Page 4

James

L ife goes back to normal for the rest of the year. Ev and I continue to catch up for beers or the odd meal at my place, but we both seem to forget about the whole fake engagement thing until I get an email confirming the details of Mia’s enrolment in early January.

With the school year starting up soon, Mia and I have been rushing to get her new uniforms and books arranged, and I’ve paid the eye-watering tuition fees for the first semester, too. So it’s a shock to read the email which requires all parents and guardians to attend an orientation evening. It would be easy enough to respond and let them know that I am Mia’s only legal guardian, or to even lie and tell them that Evan and I broke up, but those plans are dashed when, not even five minutes after receiving the email, my phone rings. It’s the school.

I debate not answering the call for a moment, but then realise that it might be about something pertinent to Mia’s enrolment. Sucking it up, I press the answer icon and raise the device to my ear.

“Hello? James Durant speaking.”

“Ah, Mr. Durant. This is Janelle Stevens from Winchester College. We’ve just sent you an email, however because we didn’t have Mr. Bernardi’s email address on file, I’m calling to confirm that you will both be attending the orientation evening.”

“Actually—”

“We are aware that he is not legally Ms. Durant’s guardian —yet— however you have listed him as an emergency contact, so it would be in everyone’s best interests for him to attend.”

Well, shit.

I can’t say we’ve broken up if I want to keep him as an emergency contact, can I? Amicably broken up? Separated parents split these duties all the time, after all. Except he’s not her parent, just my best friend turned (fake) fiancé, so…

“Yes, we’ll both be there,” I find myself agreeing, knowing that Ev won’t mind.

It’s one simple orientation evening, how much trouble could it cause?

***

“And, finally, we expect all parents and guardians to volunteer as chaperones for excursions on a rotating roster, in pairs.” Bronwyn declares to the huddle of new parents. She’s standing at the podium —there’s really no better word for it— at the front of the hall and staring down at us all imperiously.

“What about single parents?” a harried woman, who introduced herself earlier as Marta, asks. The expression on her face mirrors the emotions swirling in my gut.

Over the course of this evening, we parents have been given the grand tour of the school’s admittedly gorgeous grounds, while being regaled with expectations on how our children will comport themselves both on campus and outside it. Even when they’re not wearing the uniform. Additionally, we have been told how we, as Winchester College parents, are expected to behave as well. Every single situation —from fundraisers to awards nights, and to excursions— has a list of requirements a mile long.

Is it too late to pull Mia out? Does she really need this dressed up, stuffy prison in order to get into NIDA?

Bronwyn’s stern expression pinches. I can’t tell if she’s attempting to appear sympathetic to Marta’s situation, or if she’s irritated by it. My money is on the latter, but she feigns a simper. “Well, surely you have a friend or a colleague who will be willing to assist you,” she answers.

At my side, Ev makes a sound of complaint at the back of his throat. I clamp my hand on his thigh and squeeze it, offering a subtle shake of my head. Which he promptly ignores.

“Not all single parents are that lucky,” he chirps.

Bronwyn’s beady eyes shift to us. The look on her face now says ‘I knew you would be trouble makers’. She’s disliked us since we managed to enrol Mia without agreeing to get married at the school function centre.

Talk about ignoring conflict of interest laws!

“I beg your pardon, Mister Bernardi?”

“Take James, for example,” he makes a show of sitting back in his seat casually, even while I’m cursing him for drawing everyone’s attention to me. “I’ve been his best friend since we were kids, but I haven’t always been available to help with Mia. I’m still not always available, and he works so hard that he doesn’t have much of a social backup. His parents don’t live close enough to step in, and I’ve met his colleagues: I wouldn’t ask them to look after a potted plant, let alone a kid.”

There’s a chuckle from the row behind us. Closing my eyes, I silently beg for death.

Evan’s death, to be precise.

“Well,” Bronwyn sniffs dismissively, “it seems simple enough to me. Either Mister Durant prioritises Miss Durant’s schooling and everything that entails, or he should consider withdrawing her enrolment and sending her to a school more suitable for his own schedule.”

I have to clamp my hand down on Evan’s thigh, digging my fingers into his flesh through the layer of dark cotton, to remind him not to fuck this up for Mia. “It’s fine,” I speak up, using a firmer tone than necessary, mostly for my best friend’s sake. “Evan and I will be able to make it work. Won’t we, sweetheart?”

Placing his hand over my own, he squeezes it a bit more tightly than is strictly necessary. “Of course, babe. But,” his expression turns genuinely sympathetic as he looks over to Marta, “because I know how difficult things were for you before we got together, maybe we should take Marta’s spots, too.”

She blinks suspiciously moist eyes back in our direction, her relief more than evident. “Really? Oh, I can’t thank you enough. If I didn’t have an eleven-year-old at home, too…”

“We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Jay?”

I know this is my punishment for not allowing him to bring Bronwyn down a peg or two, and I really do feel for Marta, as well. From our brief introduction earlier, her son desperately wants to attend Winchester so he can access their IT and programming classes. Like Mia, he has apparently dedicated himself to his studies in order to get accepted, and it would suck to see a kid suffer because his mother had no other option.

“Of course,” I smile warmly, and Bronwyn lets out a sound of irritation.

She forces a smile and nods. “Noted. Ms. Davies—”

“Mrs,” Marta corrects her with a bit of steel in her voice. I decide that I really like this woman, and the casual fondness is compounded by sympathy when she adds, “my husband died, Ms. Michaels, and I still consider myself married.”

The air in the room takes on a decidedly uncomfortable feeling after her declaration, and Ev leans over whisper, “We’re adopting her,” into my ear. His breath ghosts over me, eliciting goosebumps over my skin, but I ignore that in preference of paying attention to his words.

Affection swells inside me. Ev’s such a softie, even if he can be a pain in the arse sometimes. Already planning on getting Marta’s number so we can communicate about school issues behind Bronwyn Michaels’ back, I nod. “I’m way ahead of you, bud.”

It seems like this school —and its principal— will be quite the challenge, and having as many allies as possible will be our only way to survive the next two years.

It’s not until I’ve gotten home and I’ve crashed on the couch with a beer in hand, processing everything that happened, that I realise I’ve started to include Evan in those thoughts.

Our only way to survive the next two years, I’d told myself. Not my only way. Ours .

I guess I’m coming to accept the semi-permanence of our charade.

It’s funny, though, because something about that makes me uneasy, and I’ve never been uneasy about Ev before. Well, not since I was a teenager.