Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
I clench my jaw. He never told me that. I made that call. I spotted the receiver’s talent and made sure my GM got him. “The whole team is the best in the league,” I say, and I have the rings to show for it.
But I don’t say that part. Or much else. Instead, I listen as Dad chats about life in Vegas, how his friend Victor is doing as he nears retirement, then clucks his tongue. It’s his tell—he’s about to ask for something. “So listen, son. Can I borrow ten grand from you? I went underwater on a game last week.”
A poker game he shouldn’t have played in. A poker game that means he’s back to earning his one-day chip again, if he’s even going to meetings. He’s earned many years’ worth of one-day chips. It’s pointless to even want him to change and more pointless to think he might.
I can’t trust him. Never have been able to, really.
I shouldn’t do this. Truly, I shouldn’t. But I do it anyway. It’s just easier this way. “I’ll wire it to the usual account.”
“I owe you one,” he says, and he probably believes he’ll pay me back.
When I finish the transaction, I make a large donation to the art museum, one well over its holiday fundraising goals. Still needing distance from him, I reach out to Mom to check in on her studies and studio work.
Mom: I’m winning an award for best portraiture in my class! And get this—it’s of a dog!
Wilder: Can’t think of a better thing to paint.
Mom: It’s a booming market, I’m told. Maybe you should expand into dog portraiture studios.
Wilder: Honestly, it’s not a bad idea.
Mom: I’m helpful like that. I’ll send you a photo of it later.
Wilder: I can’t wait.
And I mean that. For a while, she didn’t like to show her paintings to anyone. It took her long enough to admit that was what she wanted—to go to school. When she won a place in her first-choice program, I happily wrote the check and bought her a flat in London where she studies. But she’ll be here for the holidays soon…
Which reminds me. I’d better text my Christmas girlfriend.
Wilder: We should probably have a dinner to hammer out any other details.
Fable: Yes, we need a good hammering.
I chuckle. This woman is going to test all my resolve. And the thing is, I’m pretty sure I’m here for it. So I click over to my calendar to see what Mac and I have planned for the week. A photography class. A mini-golf game. I write back.
Wilder: How does sex sound on Saturday?
I hover my thumb over the send button, but whoa, that’s some typo. I correct the errant word to ‘six’ and head to the window, looking at the field, picturing it filled with fans for the next game as they cheer on one of the most successful teams in the league.
But all the while, my mind keeps slipping in a different direction.
I’ve got to stop thinking about sex on Saturday.
The next night, I read another chapter in The Inheritance Games to Mac, review her Christmas list, discuss her wild ideas about secret doors, and then tuck her in. After that, I head to the kitchen to make sure we cleaned up completely after dinner. Then, I’m reviewing a report from my CFO when an idea strikes me. A quick check of the time tells me it’s not too late.
I have Fable’s home address, so I hop over to another browser window and send her a small holiday gift slated to arrive tomorrow evening, ordering a red bow to go with it.
Well, it’s not only the season—it’s also just the right way to treat your fake girlfriend, and she did drop an enormous hint.
9
FAKE REAL ICE CREAM
Fable
This will be easier over text. At least, I hope so.
On Wednesday evening, I’m settling into the bus, heading to meet Charlotte at the florist. But first, I fire off a text to her. Best to tell my sister the news first when she can’t see my face.
Fable: So, I’ll be going to the wedding with the best man.
But I don’t send it. Is that too random? Too selfish? I don’t know. My stomach churns with worry as the bus trundles through the city to Kiss My Tulips.
I try again.
Fable: Leo’s buddy asked me on a date…
That’s a little better. Maybe? I drop my head in my hand. Why didn’t I think through the logistics of lying to my sister and…EVERYONE ELSE? I wince, then stare out the window at the city rolling by. Early evening shoppers lug red and white bags from department stores. Busy humans dart in and out of shops, no doubt hunting for the perfect gift.
This is the season when everyone tries their hardest for the people they love. I love my sister, and I’ve always wanted her to be happy. When we were growing up and our parents were arguing, when Mom was hurting, when Dad was trying to win her back, I made it my mission to look out for my younger sister—to make sure she was happy even if Mom and Dad weren’t. Really, is this that different?