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I just need to keep reminding myself of that.

14

Owen

Teatime at Smithy’s is just like it always is: Smithy cooking up his spicy chilli, Darcy and Dana showing me pictures they did at school that involve sticking dry bits of pasta onto sugared paper—the reasoning behind which is lost on me, yet I smile and tell them they belong in the Louvre, which is then, in turn, lost on them. Then Romana sweeps them both upstairs for bathtime, leaving Smithy and me tidying up in the kitchen.

“So, how’s your week been?” Smithy asks as we collectively clear the dishes to the rhythmic snoring of Paul, who’s fallen asleep under the table after waiting for the illicit dropping of cheese by the girls.

“Good. Yours?” I ask.

“Great. Managed a full six hours of sleep the other night, which was heaven.” Smithy closes his eyes momentarily as if reliving his slumber.

Darcy and Dana have never been good sleepers. In the early days, Romana and Smithy would look like the walking dead, having survived on three hours of sleep tops. At the ripe ages of seven and a half (the half is very important to them), they’ve got better, but still not a full eight hours yet.

I pass him the salad bowl, eyeing the remaining tossed leaves with disdain before picking up a tea towel. My eyes wander to his worktop.

“You haven’t oiled these yet,” I observe.

“You haven’t gone out yet,” he fires back.

I clear my throat. “Does a wedding count?”

Smithy pauses, hands deep in the sink, suds covering the rubber gloves he has on because the washing-up liquid flares up his eczema.

“You’re going to a wedding?” he asks with an air of suspicion. “You hate weddings. God, I thought I was going to have to pay you to come to mine and Romana’s.”

“Your wedding was fine. It was small, and so is this one.”

“So, who’s getting married?” Smithy swishes the water around, his words laced with disbelief, as he knows my inner circle doesn’t expand further than him.

“I’ve never actually met the couple, but they’re called Drew and Sydney.”

Smithy narrows his eyes, trying to look for the catch, the tell that’ll show I’m making this up. But I don’t lie, and he knows this.

“So how the hell have you ended up with an invite?”

“I’m going with a work colleague,” I tell him. The word colleague doesn’t feel right for how I see Alice, but I have no other definition for her. “It’s her best friend who’s getting married.”

Smithy’s hands are still in the water, and he twists to face me. “Is this like a date?”

I hear the anticipation in his voice, and it kills me.

“No,” I say. Noting the droop of his shoulders, I add, “Although there’s a story.”

I tell Smithy about Alice and how I’ve ended up going to a wedding of two people I’ve never met. When I get to the part about the fake dating, his smile couldn’t be wider.

“So, you’re embarking on a fake-dating scenario. You, the man who can’t lie to save his soul,” Smithy confirms.

“I know what you’re thinking, but Alice is very talkative. She’ll probably do the talking for both of us.”

“And have you considered that maybe this is all a bit of a ruse?” he asks.

“A ruse?” My eyebrows knit as Smithy hands me the chilli pan to dry.

“It’s all a little far-fetched that she would ‘accidentally’ say your name, so you then have to embark upon this fake-dating scenario. Do you think she’s possibly invented it all just to ask you out on a date for real?” he suggests, and I feel something squirm in my stomach.

“But why would she do that? Why wouldn’t she just ask me out normally?”