Love doesn’t conquer all—anyone who says any different is trying to sell you something, and you better run, don’t walk, in the opposite direction.

  “I’ll type up your notes, do whatever you want. Please, just pretend to date me. How hard can it be?”

  The holidays, as much as I love them, have always been a glaring reminder that despite my accomplishments, I could always be doing better, be doing more. I hate the mantle I have to carry whenever my parents look at me, wondering when I’m going to get married, pop out kids to make them grandparents, like I’m not the one doing all the heavy lifting.

  And I love my parents, I really do, so it bites even deeper when they look at me, when they say the words that I’ve fallen deaf to about me finding someone—someone to take care of me, someone for me to take care of, to start a family like that is the one true accomplishment in a female’s life.

  It’s old-school, and dumb, but it’s there, and there’s not much I can do about it.

  Would it be super nice to have a boyfriend for cuffing season, someone to snuggle with during the cold and harsh winter months? You bet. But there’s always expectations and restrictions and limitations to what can and cannot be done whenever I’m a player in a relationship, and I don’t want to be put in that kind of position anymore.

  So maybe this thing between Brody and I being…transactional, maybe it’s not the worst idea he’s ever had in his life.

  Maybe it’ll get my parents to stop looking at me like I’m not good enough on my own.

  I sigh, resigned to it. We’re both trying to dodge a bullet that are parents keep shooting at us.

  Isn’t that what cuffing season is all about? Not being alone for the holidays and all the chaos that it brings?

  “You wanna be my fake boyfriend?” I snicker, taking my seat in front of my desk again.

  My typing speed is for shit, maybe Brody’s a bit faster, and it would save me work from transcribing all of my notes and then typing them up after each patient consultation and assessment. Some of my colleagues have tablets that they type into, but I’m old-school and I feel like I retain all the information better that way when I actually write it out anyway.

  So maybe giving Brody menial tasks like typing up my notes would be okay, if it didn’t violate a hundred and four patient confidentiality rules.

  And it’s not like I can’t get Liz to type up some notes for me when she isn’t doing everything else that it takes to keep the office afloat.

  “Yeah, I’ll be your fake boyfriend,” Brody says, keeping his voice even and controlled. “You call the shots.”

  He gets points for saying those words, for acknowledging that I’m in the lead.

  Everything is a battle of wills with him, and I’ll take a swim in the river if it means not losing myself to him again.

  “You know that my parents were high school sweethearts, right?” I ask him, knowing that Brody already knows the answer.

  It’s what we would always hear, every time our families got together, us kids going downstairs to play video games or board games (until we nearly came to blows when we played Monopoly that one time, and I swear he cheated but I couldn’t really tell how).

  Our parents would always reminisce about the good old days, the days when my dad and Brody’s dad were best friends forever back then, and my mom was a studious little book nerd that wasn’t allowed to date.

  Eventually, they all went on to the same cégep. Neither of my parents finished university, opting to work instead once they got married, buy a house, and have me, in that order.

  “You ever think they forced it on us? The part where we got together?” I ask, heart pounding harder and faster as the silence stretches between my question and his answer. It’s a loaded question, sure, but still, I’d like to know what he thinks.

  “Sometimes I think it was because I wanted to make them happy, and other times I don’t.”

  “Amber…”

  I sigh, letting it out. “You’re going back home in eleven weeks, right? Just after New Year’s?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is rough, and he coughs away from the phone so he doesn’t ruin my eardrum. “Yeah, that’s right, around then.”

  The time will pass anyway.

  Brody’s not wrong. So what if I have to fake it, so what if I let my walls down around him just enough to make it seem like this is going to work. There’s an expiration date on this, and I can hold out until New Year’s, I know I can do that.

  I can, I have to.

  I’m not dumb enough to let Brody Kane break my heart—twice.

  “Being with you was always about you and me, and no one else. I didn’t care what anyone else thought. But I’m only going to do this if you want us to. I’m not going to pressure you to do anything. I’ll go and speak with my parents…ruin their hopes and dreams. My mom will probably shed a few tears, and my dad will have to hold her up while she wails and curses my name, wishes I was never born—”

  “Holy shit, I forgot how much of a talker you are, what the hell is wrong with you?” I blurt, words coming out on a rushed breath.

  I can hear him laughing on the other end, loud and booming, obnoxious if you didn’t know he wasn’t aiming it at you. It’s nice to hear him laugh again when I have already given him so much pain.

  My heart flip-flops, a weird, springing sensation in my chest cavity, and I give it a few knocks to make it behave.

  “I’m serious, though. You tell me what you want to do. I’m going crazy at my parents’ place. My mom hovers, she’s constantly asking about my leg, and my dad ignores the whole thing like it’s supposed to make it better. I’m losing my mind just a little.”

  I nod, because yeah, I get it, and can only imagine. Poor Brody Kane. Not!

  “I sound a bit like an asshole, huh?” he says instead. Well, at least he’s self-aware, so there is that.

  I pinch air between my thumb and index finger, all by myself, alone in my office. “Just a little bit. It’s allowed, though. You’re allowed to feel what you feel, in whatever capacity that is.”

  “I think there’s a thinly veiled insult in there, but I’m taking it as a compliment anyway.” I can hear him grinning, that chipped incisor as devastating as it always was, knowing that I’m the one that caused it when he pissed me off back in the seventh grade. “You call me and let me know what you decide.”

  I roll my eyes. “Again with the calling. I’m texting you only, plain and simple. That’s how I communicate. Deal with it.”

  Brody snickers again and mumbles something I don’t quite catch. “Yeah, okay, text me when you want with your answer. I know you’re busy. I’ll get going. Have a good day, Prewitt.”

  I snort. “Yeah, have a good day to you, too.”

  He laughs and I find myself smiling in answer. “Why does it always feel like you’re telling me off? All right, later.”

  I have another fifteen minutes before the next patient comes in, and I end up opening the group chat.

  Vick is back in the world of the living, and Max is editing videos for her YouTube channel all day long, so I’m the only fool working a regular not-so nine-to-five job that actually has to meet with people.

  Me: So I’ve got a little problem…

  Vick: What? What’s happening? Are you keeping me out of the loop on purpose ’cause of what I said? That’s low, Prewitt…

  Me: Stick it up yours, Prewitt…

  Me: Are you going to tell me why you’re mad at me?

  Vick: I’m not mad…

  Max: Oh, good! You’re talking.

  Max: Amber, is it possible for your eyes to be drained of all their liquid while they’re still inside your head? Asking for a friend.

  Max: I’m that friend.

  Max: My eyes are killing me.

  Max: I hate staring at the monitor all day long.

  Max: Vick, how do you do it?

  Vick: Simple. I’m more powerful than you are. I got EXP for days.

  Max: Yeah, I don’t understand that reference, so we’re moving along. You guys should talk, I’m going to get popcorn.

  Me: What kind of popcorn? You got the good stuff?

  Max: You know it. Extra caramel, caramel popcorn.

  Me: The disrespect I get from you…

  Vick: Max bought me a bag, too, yesterday, I just have to find it… Did you put it in the pantry? I didn’t know I had a pantry…

  Vick: I haven’t gone back into the living room. That creature is still in there somewhere.

  Me: Wait, how are you going to the toilet?

  Vick: These are the questions that are better left unanswered. Trust me.

  Me: Ugh, you’re gross, and a scaredy cat.

  Vick: I recall that you left Max and I for DEAD.

  Me: I’m the eldest and should therefore be the one to carry on the family name.

  Max: Okay! Wow, it’s hard to type one handed while I’m stuffing my face.

  Me: Why does Vick get super caramel popcorn and I get squat?

  Max: You live too far.

  Me: I’m rolling my eyes now. I want you both to know that I’m rolling my eyes, and they are rolling, rolling, rolling…

  Me: I live twenty minutes away, on-island.

  Me: Don’t give me your bullshit.

  Me: Although I’m trying to cut calories ’cause we all know what’s coming up, and we all know I’m going to eat my body weight in pumpkin pie.

  Vick: Yeah, apparently Evie’s been telling me that Mom has been tweaking the recipe for the pumpkin pie.

  Me: NO.

  Me: NO NO NO.

  Me: SOUND THE ALARM

  Max: WHAT, WHY IS SHE DOING THATHJKHGDKJDJHFJHKHHJFKADJIUD.

  Vick: Yeah, that’s what I said, and that’s what Evie said, but there’s nothing I can do about it, ya know?

  Vick: She’s going to do what she does, and we have to hope and pray that it turns out.

  Me: I’m going to call her after my next appointment, I swear.

  Me: There will be words said.

  Me: And threats made.

  Me: By my honor!

  Vick: By my blade!

  Max: By my super expensive makeup brushes, and the $170 eyeshadow palette I just bought!

  Me: $170 eyeshadow palette? Why? Does it make you fly or something? Invisible?

  Me: I’d buy that shit if it made me invisible.

  Vick: How would that even work? You rub shimmery eyeshadow all over yourself, and poof, homemade Cloak of Invisibility?

  Me: Shit, shit, I gotta go.

  Me: Talk later!

  Vick: She always does this…

  Max: Yeah…

  Max: Just call her next time, say what you wanna say.

  Vick: It doesn’t matter.

  SIX

  I glance down at the group chat after finishing up my notes from my last appointment for the day. I bite at my lip, wanting to say something, anything, but I’m having real trouble finding the right words.

  I also realize that I didn’t talk to them what I wanted to talk to them about in the first place, but that usually happens in the group chat—everything devolves from the path I try to head out on, and now I’m out in the middle of the words, chasing butterflies instead.

  Plus, there’s the whole messing with the pumpkin pie recipe debacle and I don’t wanna talk about it or think about it.

  It just looks like I’m going to have to make a few more decisions, once and for all.

  Pros: not having to deal with my parents giving me the side-eye every single time Brody’s name is mentioned (which happens a lot for someone who doesn’t live in the house, and who didn’t live in the city at all, for that matter, for years). I would love not having to deal with the constant reminder of Brody and all of his accomplishments during the holidays.

  Cons: Spending time with Brody, which I think would be okay in small, tiny doses. Microscopic doses. Nanoscopic doses!

  Ugh.

  Am I going to do this? Am I really going to do this?

  Anything to avoid the perpetual disappointment coming from my parents when it comes to my stagnant, dry-as-a-desert love life. I don’t want to deal with their looks of worry, especially when the expectations are so damn high during this time of year.

  Sometimes I wish I could sleep through October and wake up in the middle of January to a new year without those expectations, but I haven’t really figured out this whole time-travel thing yet.

  So I’m gonna bite the bullet, and ‘spend’ eleven weeks with Brody Kane, but this time, I’m going to be the one in control. Me.

  I’m the one calling him up this time, and my heart gives a frenetic little beat that has me holding my breath as the phone rings and rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when there’s a rushed

  “Hello? Hello!?” from the other end, and I take a second to bask in this very moment, where I’m doing Brody Kane a favor and he’s going to owe me, probably for the rest of his life, like this is a marker in the John Wick universe.

  I ignore the trickle of unease that slithers along my insides, and push the feeling down, padlock it in a tiny box that even a curious ass like Pandora can’t get into.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to go for cool and collected, but my voice squeaks a little at the end, like the sound of a wheezing, dying balloon when I get nervous (or excited) about something. “It’s me.”

  Of course it’s you, he has caller ID, too. This isn’t high school. Jesus Christ.

  “Yeah, yeah. Shit, I think I broke my toe.”

  I close my eyes, rub at my forehead. This isn’t how I was envisioning how this conversation was going to go.

  Summoning up every ounce of courage I possess to endure this special kind of torture for the next twelve weeks, I blurt, “Let’s do the whole pretending thing. Let’s fake-date each other.”

  Brody’s quiet, but I know the call didn’t drop, I can hear him breathing.

  “Are you sure? I want to make sure that you’re sure about this.”

  I snort. “Yeah, after all of that persuading you did earlier made you feel like a jerk, huh? Why, we’re just going to see each other, like, once a week, and that’s it. I might have to hug you once or twice, pretend I like who you are as a person. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  It is that big of a deal to me, but here I am, risking it all so I can have some peace during this holiday season.

  Brody huffs out a breath that sounds suspiciously like an aborted laugh. I narrow my eyes at the patient file sitting on my desk, scratching at the back of my neck.

  “Our parents have social media,” Brody laughs. “We’re going to have to take pictures to sell it.”

  I frown. “Your parents have social media? Jesus, why?”

  Brody doesn’t say anything at first. “I don’t know, keep up with the family, pseudo-stalk them as it were, leave uncomfortable comments. My mom even sent an eggplant emoji when one of my cousins posted a picture of his boyfriend, and they were cooking dinner. It was embarrassing all around. We don’t really talk about it.”

  I nearly choke on the swig of cold coffee from my favorite mug (bright yellow, with a pissed off sunflower on the front), and make pained noises until I can swallow it down without injuring myself, or others.

  “What? No. That’s pretty awful,” I laugh, hiding my laugh behind a hand even though I’m alone in my office. “Okay, fine. Pictures. I’m cool with it. We can stage it, like everyone else does. And we’re not going to have a problem with my parents and my social media—I don’t have any.”

  “Yeah?” Brody sounds surprised, and I’m not sure why.

  “I was spending too much time on the apps, and got disgusted with myself when I could be more productive, you know? Anyway, maybe we should have this conversation face-to-face, yeah? Iron out some details. I have half an hour to fix my desk and organize myself before I can leave for the day and head to the gym.”

  “I thought you said you go to the gym in the mornings.”

  Huh. He remembered that. Okay. Weird.

  “I go twice a day now. The holidays are practically upon us and I need all the help I can get, which also means I get to eat more food.”

  “I could spot you,” he offers, and there’s no way I could concentrate on my workout if Brody were there, looking at me.

  I go to the gym to get my brain to shut off and start thinking about my body, on how it’s doing, not to socialize or talk to random people. Thanks, but no thanks.

  “Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen. It’s Friday tomorrow, we can hang out then, if we must.” I realize I sound like an asshole, but I’m doing this of my own free will and I’m allowed to get pissed about it, it’s the nature of who I am.

  “Or I can take you out to dinner instead. I’ve gotta get out of the house, Amber.”

  “Don’t you have friends to do those things with?”

  Brody snorts, coughs, nearly chokes. “Thanks, Amber, thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome. I have to go to the gym.”

  “I can come get you after.”

  Why is he pushing this? “Yo, why are you pushing this? I said tomorrow.”

  “If I don’t get out of the house, I’m going to lose my mind. All my friends have families, little rug rats running around, and they freak me out, okay? It’s not like we can have a few beers and shoot the shit. My friends, they’re exhausted, all the time.”

  “It takes a lot of work, raising a tiny human,” I say, even though I have no idea about that, none. “Fine, fine. Look, let me finish up here, and then let me go do my workout. Come get me at around seven at—” I pull up the address on my phone and pin the location for him. “You got it? Good. See you there.”

  I end the phone call, wondering what the hell I just got myself into.

  I barely make it down the stairs, having pushed myself too hard on the squat rack, upping my new PR and making me feel like I’m the empress of the universe. I just have to hold onto both hand railings on either side of me to do it, but I’m still the empress.

  The talk between Vick and I has been shelved to another time because I’m going to need all of my energy and concentration to deal with Brody Kane tonight.