“Fake. Fake and it’s my boss, not God. Please don’t ever say that around Mark or he’ll start thinking he’s a prophet or something.”
She laughs and takes my hand. “Listen, all of this is good. Oliver is a great guy and . . . well, it’s a little weird, but not bad that you like him. You guys don’t even look like it’s acting, which says something.”
“Yes, it says I can’t do this.”
“Maren, you have to get it together. You’re doing this. You have to.”
“No, I can’t.”
“So, you’re going to what? Go out there and tell everyone the truth now? That’s your big plan?”
I flop back, my head bouncing on the mattress. “I have no plan. I have no plans because I’m a bad planner.”
“I love you, but you’re nuts.”
“Yes. Add that to the list. I’m a liar. Nuts. A hussy who likes kissing your ex. Which also makes me a bad friend. I’m going to hell.”
“You’re not going to hell. Well, we all probably are, but not because of this.”
I sit up quickly, causing her to jump. “And what about what I’m doing to Oliver. Huh? What about the pain I’m inflicting because of my selfish need to make others happy?”
“Oliver didn’t look like he was suffering too much. Look, he’s a good guy, and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for a friend. And while I know this isn’t what he thought he’d be doing this weekend, he’s doing it to make you happy. Just don’t hurt him, Mare. If Oliver didn’t want to help, he wouldn’t.”
“I know and the last thing I want is to hurt him.”
Devney broke Oliver’s heart. He loved her and was ready to propose to her before she called off their relationship to be with her now-husband. I know how hard it was for her, still is. She loved Oliver, but he wasn’t the right guy and they ended things as amicably as two people can. Still, I know he’s a good guy. I’m watching it all play out.
I sink back onto the bed and drop my head into my hands. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“You do what you set out to do. You go out there and make your father happy. Then you deal with it all.”
“I don’t want to.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Devney heads over to open it. “Hey, Ollie.”
“Hey, is Maren . . .” He looks in, seeing me lying on the bed. “Is she okay?”
I lift my hand. “Just . . . regretting my life choices.”
He snorts. “What the hell does that mean?”
I look at him from the side. “Just let me lie here and live in my shame.”
Devney huffs. “I’ve tried to talk sense into her, but she’s spiraling.” She pats his chest. “I wish you luck and call me if you need reinforcements.”
“Traitor!” I yell as she walks out.
Oliver closes the door and comes to stand beside my bed. “As much as I wish we could just stay in here and pretend the world doesn’t exist, we have to go since we’re the main event. Are you almost ready for dinner?”
I close my eyes and groan. “No.”
I feel the mattress depress as he sits. “No?”
Opening just one eye, I peek at him. “I’m having guilt and shame and regret for what we’re doing.”
“I would think it’s normal to feel that. Your family is really great, and lying to them isn’t easy.”
I push up onto my elbows. “No, it’s not. My family just seems so happy about all this.”
“But, I mean, isn’t that what we want?”
“Yes, and it’s an issue.”
He lies down beside me. “All right then. It’s an issue, but there’s not a chance in hell I’m backing away now. You pulled me into this, and we’re going until the bitter end.”
“What if I told my dad?”
“And what? How does that end well?”
“It doesn’t.”
He shifts to his side. “Look at me. You are doing this for the right reasons. Okay? You wanted to give a dying man his wish. More than that, though, this is something you deserve to give to yourself. You will get into your wedding dress, have your hair done, and allow a man who loves you to have a moment he dreamed of. After he dies . . .” He pauses and brushes his finger along my cheek. “You will still have that memory. It doesn’t matter who the guy at the end of the altar is, it’s about a father and a daughter.”
I get to my feet. “I don’t deserve your friendship.”
He follows me, but pulls me to look at him. “What makes you think I deserve yours? Why are you really freaking out?”
I have no words. I can hear the steady thrum of my pulse and then, a tear falls as the truth slips from my lips. “I don’t want to lose him. I’m not ready to lose my dad.”
He tugs me into his arms as grief grabs ahold of me. I see the daily deterioration in him. I see how hard just breathing is. My daddy is dying right in front of me. Each day a little bit of the life he had dwindles away.
Oliver’s arms are wrapped around me, keeping me from falling apart.
“I wish I could make him better,” he says against my ear. “I wish I could do something.”
I lift my eyes to his. “You can. You are, right now. As much as you might not believe me, I didn’t plan any of this.”
“Any of what?” Oliver asks.
The only person I can be honest with is him. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I also didn’t think I could feel anything close to how I am right now.
“This. Us. The part of me that’s . . . it’s . . .”
It’s a lot. It’s everything and fake, but sometimes it feels so real. Like when he reaches for me or holds my hand, it’s as though we really do want each other. Or right now, when he’s comforting me.
“Not so hard pretending some moments.”
“A lot of moments,” Oliver clarifies.
That’s what has me so twisted too. It’s easy to pretend that I really care about him, that we feel right. When we are around everyone and I look for him only to find him looking for me, it feels right. And that is freaking crazy because he is Oliver—and not the one I was going to marry.
Still, I don’t know how I could not feel this way. He agreed to my crazy plan and has been amazing through it.
Oliver’s eyes meet mine, the energy around us shifts as if he is thinking about the same thing. My heart speeds up as his head dips lower.
“What moments, Maren?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.
“Just some.”
His hands move so he can splay his long fingers at the small of my back. His tall frame towers over me, and I lean in a smidge. He smells so good, like wood and leather with a hint of whiskey. My fingers itch to touch him, to slide up his chest so I can feel the muscles beneath his shirt.
“What about when I kiss you, are you faking it then?”
Oliver doesn’t move, just stands there, looking into my eyes, and I shake my head slightly. “No. Are you?”
“No.”
“If I asked you to kiss me now, would you be pretending?” I volley the question at him.
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
I do what I had been thinking before, moving my hands up along his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my fingertips. “This is crazy.”
“I know.”
“We’re supposed to be . . .”