Page 17 of Fake Lemons Love and Luxury

SEAN

O ur conversation lingers in my mind for days. Wren says it was a mistake. Says it won’t happen again.

I hear her voice on a loop for three days straight. Like a song I hate but can’t stop humming.

We’re both quieter around each other now, each retreating into the safety of work and routine.

We keep it civil. Polished. In front of everyone, we smile on cue.

She slides her hand into mine before cameras.

I lean in like it’s second nature. The performance is seamless now.

We’ve had enough practice but the warmth is gone, replaced by a professional courtesy that feels worse than anger.

At home, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

We move through the house like coworkers who share a break room. Polite. Predictable. No late-night talks. No lingering stares.

This morning we have a press moment outside of Lemon HQ. Just a few questions from a lifestyle reporter doing a piece on women in tech. It isn't supposed to be personal.

Then the last question drops.

“So Wren and Sean! The people are curious. How serious is this relationship? Are wedding bells in the future?”

I feel Wren tense beside me. Without thinking, I slide my arm around her waist, a hand settling in the small of her back.

“We're taking it one day at a time.”

“Please, tell us, how did you two meet?”

“Through Jen. Then later, she hired me,” I step in.

The reporter laughs. “That’s not very romantic.”

“She had me at ‘I need your background check.’”

The reporter grins, turning her mic to Wren. “So what’s your favorite thing about him? What makes this relationship different?”

Wren looks up at me, her expression shifts. “He sees me,” she says in a soft voice, her eyes never leaving my face. “Not the actress, not the CEO. Just me. And he listens. Most people don’t. But he does.”

My chest tightens. For a moment, I forget we're pretending.

“And what about you, Sean? What drew you to Wren?”

I glance at Wren. She’s staring at me, wide-eyed.

The words come easy. “Wren is a strong-willed woman. There are so many things I love about her. The way she lights up when she talks about her son. How she hums Motown songs when she thinks no one's listening. She’s the kind of person to say what she wants even when it scares the hell out of her.”

She looks away, her fingers digging into my arm. The reporter beams, scribbling fast.

We make it through the rest of the interview with practiced charm.

She laughs at the right times. I touch her, she touches me. The reporter eats it up.

But as soon as the cameras shut off, the air changes.

Back in my office at Lemon LLC, I shove the door closed. I open my laptop and began working, checking the security feeds. Logs. Camera angles. Reports from my team. I’ve done this a dozen times since the scandal broke. But I still can’t shake it.

That leaked paparazzi shot of us still bothers me. They were informed. Someone had us followed. They don’t get shots like that by chance.

And then there’s Camille Ross. Talking like she’s known Wren for years. Leaking details she shouldn’t know.

Someone is feeding her. Someone close to Wren.

I line up timestamps. Movement logs. Entry codes. Visitor reports.

Again and again, it circles back to one person.

But I can’t just accuse them. Not without proof. Not if I’m wrong.

I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. No. I need more.

My phone buzzes on the desk.

hey dad. I need your help! I don't know what happened to my fuse box. It’s not coming on :((

I exhale through my nose and type back fast.

Call an electrician, Jen. I’m at work.

Her response comes ten seconds later.

why call an electrician when my dad can fix it

I click my tongue, already shutting my laptop.

Be there in 30.

I grab my car keys.

Another buzz.

can I bother you to help me pick up some groceries on your way? so I can make something nice for us to eat? you're a LIFE SAVERRRRRR. thank you, BEST DAD IN THE WORLD!!!

My mouth curls to a smirk. She still knows how to get to me. Every time.

As I head for the elevator, I pull out my phone again and shoot off a quick text to Wren.

Stepping out. I’ll pick up Eric from school on my way home.

No response. Not even the typing dots.

A few weeks ago, I might’ve dropped by her office just to catch a glimpse of her. Say something dumb. See her smile.

Now?

Now it feels like I’m standing outside a door that’s already been shut.

I swing into the parking lot behind Marketview and grab a cart. Bread. Eggs. Spinach. Kale. Chicken breasts. Jen had a list texted before I even turned off the ignition.

She’s slick like that.

I shove on a face cap and move fast, keeping my head down. It’s still weird being recognized by some people. I get in and out in fifteen minutes.

When I pull up outside Jen’s townhome, she’s waiting in the doorway barefoot, blonde hair in a messy bun and oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder like it’s the ‘90s again, a spitting image of her mother.

“Wow,” she says, squinting. “You came.”

“You begged,” I remind her, grabbing the groceries from the passenger seat. “Emotionally manipulated to leave my place of work.”

She follows me inside, bouncing like she’s fifteen again. “Your daughter was starving and living in darkness. Have mercy.”

I smirk. “You could've ordered something or gone out to get your own groceries. And called an electrician.”

I set the bags on the kitchen counter, and follow her toward the back hallway where the fuse box is.

“It went out around nine last night,” she says, flipping on her phone flashlight. “I was watching that dumb new dating show and boom. Blackout.”

“You slept in darkness all night? You didn't think to call an electrician?”

She frowns, squinting at the wall panel as I unscrew it. “I did . He said he couldn’t come until tomorrow. I slept at Derek’s.”

“I’ve tried to teach you how to do this. You know, it isn't that difficult.”

“That’s what Wren says,” she smirks. “You know she's quite good with stuff like this. I was always calling her to fix the fuse box at my former apartment. One of her weird hidden talents. I’d have called her last night but she’s already stretched too thin.

I didn’t want to add ‘electrician’ to her calendar. ”

“Yeah, she is quite busy.”

“I know. Product launch and all. How’s it going?”

I grunt, focusing on the wiring. “Going well.”

“That’s good to hear.”

I reconnect a loose neutral wire while Jen watches.

“So… you two good?”

I test the circuit. The hallway light flickers on. “Define good.”

“Oh?”

“She’s quiet these days.”

“Wren does that.”

I don’t respond.

She walks into the kitchen to unpack groceries while I put the tools away. The silence between us isn’t heavy, but it hangs there. Like a question that hasn’t found its shape yet.

“You look like hell, by the way. Did I mention that already?”

“Thanks,” I mutter, returning to the kitchen to help unload organic vegetables into her refrigerator. “When did you start eating kale?”

“Don't change the subject. What's going on with you and Wren?”

I shrug. “Nothing. We're maintaining appearances.”

Jen leans against the counter, arms folded. “Right.”

“It's complicated.”

“No, differential equations are complicated. This is simple. You've fallen for her.”

My stomach clenches, but I don't answer, focusing on arranging yogurt containers with unnecessary precision.

“Dad.” Jen's voice softens. “I see the shift in you. The way you talk about her now, with this careful reverence. Like she's something precious.”

I sigh, leaning against the counter.

“I think I screwed up.”

She pauses, looking at me. “Did you say that out loud? Mark the date.”

I shake my head.

“I don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”

“You’re both scared.”

I glance at her.

She’s unpacking a loaf of sourdough, calm and casual. Like she didn’t just slice through the truth.

“I’ve known Wren a long time,” she continues. “She runs when things get real. I used to think it was because she was selfish. Now I think it’s because she’s been hurt so much she doesn’t know how to stay.”

“I’m not trying to hurt her.”

Jen looks at me. “I know. But if you’re going to love her, you have to do it all the way. No halfway. No exit plans. She’ll feel it. And she’ll leave.”

I nod, throat tight.

The hallway light comes on with a soft click behind us. The fuse box is fixed. The power’s back on.

But inside, I’m in the dark.

Hours later, I squeeze her hand as I leave. “I'll figure it out.”

But as I drive to pick up Eric from school, I wonder if there's anything to figure out. Wren had made herself clear.

“Uncle Sean!” Eric bounces toward me in the school pickup line, arms flailing, his backpack crooked on one shoulder. “I made something for you!”

“Hey, buddy.” My mood lightens as I see the little boy. “What have you got there?”

Eric pulls a folded paper from his pocket, his brown eyes gleaming. “It's us!”

I crouch down to examine the drawing. Three figures stand hand in hand in front of what appears to be my house: a tall man in black, a woman with long dark hair, and a small boy between them. Above them, written in crooked letters: “MY FAMILY.” A big red heart over us.

Something catches in my throat.

“That's you,” Eric points. “And that's Mommy. And that's me in the middle.”

“This is cool, Eric,” I manage. “Great drawing.”

“Ms. Wilson said to draw our families,” Eric explains as we walk to the car. “Jimmy drew his mom and his stepdad and his real dad and his sisters and his cat. I drew us.”

In the car, Eric chatters about his day while I navigate traffic, the drawing placed on the dashboard like a trophy.

“Do you see the dog?”

He points. A blob with ears and a tail.

“That’s Biscuit. He’s not real yet. But when we’re a real family, maybe we can get him.”

My throat tightens.

“You want us to be a real family?” I ask.

He nods. “You make my mom smile like she used to. Before the internet people were mean.”

“I like her smile too.”

Eric is quiet for a moment. “I had a bad dream last night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I didn't tell Mommy because I didn't want her to worry. She worries a lot.”

I glance at him in the rearview mirror. “You can tell me about it if you want.”

“There was a monster trying to get in our house,” Eric says, his voice small. “But then you came and scared it away.”

Something fierce surges in my chest. “I'd always protect you and your mom, Eric. Whether I live with you or not.”

“But it's better when you're there,” Eric insists. “Mommy laughs more. And you make the best pancakes, even better than hers, but don't tell her I said that.”

I chuckle. “Your secret's safe with me.”

As we pull into the driveway, Eric says, “I hope you stay with us forever. I like you.”

“I like you too, Eric. A lot. So whether or not I’m here, I’ll always do,” I say, ruffling the boy’s hair.

Inside, I help Eric with homework. There's an easy rhythm to it, so different from when I raised Jen. Back then, I’d been no more than a kid myself, terrified of making mistakes, second-guessing every decision. With Eric, I feel more confident, more present.

When Eric runs off to watch a cartoon, I find myself studying the drawing again.

As I tuck it away, I realize Jen was right. I’m not falling for Wren.

I’ve already fallen, all the way.