was probably true, but I was bullying the bullies.
My dad was all about rescuing underdogs.
You’d think he’d appreciate that.” He looked around at the crowd.
“All these people loved him. No one ever considers what heroic people are like at home.”
His tone was casual, direct, conversational.
But the message was heartbreaking. She couldn’t imagine feeling like an embarrassment to a parent.
Her mom bragged about her every chance she got.
Sasha’s childhood wasn’t perfect—and, much of the time, she felt like she raised herself—but she grew up feeling valued.
For all her mom’s faults, this was a priceless gift.
Sasha felt righteously fired up, like she wanted to rescue his inner child, somehow.
“I’m sorry your relationship was hard. Honestly, it breaks my heart to hear.”
“I’m good. Really. You can’t change the past, right?” With that, he dropped the subject. He grabbed two cups of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Sasha. They clicked their cups together. The mood was lifted a bit. “I’m sorry about Brooke.”
“Oh, I can take it,” she said lightly. “Funny that she doesn’t think we’re friends.”
“You caught that, huh?” He let out a short chuckle. “Yeah, that’s her antisocial way of saying you’re pretty. While also insulting me. She knows I don’t have a girlfriend. What, does she think we woke up from a one-night stand and I dragged you here?”
This was an offhanded comment, but it sent Sasha’s mind into a small erotic spiral.
Helplessly, a delicious vision flashed in her mind—the two of them, tangled in rumpled, morning-after sheets, a beam of sunlight streaming down on their intertwined bodies, as they luxuriated in their blissed-out little world.
Sasha nervously smoothed her hair behind her ears. I’m never using the Rose again. She’s a cruel mistress.
But, as she recovered from Feeling Things, Sasha had a bright thought. This was more proof that Wes hadn’t clocked the Rose incident. Or else he would never have made such a suggestive comment.
“How are you doing in this crowd?” Wes asked. “Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”
“I’m good. But thanks for checking in.” She couldn’t say what she wanted to say, which was that she’d never had anyone check in like that.
She’d never opened up about her anxiety in a way that would invite anyone to check in.
This was a friendship milestone. And she felt like she was blooming under his attention.
“What’s making you smile like that?” he asked, taking a sip of his champagne.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe it.”
Just then, Sasha felt a tap on the back of her right shoulder.
As Wes’s expression darkened into preemptive annoyance, she spun around.
It was his mom. Up close, she seemed more delicate than the fully embodied woman gleefully dancing with her man.
She had a fragility that felt immediate, as if the ghostly specter of a nervous breakdown wasn’t far off.
“Hello, young lady. Aren’t you fresh as a daisy?” she exclaimed. “Wes, what’s her name?”
“Sasha,” sighed Wes. “Hi, Mom.”
“Tasha. Lovely name.” His mom had the hopeful, wide-open expression of a Facebook Boomer on the verge of succumbing to an internet scam. She batted her lashes at Sasha. “How long have you been dating my sweet boy?”
“We’re not dating, Mrs. Dane. We’re just friends.”
“Well, I hope you stick around.”
Sasha was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“She’s calling him a slut,” said Brooke, who showed up again out of nowhere.
Mrs. Dane wrinkled her nose. “I hate it when you use that fast language. Your daddy would’ve hated that.”
Just then, Councilwoman Juarez pulled Brooke and Mrs. Dane away to meet her new assistant. It was the perfect time for Sasha to address his mom’s allegations.
“Are you a slut, Wes?” she asked teasingly.
“Me? No, not currently.”
“Your mom thinks you are.”
“I think labeling me a ‘slut’ is disrespectful to the smart, beautiful, interesting women I had the privilege of consorting with for brief yet meaningful amounts of time.”
She let out a short laugh. “Diplomatic. Nicely done. So, you had a wild past?”
“I was just easily seduced,” he admitted, plainly. “In my post-college years, I lost my footing a little bit. Years of unserious, unhealthy behavior. And, yeah, too many women. Unfortunately, I wasn’t really boyfriend material. Whatever that means.”
Before Sasha could think of a response, Brooke and Mrs. Dane returned.
“So,” started Mrs. Dane, “how long have you lovebirds been dating?”
“Sasha just told you; we’re friends.”
“Well, you certainly look like a couple. Is this fake dating?” asked Mrs. Dane. “Like in romance books?”
“I love fake-dating tropes,” said Sasha. “Have you read The Wedding Date?”
“Jasmine Guillory? Of course. What an author,” she gushed enthusiastically. She nudged her son. “I really like your quote-unquote friend.”
“You really think I’d bring someone here to trick people? What for?”
“Me thinketh that Wes doth protesth too much,” trilled Mrs. Dane.
“You doing Shakespeare, or did your dentures slip?” muttered Brooke.
Mrs. Dane ignored her. “And what do you do for a living, dear?”
“I’m a casting agent,” said Sasha. “Mostly film, but I’ve done a lot of TV. I’m working on a Seraphina commercial right now.”
“Seraphina? My favorite store. You must be very skilled at what you do.”
“She’s being humble,” interrupted Wes. “She cast a fourth of the rom-coms and thrillers on Netflix. Remember Let’s Knot and Say We Did? You quoted that movie for a month, Mom.”
Sasha looked up at him, with heated cheeks and a surprised smile. She was so touched that he knew that. “Did you read my IMDb?”
“Maybe.” His eyes crinkled. “I’ve been researching you.”
“I’m flattered. Did you watch Let’s Knot and Say We Did?”
“Yeah, over the weekend. That guy who played the brother of the sheriff? Perfect casting.”
Her mouth dropped. “Stop it. You really did watch? I’m impressed. You’re not the demo.”
“If you worked on it, I’m the demo,” he stated simply. Wes’s and Sasha’s eyes met. He eyed her like he had an endless urge to drink her in, to memorize her. It was absolutely destabilizing.
So destabilizing that they forgot they were in front of an audience.
“Friends, my entire ass,” mumbled Brooke.
Sasha quickly changed the subject, snapping them out of their trance. “Detective Dane Senior sounds like an exceptional man.”
“Oh, he was divine,” sighed Mrs. Dane. “His peers would tell him that to be a great detective, you need to cheat. Operate in gray areas. But not my Wesley. He was so principled. No hacking, no illegal snooping, no bugging phones, or all that stuff you do, Wes.” Mrs. Dane placed her fists on her hips.
If Sasha wasn’t mistaken, a flash of anger erupted on her face.
Something in her demeanor changed. And just like that, she went dark.
“Wes, I’m relieved you stopped trying to follow in his footsteps.
Because your father was special. A saint. And Lord knows, you’re no saint.”
It was a terrible thing to say. And it was so shocking coming from a person who, seconds before, seemed like a harmless, slightly wacky woman.
Wes had warned Sasha that his mom was toxic—but Sasha hadn’t been able to see it.
Mrs. Dane didn’t seem plugged enough into reality to inflict real damage.
But in one breath, she flipped a switch, and her effervescent personality curdled into something sinister.
Brooke was just a bitchy, bratty sister.
But Mrs. Dane was operating from a place of grief and resentment.
Now, Sasha understood why Wes didn’t want to come.
Wes, Sasha, Mrs. Dane, and Brooke all stood in a force field of awkwardness. In the background, the upbeat pep of Will Smith’s “Summertime” provided a tone-deaf backdrop to this uncomfortable moment.
“Mom, stop.” Clearly, Brooke didn’t tolerate anyone but herself messing with Wes.
“Wes, I know it caused you so much pain,” she continued, “trying to keep time with an icon.”
“I think he’s got it,” warned Brooke. “Enough.”
“Now you can forge your own path. With Tasha. Now go and be the best truck driver you can be. Your father wore himself out, rescuing you so often. Lord, all those charges. Trespassing without consent.”