The Fake Out by Sharon M. Peterson
FORTY-ONE
You know what my shirt is made of? Boyfriend material.
—TAYLOR A.
“We got another one.” Aidan set a gigantic floral arrangement on the circulation desk in front of where I was standing.
“Wow. This is very… big.” They were so tall I couldn’t even see Aidan on the other side of them.
A disembodied hand floated in the air. “Here’s the card. I’m going to finish updating the computers.”
“Sure.” I opened the tiny envelope and read the card.
Please accept this gift as our heartfelt congratulations on your coming nuptials.
We want to offer you our services for what is sure to be the wedding of the year. We provide the freshest flowers in the most unique arrangements. Feel free to contact us any time to set up your free consultation.
With love,
Just Flowers of Houston
I put the card with the rest of the “offers.” Three other florists had also sent along arrangements, which had now found homes on various tables and bookcases around the library. In my tiny office, there was practically a full-service bakery with all the cake samples.
It had been over a week since we’d taken the engagement photos. Piper had given rights to a big-name magazine to release the first photo. One simple, tasteful photo of Chris and me smiling at the camera. Since then, stacks of offers had poured in from wedding planners, photographers, caterers, wedding invitation designers, and bridal shops. I had to give them credit for tracking me down so quickly.
The phone rang. I ignored it. Piper said to be prepared for phone calls. The first few days, I’d attempted to answer them until it got too much. There were emails, too. A guy from college I went out with for one and a half dates. My lab partner from a bio class I took. My childhood pediatrician who had retired to Florida but was hopeful I’d send him a wedding invite.
After the second day of me growling at my computer, Aidan had worked out some fancy filter on my email that got rid of anything mentioning the words “wedding” and “congratulations.”
I don’t care what he’d done in his past. That kid was a good egg.
An egg I couldn’t quite figure out. Aidan dressed like a mid-level accountant; I swear he even had a pocket protector one day. He was polite, helpful, proactive, and a complete mystery.
He was also good at math, which had given me an idea. ’Cause I knew someone who was failing math.
“Why am I here?” Iris asked one day after school. She leaned a hip on the table on which I’d set up a display of recommended horror novels. Today she had on black tights, black-and-white-striped board shorts, a t-shirt, a pair of vintage Doc Martens she’d found at a thrift store that I knew were a size too big, and an apathetic expression.
“Hello to you, too.” I waved her to follow me to my office. “I talked to your math teacher. He says you have a month to get your grade up or you won’t pass his class.”
She plopped down in a chair with a groan. “I hate math. And do you know why? This is because I’ve grown up in an educational system that favors boys over girls in STEM subjects. I’ve basically received a subpar education. I am a product of their own making. Is it any wonder I’m failing math?”
“Or it could be that you’re out until midnight every night, you don’t do your homework, and you failed your last test.”
She scowled. “Whatever.”
“I think I have a solution for you.” I called for Aidan. “This is Aidan. Aidan, this is my sister, Iris.”
Iris cocked an eyebrow. “Okay. Why?”
“Aidan is really good at math, and he’s agreed to tutor you two days a week after school right here in the library.”
“I said I’d take care of it,” Iris ground out.
“And now you don’t have to. I did it for you. That’s the kind of sister I am.”
Aidan stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Cool shirt. I like My Chemical Romance.”
“Seriously, you?” Iris asked incredulously. “You’re dressed like the President of the Future Proctologists’ club.”
He smiled. “And you’re dressed like a knock-off emo kid from circa 2007, but I’ll still tutor you.”
Iris sputtered and I held in a bark of laughter. I had to give the kid credit. He didn’t appear to be intimidated by her in the least. Maybe this would work out.
“See?” I grabbed a box of cake samples and shoved them in Iris’s direction. “You’re getting along famously. Now, go eat some cake and figure out which two days a week you’ll be here after school.”
Aidan strolled out, leaving Iris behind. She hitched up her backpack. “Thanks for making my life the worst.”
I hugged her and after I refused to let go, she finally hugged me back even. “You’re welcome.”
With yet another eye-roll, she trudged out of the office and then poked her head back in. “Have you heard from Dad?”
I’d tried to call him no fewer than four times. I’d left two messages. I’d even attempted to reach out to Uncle Gary, Dad’s brother, who was only slightly less criminally minded than my father. No luck. “I haven’t. I promise I’m trying.”
“Yeah, okay.” But I didn’t miss the hurt creeping into her eyes.
This is exactly why I hadn’t even wanted to contact him. All he’d ever done was disappoint us, again and again. I could deal with it; but Iris was different, softer than she pretended to be. Like a coconut.
And we were setting her up for a broken heart.