8. CALLUM
8
CALLUM
Samantha steeples her hands under her chin after setting her cortado down. Her mouth is delicate and painted a dusty pink that matches the blush on her high cheekbones.
“When did your family move to the States?”
“Before year nine.”
Samantha Donaldson, an old family friend, and I are on an arranged date by my mother. One of the several that she set up in an attempt to fix me.
Everything down to this French café and suggested order was planned by my mother. Samantha’s mother is also a willing party in all of this.
The Donaldsons became friends with my parents shortly after Audrey started school. She and Samantha were in the same class before they moved from England to New York. I didn’t know they relocated again to Chicago. Her father’s law firm has locations in several major cities, including America, France, and England. Samantha has an older brother who is destined to take over the family business.
And apparently, she’s destined to marry rich.
“Do you like it?”
Her perfectly blown-out red hair shifts with her shrug. “I suppose. We go back to England on holiday, and I hope to move back there someday, truthfully.” Her mouth snaps shut as if she wasn’t supposed to say that.
“I miss it too.”
“Do you plan to stay? ”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
Our mugs are empty quickly. The conversation lulled between us. After an hour, I’ve learned nothing new about her. Each response felt scripted, and when she did stray, she quickly backtracked.
I excuse us, kissing her cheek goodbye.
Mapping how far home is from the café, I opt to take the twenty-minute walk back. Enjoying the cloudless skies while we have them.
Ten minutes in my phone buzzes.
LIAM: How’d the date go?
She was nice
GEORGE: Nice?
GEORGE: You’ve never called a date nice
LIAM: Take it this one’s out
Any advice?
LIAM: Don’t ask me, I’ve been in love with the same girl for six years
GEORGE: I’m still trying to figure out women every day
What happened to college us?
My phone double buzzes. A new text and a call from my little sister. I open our group text, before answering Audrey’s call.
GEORGE: Boys do go to Jupiter to get more stupider
“You scared her off?” Audrey questions me immediately.
“I did not scare her off.”
“She’s already called her mom, who has called our mom, who I am listening to huff and puff cleaning the kitchen. Cleaning .”
“You’re at home?”
“Moot point here.” There’s a pause. “Fine, yes, if you have to know, I come home every so often. The laundry room is better, and I can never get the right combination for the fabric softener. Lucinda”—our parent’s next door neighbor—“leaves me some.” Audrey says, quicker than a racehorse.
I snort a laugh.
“Anyways. Samantha spilled. You either really suck at dating or really don’t want to be in a relationship.”
I do not suck at dating. If I wanted to date someone, I would. Right?
“The latter. You already know that, Auds.”
“I also know that people believe in the Loch Ness monster, and that’s ridiculous, just like you.”
“Why are you calling?”
There’s a closing of a door and the sound of a washing machine churning echoing through the line.
“Because you’re my brother—”
“Favorite,” I add.
“Do you want a ribbon for that?” Her sarcasm stretches the Atlantic. “What was wrong with Samantha?”
Nothing. Everything.
She’s very fit. Every definition of a beautiful girl, but that was it.
We had nothing in common, and that’s not her fault. She was raised to be a trophy wife. Another female told to sit still, shoulders back, talk less, and look pretty. Samantha was molded to be an image of poise and passivity.
Sitting across from her earlier, sipping my Earl Gray, I pitied her. Hated it.
Not only for her but for every female out there. I fret that I’m never meeting the expectations or can handle the pressure put on my shoulders, but I have it easy. My path to success was laid out, but that’s not the situation for others.
Samantha? My sister? Chloe?
It’s nothing in comparison to what they have to go through as women.
Nothing is wrong with Samantha.
Everything is wrong with the world in which she was raised and groomed.
“Nothing,” I finally respond. “You and I both know that I don’t want a relationship. Don’t have the time or space for one.”
Audrey mocks my words, capping it off with a snicker. “Why don’t you fake having a girlfriend? Bring a friend or someone as a date to things. Appease mom by snapping a few selfies with a her.”
“What?”
“ You read romance books . You know what I’m talking about.”
“That is fiction. This is my real life. No one fake dates someone in real life, Auds.”
“People also don’t get kidnapped by mafia leaders and end up in a marriage of convenience with them, only to fall in love after becoming accidentally pregnant and running up their black card. Or—”
“I get it.”
“Emerson must have a friend or one of your employees—oh, I love a good workplace romance—that would be willing to pretend to be your girlfriend. Put on a cowboy hat and wet white T-shirt and you’ll be the British version of Glen Powell. No one can deny that.”
“You’re joking.”
I do not look like Glen Powell. I prefer my resemblance to be that of Paul Walker (RIP), Alex Pettyfer, or a young Heath Ledger (also RIP).
Fake dating? Audrey can’t be serious. I could never. Someone always ends up falling for the other, and since I’m not in a position to fall for anyone.
“I’m not. Look, I know Mom’s tough on you. She compares you to Jack and Harrison, and you hate it. She isn’t going to let up on this, and you don’t want a relationship. You’ll appease her while—”
“Okay.”
“Okay? You are agreeing with me?”
“Yes, Auds. Don’t be shocked.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, which is crazy. You are intelligent and annoying. If anything, I’m agreeing to shut you up.”
The washing machine stops and a jingle plays that Audrey hums happily to.
“As happy as I am that you are taking my idea, I can’t wait to watch this playout. I’m popping popcorn, and I’m absolutely telling Beatrix and Emerson.”
“Mom set me up on one more date. It’s next week. Maybe I’ll ask her.”
“Call me after!”