Page 31 of Pretend You Love Me

“Sure,” I say, already reaching for Maisie, who’s watching me already. “Take your time.”

He nods, kisses the top of my head with casual affection, and disappears upstairs with Milo against his chest. I stand in the kitchen with Maisie balanced on my hip, the remains of dinner spread across the counter, and Diane’s voice still playing in my head: Family is everything. Marriage takes work. You two always look so happy together.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to show up at that lunch with Clara’s documentation in my hand. To watch Diane’s perfect smile freeze on her face as I explain what her son has been doing while she’s been asking if I’m “still working at that little bookshop.” To see the careful architecture of Quinn family perfection crack and crumble under the weight of actual truth.

Then Maisie makes a small sound and the moment passes. I settle her against my chest, press a kiss to the top of her head, and head for the living room.

Two more weeks. I can do two more weeks. I can smile through one more family lunch. I can maintain this for fourteen more days.

And then I never have to do it again.

I drop onto the couch with Maisie balanced on my chest and my phone already in my hand. My thumb moves across the screen with practiced efficiency, opening the group chat and typing “Diane’s hosting a family lunch. Pray for me.” before I can talk myself out of it.

The responses arrive so fast it’s almost insulting, a digital pile-on that makes my phone vibrate with what feels like actual concern.

Luca fires back “I volunteer as tribute” followed approximately four seconds later by “Actually no. I volunteer my skills in arson.”

Before I can even process this, Liv sends “Need me to fake a medical emergency?”

My phone continues to buzz in my hand, message notifications stacking up like falling dominoes. Luca has moved on to offering increasingly specific forms of sabotage, “I could tell her I’m your emotional support drag queen” and “I have a cousin who does competitive eating. We could bring her as a date and she’d clear the buffet in seven minutes flat”, while Liv provides a running commentary on the specific psychological warfare techniques Diane will deploy: “She’ll ask if you’re tired while subtly gesturing to your outfit” and “There will be one comment about your weight disguised as concern for your health.”

Harper’s message cuts through the noise with five simple words: “Do you want to go?”

I stare at it longer than the others because it’s the only message that treats the question as a real one. Not as a joke or a crisis or a dramatic set piece, but as an actual decision with actual consequences. Do you want to go? Not can you survive it or will it kill you or should we plan your escape, but the simpler, more complicated question of desire.

The shower continues running upstairs. My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment, suddenly unsure what to say. The honesty sits in my throat, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to sit across from Diane Quinn for three hours while she asks if I’m “still working” and tells Daniel he looks tired. I don’t want to watch her orchestrate the show of family happiness that makes me feel like I’m failing even when I’m doing everything right.

“I don’t want to go,” I type finally, the words appearing on the screen smaller and more vulnerable than they felt in my head. “But I can’t refuse without creating questions I’m not ready to answer yet.”

The responses come quickly, Luca’s “VALID” in all caps, Liv’s “Then don’t“ followed by a vomit emoji, but it’s Harper’s private message that makes my chest tighten: “You’re allowed to leave early if it becomes too much.”

Just to me. Not in the group chat where everyone can see it. I read it twice, something warm settling in my chest.

I put my phone face-down by my side and stare at the ceiling for a moment, Maisie’s warm weight against my chest as small puffs of air escape her lips. The living room is quiet except for the distant sound of Daniel moving through the upstairs bedroom, drawers opening and closing, the sound of someone getting dressed after a shower.

“You know,” I tell Masie quietly, “there was a time when I thought making his family like me was the most important thing in the world.”

She blinks at me, once, slowly, like she’s considering this information.

“Yeah, I know,” I agree. “Crazy right.” I pick up my phone, type “Thanks” to Liv’s message. Daniel appears at the bottom of the stairs, his hair damp from the shower, a fresh t-shirt replacing the one he was wearing at dinner. “Everything okay?” he asks, already moving toward the kitchen. “You look serious.”

“Just texting the girls,” I say, already locking my phone. “The usual.”

He nods, accepting this without question, and disappears into the kitchen. I watch him go, and I settle Maisie deeper against my chest, press a kiss to the top of her head, and reach for the remote with my free hand.

Later that night, after Daniel is asleep I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand and call Luca. The room is dark except for the blue glow of the phone screen and the small green light of the baby monitor on the dresser, both twins asleep in their room down the hall. Daniel doesn’t stir when I move and I slip out of the room with care.

Luca picks up on the second ring with: “Tell me what colour outfit we’re wearing to Diane Quinn’s funeral.”

“Black,” I say automatically. “But with tasteful silver accents. Very ‘we’re devastated but also looking extremely put-together.’”

“I’m thinking more ‘vengeance red,’” Luca says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Very ‘the widow Quinn requests the pleasure of your company at the reading of the will, which is mostly just me listing reasons her son is the actual worst.”

I laugh despite myself and I relax slightly. “Hold on,” Luca says, his voice slightly muffled. “Adrian’s making his ‘this is clearly a legal question’ face. I’m putting you on speaker.”

There’s a moment of rustling, the sound of a phone being shifted from one hand to another, and then Adrian’s voice fills the line, calm, and unhurried.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you feeling about going to this lunch?” I shrug, even though he can’t see it.