Page 10

MARLOW

The words ‘foster care’ catch my attention from across the table.

They always do. I heard those words more than I heard words like dinner, toy, or love as a child.

I tune back into the conversation just in time to hear the obnoxious woman who’s been dominating the conversation all night laugh and say, “We should have just fostered a kid first to see what we were getting into! That way we could just give it back if we get tired of taking care of it.”

It .

Lovely .

Blood rushes to my ears. I feel my face and chest turn lava-hot. The words are sitting on my tongue, fighting to burst past my lips.

“That’s not how foster care works. You can’t just ‘give them back’ because you don’t feel like parenting anymore.” I try to keep my voice calm and steady, even though I’m feeling anything but.

The woman stops laughing for a second but then sputters out a reply aimed more at the table than directly at me.

“Right, but there should be a program like that,” she says with a laugh. “It would be mutually beneficial, wouldn’t it? The kid gets a home for a little while and the parents get to figure out if they, like, hate it.”

“Please stop referring to foster children as ‘it.’ And they would be better off in a group home than placed with a family that isn’t committed to the child’s wellbeing. Rejection takes a big toll on foster kids.”

The woman finally stops laughing, realizing that I’m serious and I’m not backing down. She sucks her teeth and glares at me.

“God, who even are you? The patron saint of foster kids? It was a joke.” She spits her words across the table at me.

“It wasn’t a funny one. Foster kids aren’t starter children or dolls. They aren’t there to help you figure out what a shitty mother you’re going to be.”

The woman gasps like I just stabbed her in the hand with my fork. Her eyes search the table for sympathetic looks, but everyone is completely still.

Then I feel Ryan’s hand between my shoulder blades, rubbing a small circle to draw my attention.

“Marlow, let’s take a walk, okay?” he says quietly.

I let him grab my hand and pull me out of my seat. I’m shaking with rage as we walk out of the ballroom. Ryan doesn’t make any attempt to touch me as we walk. He’s half a step behind me, likely getting ready to lay into me as soon as we are out of earshot.

I’m sure he’s mad.

I’m mad at myself for letting that woman get the better of me.

There’s a dark, empty courtyard off the main hallway. I step outside and let the crisp night air wash away the fire in my cheeks and lungs. Neither of us says anything for a minute. Ryan stays a couple steps behind me as I cool off.

“You okay?” he eventually asks.

I nod without turning around.

When Ryan’s hand grazes the bare skin between my shoulder blades again, it startles me. I turn to face him. His lips are twisted into a frown.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That woman just hit a sore spot with me.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. She was the asshole, not you.”

“You’re not pissed?” I ask, studying his face.

“Of course not.”

“Aren’t you related to that woman? Isn’t your family going to be upset that I basically just called her a shitty mom?”

“I don’t give a fuck about her. I don’t even know her. She’s one of Kevin’s cousins. I’ll probably never see her again…if I’m lucky.” Ryan flashes that smile, the one that probably works on most women. It’s a slightly crooked pull of his lips as he looks down and then straight up at me.

Admittedly, it might work on me as well…if it were anyone else but Ryan. Then again, something was working a minute ago. Right up until that woman started talking again.

“Do you mind if we stay out here for a few minutes?” I ask.

Ryan shakes his head and motions to a nearby bench. We both take a seat, leaving about a foot of space between us. Neither of us speaks for quite a while.

Once I shake off that woman’s horrible words, the guilt sets in.

Even if he isn’t mad that I bit that woman’s head off, Ryan is having a pretty terrible night.

He just watched his ex-girlfriend marry his stepbrother.

That would do a number on anyone. Plus, he’s here with me instead of one of his fun, easy flings who would probably crawl under the table and suck his dick if he asked.

At the very least, he’d be looking forward to the promise of sex at the end of the night.

But he’s here with me because I got drunk and made a fool of myself in front of his ex.

I should at least try to go easy on him.

“How are you holding up?” I finally ask.

Ryan shrugs. “Fine, I guess. It’s just weird to think that Blair is part of my family now…my sister-in-law. I’ve fucked my sister-in-law.”

“Not too many people can say that,” I say softly.

“No, they can’t.”

Silence stretches out between us again. The dull hum of music and conversation wafts through the courtyard. The night breeze sends a chill up my spine.

“Want my jacket?” Ryan asks.

“No, we should get back in there.”

“Okay, let’s go make Blair regret her decision to have an open bar.”

I laugh nervously. I make bad decisions when I’m drunk, and not the sexy kind. The kind that lands me a fake date to an awkward wedding. Between cocktail hour and the glass of wine I inhaled at dinner, I’m already halfway to that point.

We time our re-entry just right. People are starting to wander away from their assigned tables to mingle and dance, but mostly to find the bar. The line snakes around several tables, stopping just before the dance floor.

It seems like we missed the first dance.

That’s probably for the best. Ryan seems to be more affected by this whole thing than he wants to let on.

I saw the way he looked at Blair when she walked down the aisle, and again when she entered the ballroom for the first time.

I can’t tell if it’s love or hate that he feels for her.

I guess the two don’t always look so different.

Admittedly, I’m dying to ask Ryan for the whole story. How did this woman go from being his girlfriend to his stepbrother’s wife? Did she have an affair, or did Ryan cheat first? Monogamy doesn’t seem like his strong suit.

As much as I’d like to know the answers to these questions, I will never, ever ask Ryan. That’s a level of emotional soul-baring that we’ll never reach. We may be doing a good job of faking it – too good of a job – but that doesn’t change anything.

Before Ryan and I make it to the bar, Blair intercepts. She yanks Kevin into place beside her. I don’t miss the way his eyes flick down to my breasts or the way his lips curl into too familiar of a smile, aimed only at me.

“I’m so glad you guys made it!” Blair shrieks at us in a forced, high-pitched tone. She thrusts herself forward, dropping Kevin’s hand as she reaches out to hug Ryan.

It’s an awkward display. Ryan stiffens and returns the hug with a quick pat on her back then pulls away. He reaches for me, and I cozy up to his side.

Above all else, this is why I’m here: to convince this woman that Ryan and I are a thing. I need to sell it.

Ryan and Kevin exchange a quick, impersonal nod.

“Congratulations to you both,” Ryan says without a smile.

“Thank you so much!” Blair gushes.

“This is such a beautiful wedding,” I say, laying it on thick. “I hope ours will be even half this amazing.”

Blair’s smile falters, her face twisting in confusion. “Oh, are you guys…?”

“Oh, no,” I laugh, “at least not right now, but definitely someday. Right, honey?”’

When I look over at Ryan, our faces are mere inches apart. I’m smiling widely, but Ryan’s expression is pure terror. Exactly what I was going for.

“Um, yeah, maybe someday,” he finally says.

“But today isn’t about us,” I say, “We’re just happy to be here to celebrate your big day.”

Blair forces a polite smile. “Well, we’re happy you came.” Her eyes linger on Ryan for a second and I feel a pang of something that feels a lot like jealousy. “We better go mingle. Enjoy your night!”

Before she yanks Kevin away, he takes one last look at my breasts. I give him a quick, annoyed glare and turn my attention back to Ryan.

His lips are close to my ear. He has a firm hold on my waist, keeping me close as he whispers, “Are we getting fake married now?”

“No, I just gave you the perfect out. In a few weeks, you can tell them that things were moving too fast, and you had to end things with me. No one will question it after that.”

“Clever girl,” he smiles against my ear.

“Well, it was the look on your face that really sold it. Come on, I really need that drink now.”

Two vodka tonics later, I’m dancing with Ryan to “Uptown Funk.” He’s an irritatingly decent dancer.

He doesn’t move a lot, but he is perfectly in tune with every step I take and every beat the DJ throws at us.

We stay a respectable distance apart – just an inch or so to prevent any accidental collisions of body parts.

“You know, I was really looking forward to making fun of your dance moves, but you’re not giving me much to work with,” I say.

Ryan laughs and spins me around. The alcohol whirls around in my head, throwing me slightly off balance.

I land against Ryan’s chest. It’s not a very soft place to break a fall.

Suddenly, I have a weird urge to run my hands over his chest. That’s definitely the alcohol talking.

The alcohol and my never-ending dry spell.

I think I might legally qualify as a nun at this point.

I pull my hands back as Ryan steadies me.

When a slow song starts, Ryan and I barely even do the junior high pause of hesitation.

His hand finds my waist and pulls me in.

I let my head fall to his shoulder, which feels amazing in my buzzed state, like I’m no longer responsible for its weight or its weird thoughts about Ryan’s chest. I smell his cologne, faint but nice on his collar.

I’ve noticed he doesn’t wear it at work, but sometimes wears it out to the bar on Friday nights. It must be his lady-catching scent.