Chapter Twelve Amelia

TWELVE

Excerpt from the BoisterousBulleters Discord Server, #welcome-channel, dated two days prior

REGINALD_THE_V: Hi. Am I doing this right?

REGINALD_THE_V: Okay so my name is Reginald

REGINALD_THE_V: I’ve been a bullet journaler for about a week and while I didn’t think it would be my thing it’s been REALLY helpful in processing my shit

REGINALD_THE_V: (Sorry for swearing. I hope that’s okay?)

REGINALD_THE_V: anyhoo the lady at Joann Fabrics suggested I check out this group to get new ideas. I’m not great at the internet or stuff like that but happy to be here

TACOCATTUESDAY: Welcome Reginald!

brAYDENSMOM: Welcome! And yes you’re doing this exactly right

ADELINETHOMPSON: Hi Reginald!

ADELINETHOMPSON: And don’t worry, we swear all the dingdang time in here

ADELINETHOMPSON: Also, because I’m curious—do you go by “Reginald_the_V” because you’re the fifth Reginald in your family?

REGINALD_THE_V: thank you for the warm welcomes everyone!

REGINALD_THE_V: and uh no the “V” stands for something else

brAYDENSMOM: Please don’t tell me it stands for “VIRGIN”

LYDIASGOALS: OMG it’s a MAN!!

Amelia

My phone started buzzing with new texts the moment our Uber pulled away from the curb.

SOPHIE: How did my dress go over with Reggie?

SOPHIE: Did his eyes fall out of his head?

SOPHIE: I want a full report later

I rolled my eyes and shoved my phone back into my purse. The last thing I needed was to dwell on Reggie’s reaction to my dress when I was alone with him in the back of a car.

It had been a long time since I’d been in the backseat of a Prius. It was definitely smaller than I’d remembered. Old Fuzzy was bulky, and when Reggie set it beside him, the three of us took up just about all the available space.

Reggie moved incrementally closer to me, and I reflexively curled in on myself, trying to become as small as possible. It didn’t work well, though. The outside of our legs still briefly pressed together as he shifted in his seat to make himself more comfortable.

Hiding his body beneath that hideous coat should have been a felony. He wore the kind of generically dressed-up blue button-down that guys our age tended to wear as a default when the situation called for nice attire, but stretched across his broad chest that shirt was somehow anything but generic. To make matters worse, he started rolling his shirtsleeves up to just above his elbows, which in my book was one of the sexiest things a man could do. His hands looked capable and strong, and dexterous in a way that made my mind veer helplessly into dangerous territory, just as it had in the coffee shop.

I dug my fingernails into my palm. This was neither the time nor the place for my mind to wander. We were about to fake date our pants off in front of my family, for crying out loud.

But the way his blue eyes flicked down the neckline of my dress again and rested on my cleavage for just a beat too long made me think our proximity was affecting him, too.

We had to snap out of this.

“Let’s go over some last-minute details,” I chirped, hoping my voice sounded businesslike and not as wobbly as I felt.

He sat up straighter. “Okay,” he said, so eagerly I wondered if he was as desperate for distraction as I was. “Like what?”

“Well,” I began. And then stopped. The earnest way he was looking at me, like I was a schoolteacher and he an eager student, made it hard to focus on what I’d been about to say. “There’s…um. My aunt’s house. For starters.” I cringed inwardly. As if Aunt Sue’s house mattered in the slightest.

“Oooh. What kind of house does she have?” He leaned closer, eager to hear more. His leg pressed against mine again. His thigh was firm and muscular, and…no. We were not doing this. “Is it one of those great big houses that look identical to all the other houses around them and cost a zillion dollars?”

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at his enthusiasm. From the twinkle in his eye, I guessed he was trying to be funny. “Yeah,” I confirmed. “And it’s completely devoid of character.”

“Gross,” he said, though he sounded both delighted and fascinated. “I’ve never been in one of those houses before.”

I grinned. “If you’ve never been in one before, I’m jealous.”

“How fancy will the party be?” he asked. “Will there be assigned seating? Ice sculptures? A string quartet playing something by Vivaldi?”

I laughed. I could feel the knot of anxiety that had taken up nearly permanent residence in the pit of my stomach these past few days loosening. I wondered if he was doing it on purpose. Whether he was determined to put me at as much ease as possible before an event I’d been dreading.

“There will probably be, like, nice tablecloths and napkins,” I said. “Floral table arrangements. But probably no ice sculptures, no.”

Reggie was quiet a moment, processing what I had said. The Sunday evening traffic out of the city was light and we were making good time. The skyscrapers that had flanked our car when we set out were slowly being replaced with townhomes and smaller brick buildings as we got farther from the city’s center.

“What should I know about your parents?” he asked.

“My parents?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Beyond what I already know, of course. Which is that they’re overbearing and insufferably concerned with their adult daughter’s love life.”

I bristled at that. It was somehow different when the same critiques I made of my parents came from a stranger. “I wouldn’t say they’re insufferable. But they are a bit overbearing, yeah.”

“Overbearing enough that you are going through this farce to get them off your back.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yes,” I admitted.

Reggie nodded thoughtfully. “What would someone who’s been dating you for six weeks know about them?”

I thought about that. “Dad’s a retired history professor.”

Reggie looked like his birthday had come early. “No way ,” he breathed. “An actual history professor ?”

I’d have thought he was being sarcastic if his every feature didn’t exude earnestness. I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s really not that exciting.”

“Oh, but it is,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to meet an actual history professor? What does he study? No, no—don’t tell me.” He squeezed his eyes shut tight and pursed his lips as though trying very hard to guess correctly. “The bubonic plague and how rats have been unfairly blamed for it since the Middle Ages?”

I laughed. “No.”

He cracked one eye open. “Am I close, at least?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Rats,” he muttered, looking crestfallen. “No pun intended, of course.”

I snickered. “Of course.”

“Okay, so what about…famous Italian painters? The legacy of Alexander the Great? Oh!” He nearly jumped out of his seat with what, again, looked like genuine excitement. “What about American neutrality at the start of World War I?”

“You’re getting closer with the last one,” I said. “He studied central European history at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries.” I paused, taking in Reggie’s rapt expression. “He co-wrote a book on World War I when I was in high school.”

“Unbelievable,” he breathed. “Will I get to meet him tonight?”

“Unless he managed to finagle his way out of coming, yes.”

His smile was so broad it nearly split his face in two. “Brilliant. I’ll have to think of the perfect questions to stump him. Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “what do I need to know about your mom that you haven’t told me?”

I thought about that. What did he need to know about Mom? “Well, I guess you could say she’s very eager to meet you.”

“Naturally,” he said. “What else?”

“She’s impressed by accomplishments.” That was true enough. “She’s proud of my brother Sam for becoming a lawyer. I think she’s also proud of me for becoming a CPA, though she’s probably not as impressed by my job as she is by Sam’s.”

His eyes went very wide. “Why? Your job sounds really difficult.”

I looked out the window to avoid his gaze. Hearing him ask the same question I’d been asking myself for years hurt more than it should have. “It might just be my imagination.”

I didn’t think it was, though. They threw a big party for Sam when he graduated from law school. Which was super valid, of course. Sam worked his ass off to get his degree while still holding down his full-time job in marketing. When I passed the CPA exam, our parents got me a briefcase. No party. And no fuss.

“It may just be that they don’t understand what I do,” I hedged. “Dad was a history professor. Mom taught English. I guess they’ve just never seen the appeal in accounting.” I shrugged. “Or maybe the whole numbers thing just confuses them.”

“Well, I think what you do is incredibly impressive,” Reggie said, with a vehemence that surprised me.

“Really?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I’ll admit I don’t have a very solid grasp on what it is accountants do other than organizing…um, something with financial documents and money, and…uh…” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Taxes, and stuff. But it seems hard, and also important.”

He looked so hopelessly flustered as he tried to reassure and compliment me that I found myself utterly disarmed. I inched closer to him in the backseat before I’d realized it had happened.

“I really do like what I do,” I said. “I just wish that was enough for my family.”

“So do I,” Reggie said, his voice full of sympathy. Then he brightened. “Hey, I have an idea. If your mother is so impressed by accomplishments, telling her the truth about me would scandalize her, wouldn’t it?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Might be fun.”

It took me a minute to realize what he was getting at. “Oh. You mean…tell her that you’re not working?”

He stared at me in silence for a long moment, brow furrowed in confusion. “I mean…sure. That too, I guess.”

I tried imagining telling Mom I was dating someone who was unemployed. “No, I don’t think that would work.” At the look on his face, I hastened to add, “There’s nothing wrong with not having a job, I promise. It’s only that it’s been at least a decade since I’ve dated anybody who wasn’t either working or pursuing a degree. Or both.” I shook my head. “She just wouldn’t believe I’d even have a way to meet somebody who wasn’t working.”

“I’m not working,” he pointed out. “And you met me.”

He wasn’t wrong about that. “Mom just wouldn’t get it,” I said, as kindly as I could. “I promise the truth about you doesn’t matter to me, but I think we should just stick to what I already told her. We met at the office. You work in tech.”

He sighed. “Fine. If you told your mom I work in tech, I’ll play along. Would it be okay if I gave that backstory a few creative flourishes, though?”

I didn’t see any harm in that. “Sure.”

“Good,” he said. “Because works in tech sounds pretty boring.”

I snorted. “Fair. But in my defense, I had to come up with something on the fly. Either way, though, we’re probably overthinking this. Let’s just go with the flow.” When he gave me only a blank look, I clarified. “Just be yourself.”

“Just be myself,” he repeated. “And pretend to be in love with you.”

My face heated. We’d agreed to pretend we were dating. We never said anything about pretending to be in love .

But honestly? For this to work, he was probably right.

“Um, yeah,” I said, wondering if my face was as red as it felt. “Other than that, just be yourself. It’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words,” he warned.

It turned out he was right about that, too.

·······

Aunt Sue was one of those Midwesterners who didn’t think a house was a home unless its inside and its outside were decorated to match the season. Of course, March wasn’t a specific season in Chicago. So other than the arbor Reggie and I walked beneath to get to the front door, which Aunt Sue had wrapped in fresh pine branches and festooned with one relatively understated large pink ribbon, it didn’t look like she’d done anything to her yard at all.

Reggie was still impressed. “Wow,” he said, stepping beneath the arbor. He peered at the pine branches above us. “Is that real pine?”

I was about to tell him that my aunt wouldn’t be caught dead decorating with fake foliage when he reached up and snapped off a handful of pine needles—and popped them in his mouth.

“Gross,” he muttered, shuddering a little, before spitting them out into his hand. He glared at them like they’d just hit his dog with their car.

I stared at him, incredulous. “Of course it’s gross.” Was this man an eight-year-old child? “Why the hell did you just try and eat them?”

“I didn’t . I just wanted to see what they tasted like.” His face was still contorted in sheer disgust. “To see if they tasted different, the way everything tastes different now.”

“Different? Different from when?”

Instead of answering me, he reached out his hand.

My breath caught.

I was dimly aware he was wearing Old Fuzzy again, but my line of vision had mostly narrowed to his outstretched hand. All my thoughts swirled around the idea that I probably shouldn’t let it hang out there without taking it if our ruse had any chance of working.

I’d anticipated touching him in front of other people, hadn’t I? If we were going to put on a convincing show for my family, public displays of affection would only help.

“Right,” I said, mostly to myself.

I took his hand, interlacing our fingers. I still didn’t know what he used to do for a living, but his grip was strong, suggesting the same way his broad shoulders and slim waist did that he worked out regularly.

His hand flexed within mine, just as cool to the touch as it had been both the night we met and the night at the coffee shop. Clearly, the man ran cold. I gave his hand an answering squeeze, and he grinned at me.

Then his eyes fell to my shoulders, and to my too-thin cardigan.

He frowned.

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve done anything like this ,” he said, gesturing meaningfully between the two of us with his free hand. “But the last time I went on anything approximating a date on a chilly evening, the done thing was to offer the other person my coat.”

He began to awkwardly shrug out of Old Fuzzy. The idea of him lending that hideous thing to me like we were characters in some Regency romance novel was so sweet and absurd I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“I’m not cold,” I lied. I placed my hand on his arm to keep him from giving me the jacket.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded vigorously. “Very. You can keep it. Or not,” I added quickly, because the thing really was an eyesore.

Apparently satisfied that I wasn’t about to freeze, he eased himself fully back into his coat. The right corner of his mouth kicked up into a half smile. He gave my hand another squeeze that could have been possessive in different circumstances, but I suspected was meant only to be reassuring. I refused to acknowledge the small rush of heat that gentle pressure sent through me.

“Shall we knock on the door?” he asked.

“Oh, we can just go on in,” I said, my free hand already on the doorknob. “Aunt Sue never makes us knock.”

His smile faltered. His grip on my hand tightened. “I’d feel better if we did. I’ll need your aunt or uncle to explicitly invite me inside before I can join the party.”

I peered at him. “Why?”

He didn’t answer me right away. Eventually, he said, “One of my idiosyncrasies.”

“Okay,” I said, squeezing his hand reassuringly. I hadn’t taken him for someone who adhered to formalities like this. It was strangely endearing. “I’ll knock first.”

He smiled at me in obvious relief. I absolutely did not notice how well his smile suited him. Or how much it lit up his entire face. “Thank you.”

We can do this , I told myself as I knocked on the door and waited to be let in. This will work .

I refused to think about what I’d do if my family saw straight through us.