“So you want me to be your fake boyfriend, in front of your parents, so I can keep fucking you.”
“I know how it seems—”
“—okay,” he interrupts me.
I’m speechless for a second. “Really? That’s it? Okay? You’re in?”
“Yes,” he says. “But I have a couple of conditions. First … don’t ask me to change. Don’t ask me to put on a polo shirt or fucking boat shoes. Don’t ask me to pretend to be anything that I’m not.”
I draw in a breath. He’s not exactly parent-charming material and far from the kind of boyfriend my parents likely had in mind for me, but this might be good for them.
“And the second?” I ask.
“Don’t fall in love with me.” He keeps a straight face, though I’m positive he’s joking.
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“I’m being serious,” he says. “All this spending time together, all this pretending … it could get confusing. Lines might get blurred. If at any time you start feeling a certain kind of way, we need to stop and get off the ride.”
“Fine,” I say.
“I need you to promise me.”
I lift my pinky. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll pinky swear you.”
“I’m not kidding, Brighton. I need you to promise that if you start feeling something toward me, we’ll end this. Immediately. No questions asked.”
“I promise,” I say. “And for the record, I’ve kept every promise I’ve ever made.”
He exhales, almost as though he finds relief knowing there’ll be no love, nothing real between us.
And honesty, I find that a little sad.
While I’ve never been in love in the romantic sense, I imagine it could be quite nice if the circumstances were right for it. If he denies himself this sort of thing, he’s only punishing himself.
“What do we tell Devanie?” I ask. “If she finds out we’re spending time together, she’s going to ask questions.”
“We’ll just tell her we’re dating. We’ll tell everyone we’re dating, just to make it easy. Only we’ll know the truth.”
“Okay, so then it’s official now?” I ask. “You’re my … boyfriend?”
I plaster the cheesiest grin on my face, hunching my shoulders as I wait for his response.
“ … yeah …” he says, watching me.
Throwing my arms over his shoulders, I squeeze him tight and bounce on my toes, pretending to be over-the-top excited. When I peel myself off of him, his expression is frozen.
“I'm messing with you,” I say, returning to my usual calm and collected state.
His chest deflates.
“You should’ve seen your face though.” I reach for the door knob, give him a wink, and with that, I’m gone.
I drive home with the windows down and the music loud. Maybe this little arrangement is ridiculous and over the top, but so is my life. And if this is what it takes to break free, then this is what I'm going to do.
I’ll embrace the good and the bad, the highs and the lows, and the pleasure and the pain with open arms.
I want to experience all of it, full throttle.
No looking back, no regrets, no matter what.
Twenty-Four
Madden
* * *
The dining room at the Karrington Estate is so massive, every clink of silverware on china, every cleared throat echoes off the walls. The ceiling drips with crystal chandeliers—five in all—and the chairs are comically oversized and better suited for royalty.
I was only ever joking when I called Brighton a princess.
But apparently the Karringtons live like actual nobles.
“So, Madden, our daughter tells us you own your own business,” her father, Charles, says between bites of beef Wellington. “What is it that you do exactly?”
“I own Madd Inkk,” I say. “It’s a tattoo and piercing parlor.”
Her parents exchange looks. Brighton reaches beneath the table, resting her hand on my knee for a half second. But I don’t need the reassurance. I couldn’t care less what the Karringtons of Park Terrace think of me.
After all, I get the satisfaction of fucking their daughter and at the end of the day, that’s all this is about.
“Must see a lot of interesting people,” her father says, jaw jutted forward. His hair is equal parts brown and gray and he’s the quintessential embodiment of an old-moneyed, upper crust white male.
“Every day.” I reach for my water glass, which appears to be some kind of etched crystal and heavy as hell. Props to them for making the ordinary task of drinking water a luxurious experience.
“So how did the two of you meet?” Her mother wears a smile as fake as the tits protruding from her bony chest. I keep catching her scanning my arms and neck and any bit of exposed flesh, like she’s searching for any trace of tattoos, but she hasn’t asked about them yet. “I don’t believe Brighton has told us that story.”
Brighton clears her throat, buying time, but I go for it.
“Through friends,” I say.
“His cousin lived on my floor at Rothschild. She introduced us,” Brighton says. She isn’t a very convincing liar, but her parents nod and chew their food and drink their wine.
Most of our dinner consists of bits and pieces of small talk sandwiched between awkward pauses and bouts of silence, but that’s exactly how I imagined it would go from the moment I stepped foot inside their house in my ripped jeans and gray Pink Floyd t-shirt.
“What will the two of you do when Brighton goes back to school in the fall?” Temple asks, gaze passing between the two of us. “Or have you not discussed that yet?”
I place my fork down and turn to her, trying not to be obvious, trying to hide my annoyance at the fact that she left out one seemingly helpful detail.
A boyfriend would know if his girlfriend was going off to college in two months …
“Mom,” Brighton offers an embarrassed giggle. “We’ve only been dating a couple of weeks now. We’re taking things one day at a time.”
“Yes, but the summer will be over before you know it,” she says. “And then you’ll be an hour away. With all your studies and the distance, how will you find time to keep the flame going?”
Her father chimes in. “It’s a good thing I met your mother after medical school or I don’t know if we’d all be sitting here right now.”
Interesting she never mentioned anything about medical school. Never would’ve struck me as the future-doctor type.
“If it’s meant to be, we’ll find a way to make it work.” I say the kind of thing a lovestruck schmuck would say when trying to impress his future in-laws. “Fate has a funny way of making sure things work out exactly the way they’re supposed to, despite our best-laid plans.”
Temple covers her heart with a manicured hand—red nails to match her red lips—and she shoots her husband a smile from across the table. He smiles back, but only with his eyes.
A few minutes later, two women clear away our dishes and a man dressed in a chef’s uniform brings the final course—some kind of chocolate cake with multiple layers, each layer a different kind of chocolate.