17. Fallon

Fallon

When I wake up and open my eyes, it's like staring into the void.

It takes me a moment to remember that I'm in one of Brett's guest rooms, and I've been sleeping off my exhaustion from the past couple of days. Even after this sleep, I'm still tired. Sitting up in bed, I pull out my phone and type out an email asking for temporary un-paid leave at the PT clinic.

When that's done, my eyes flick to the time on my phone, and I realize it's nearly evening. I've left the baby with Brett for hours. It's not that I don't trust him, because, weirdly, I do. It's that I've been with the baby alone for that long, and it's not fun. It's that I don't even know if he can take care of a baby.

Peeling myself from the bed and attempting to finger-comb my hair again, I stumble out into the hallway and follow the sound of soft, twinkling children's music to the living room.

"Oh my god," I gasp, coming to a stop and bringing my hand to my mouth.

"Okay," Brett says, looking up from his spot on the ground and letting out a little laugh. "I know what you're thinking—but it didn't seem like this much when I added it to the cart."

The entire living room is littered with boxes and various baby contraptions, in differing levels of construction. The baby is already strapped into one of them, cooing happily as it rocks her from side to side.

"Brett," I laugh, the sound bubbling up out of me from nowhere. It's like he's transformed his living room into a department store. I spot at least three cribs.

"They have different features," he says, getting to his feet, breathless with excitement. "This one is temperature-regulating, this one has aromatherapy—I thought we could try them all out and see which one we like most."

"This is wild, Brett," I say, laughing and picking up what looks like a long, stretchy scarf. "What is this?"

"Oh!" He bounces over to me. "I haven't quite figured it out yet, but you can use it to, like, tie the baby to you. You wrap it all around. It's supposed to be more comfortable than the one with the straps, like the backpack, you know?"

"I'm not sure all of this is necessary…"

"It's a hobby, Stewart."

"Actually," I say, clearing my throat and glancing away from him. "It's Ratcliffe now."

"Oh, right," he says, and I watch a dusting of pink form over his freckles. He reaches up and scratches the back of his head, and we stand there for a moment, like we're both taking a moment to acknowledge our situation.

We're husband and wife. And we've just moved in together. With a baby.

"Well," he speaks up then, shaking his head a bit as though he's clearing thoughts away. "I ordered some Thai food. Do you like Thai?"

"Who doesn't like Thai?"

"You'd be surprised," he laughs, then, plopping back on the ground in front of the toy he's putting together, he adds, "I thought, while we wait for the food, I could keep putting this together, and we could go through some of the questions."

"Questions?"

"Like, you know…" He spares a quick glance at me and shrugs. "Study up on each other. Or whatever."

"Oh, right." I rub my bicep with my arm. I find a spot on the couch where I can watch him work, reaching into my pocket for my phone.

Brett's living room is huge, just like the rest of his house. When the car pulled up, I'd thought for a moment that I had the wrong place. When Brett didn't pick up the phone, I'd remembered the sticky note he wrote out for me in the PT clinic.

I'd taken a picture of it, and I had just enough time to pull up the photo and give the address to the driver before my phone flashed and went completely black.

And now, here I am, sitting on one couch in a huge, grand living room, watching Brett wrestle a paisley pattern seat thingy together.

The living room has vaulted ceilings, a huge chandelier over the sitting area, a massive fireplace, and a large, soft rug. It opens up right into the kitchen, and the dining room is in a nook off of that, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a little drink cart in the corner.

Earlier, when it was clear I was falling asleep on my feet, Brett led me down a different hallway, saying all six rooms were guest rooms, and I could pick the one I liked most.

Immediately, I'd thought about my roommates at home, each of us crammed into our own little room, and laughed at the idea of someone having six extra spaces.

Now, my phone lights up in front of me, fully charged thanks to Brett, and I have about a thousand texts from my roommates. I swipe them away and open up my search engine.

"Okay," I say, after a moment. "Here's a pretty easy one—how did we meet?"

He shrugs. "At the clinic. Easy."

"Do you think we should keep it the same?" I ask, feeling a bit of embarrassment creeping over my neck. I never thought I would be the kind of doctor who would make off with one of her patients.

"Probably keeping as much as we can the same as the truth is best," Brett suggests as he maneuvers two tubes together. I watch him strain with effort for a moment, the veins on his arms popping, before it snaps into place and he leans back, pushing his hair out of his eyes and admiring his handiwork.

When he looks back up to me, it's so unexpected that I fumble with my phone a bit. "Don't you think?"

"Yeah," I say, clearing my throat. "Right."

"Okay, what about some of our first dates?"

"Byte-Size?" Brett offers. "Your house? Mine?"

A flush runs over me at the thought of what that implies—and I realize that anyone on the outside of this lie will assume what anyone would about a married couple—that Brett and I have been together.

Images flash through my mind before I can stop them. Brett, braced above me, smiling down at me. His hands in my hair. My cheek against his bare chest.

"Fallon?" He's staring at me, and I realize I never answered him. I clear my throat and nod, knowing my face is blazing. Hopefully he doesn't connect the dots.

"Right," I say, nodding again and scrolling to the next question. "Yeah—that makes sense. There are some questions about the wedding, which, I guess we can just say what happened, right? At the courthouse, then hanging out with my friends after?"

"Right."

"Okay. What is daily life like for you and your spouse?"

"Well," Brett chuckles, "my wife sleeps all day, basically."

I laugh, but my brain is stuck on my wife . "Believe it or not, I was not much of a day sleeper before this booger entered into my life."

"Hey," Brett says, pointing a screwdriver at me. "Don't bully her."

"Booger is a term of endearment!"

"Speaking of what we should call her," Brett says, eyes wandering to the baby, who has drifted to sleep in her little rocker. "What is her name?"

"Well," I say, biting my lip and glancing at her. Even though my mother abandoned her at my doorstep, it still feels weird for me to name her. Like I'm crossing a line I shouldn't. Isn't it up to the person who birthed the child to choose their name? "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No," I say, shaking my head.

"Well, should we just pick something?"

"What—right now?"

"Yeah, why not?"

I stare at him for a moment, then laugh and open a new tab in my phone's browser, pulling up the top girl baby names for this year. As I list them, Brett continues working on his toy, his face twisting as he thinks each one over.

"Olivia?"

"Nah," he says, shaking his head. "Wait—do you like Olivia?"

"No. Emma? Charlotte?"

"I don't think it suits her. Keep going."

"Amelia, Sophia, Mia, Isabella, Ava, Evelyn, Luna, Harper, Sofia, Camila, Eleanor?" I pause to take a breath.

Brett has stopped putting his toy together and is looking intently at the baby, as though she might wake up and indicate which name she wants.

"They just don't feel right," he says, turning and glancing at me. "Do you like them? Obviously, it's your choice, I'm not trying to—"

"No." I wave my hand and repositioning on the couch. "It's good that we're doing this. I just haven't even thought about it, but it's weird that she doesn't have a name, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, here are some more. Elizabeth, Violet, Scarlett, Emily, Hazel, Lily or Gianna?"

Brett shakes his head.

"Aurora?"

Another shake.

"Penelope?"

Wrinkled brow.

"Aria?"

"Isn't that from Game of Thrones ? Do you like that one?"

"No," I laugh, "I mean, I don't know if it's from Game of Thrones , but I think you're right. None of these suit her."

Brett leans to the side to get his phone out, and we spend the next ten minutes trading baby names back and forth.

"Nora or Chloe?"

"Can't name her Chloe," I say, shaking my head. "Although, I do like the idea of naming her June. That's Chloe's middle name."

"I like June," Brett says. "So, why not do that?"

"It just feels weird to pick something," I say, chewing on my lip. "Like—that will be her name forever."

A knock at the door interrupts us, and I follow Brett to the door as he collects the Thai food.

"Names don't even sound like names anymore," I laugh.

"You're right," he says, tipping the delivery driver and setting the food on the counter. "My brain feels like mush. Should we do more questions?"

While we eat the Thai food, we run through more questions about each other. I learn that Brett doesn't have a set schedule, which sounds too chaotic for me. His biggest issue is making sure he gets to practice on time. He doesn't love cooking, but he knows how to make the basics.

"Wait," I say, bite of noodles halfway to my lips. "So you'd know how to make a peanut butter and cheese sandwich?"

"Doesn't everyone?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"No, wait—you've had those?"

"Yeah," he laughs, glancing at me. "My grandma used to make them all the time. She was a weirdo."

"You take that back!"

"Wait, you like them?"

"I love them!" I cry, and Brett laughs so hard he has to put his fork down.

"I bet Joey loves that."

"Oh, they all hate it."

"I can't imagine there's anything about you that your roommates hate," Brett says, and the mention of my roommates makes something sad snake through my chest.

"You miss them?" he asks, softly, and when I meet his eyes, I'm surprised to see understanding there.

I smile. "I know it's weird, but they're kind of like my family."

"Your found family," Brett says, nodding and pouring more water into my glass.

"Right." I press my lips together, horrified that I'm about to cry. "Yeah, I guess they are."

"I've always wanted something like that," Brett admits, and I look at him for a moment, questions on the tip of my tongue. People aren't usually looking for families unless there's something amiss with the one they have—or don't have.

But I won't ask tonight. Tonight, we've done enough asking each other things. Instead, I push the rest of my Thai toward him and watch as he digs in happily.

"Well," I say, tapping my fingers against my water glass and smiling when he looks up, meeting my eyes. "That's the great thing about being fake husband and wife. My found family is yours too."