Page 11 of Merry Fake Bride

That has to be wishful thinking. Who comforts a stranger?—

“Devon?” Knocking on the bathroom door drags me out of my thoughts. “Do you want any dinner?” Mom asks.

“Yes!” I call through the water. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

“Take your time.”

I turn my face into the spray and sigh internally, shaking my thoughts free of that man.

I’ll never see him again, and I can’t afford to dwell on something that happened when we were both drunk.

Finishing my shower, I dry off and dress in an oversized T-shirt and some jogging pants, then head down to the kitchen which radiates the most mouthwatering smell.

Dad stands at the stove, lazily stirring a pot of bubbling soup while Mom cuts up a loaf into chunks at the opposite counter.

“Good shower?” Dad glances over his shoulder and smiles at me, making his mustache wiggle.

“It was amazing. The water pressure here is so much better than in L.A.”

“Is that the real reason you moved back home?” Mom teases.

Rolling my eyes, I edge past the dining table. “Anything I can do to help?”

“No, you just sit down.” Dad points at the chair. “Did you have a nice night last night?”

His question carries a silent weight that makes my parents glance at each other while they wait for my answer.

I know what they want to hear.

They want me to tell them I went out, got drunk, and made a bunch of friends.

That I’ve magically fixed myself and my life by gaining a new perspective on everything.

I wish I could tell them that.

I wish I could tell them I was going to be okay, but that lie turns to ash in my mouth every time I say it, and I know they never believe me.

“It was fun. I went to a couple of bars.”One.

“That’s good!” Mom beams at me as she sets the plate of bread down in the middle of the table. “Getting out of your comfort zone is a huge step.”

“Mmhmm.” Picking up a chunk of bread, I move it back and forth between my fingers. “Did you two enjoy date night?”

Getting out of their hair for date night was the only reason I ended up at a bar last night.

The drinks were to calm my nerves in the beginning.

Never saw them calming me right into some guy’s pants.

“It was lovely,” Dad says as he carefully ladles soup into a bowl and sets it in front of me. “Eat up.”

Abandoning the bread, I pick up my spoon, but my stomach’s still so raw from the alcohol that the thought of eating fills me with an odd wariness.

It’s the same dread I’d get each night I came home from my old accounting job to face my ex, a wary understanding that something was wrong before I even walked through the door.

“It’s chicken noodle,” Dad says as he dishes up the soup for him and Mom. “Homemade.”

“The best kind.” Smiling, I cross my ankles and focus on the soup while Dad sits.