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It’s not a lie.
“You’re the worst,” she murmurs with a childish pout.
I smile, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“You love me like that.”
“Ugh, you’re clingy,” Bree complains, although I can see the corners of her lips fighting to curve into a smile.
She knows that I’m right.
“How long have you two been together?”
I turn around to look at the person that interrupted our moment. There’s a senior lady on the other side of the tiny hall of the plane. She offers us a warm smile as she holds her husband’s hand. Her kind eyes seem to shine as she observes us.
Bree points at me with her thumb.
“Him? Honestly, I just met him at the airport, and he’s paying me to pretend to be his fake girlfriend.”
The woman widens her eyes, looking horrified.
Fuck, Bree.
“She’s kidding,” I intervene before Bree feeds her more lies for fun. “We’ve been together for almost two months.”
“Aw, are we pretending already?” Bree questions, and I glare at her. She laughs. “I’m joking. As he said, we’ve been almost two months together.”
Since we made it official, I mentally add because the truth is that I can’t decipher at what moment we stopped beingjust friends. We spent a couple of weeks neglecting our feelings before we gave in.
The woman relaxes, and her smile returns.
“I’d say you’ve been longer,” she comments. “You behave as if you knew each other for your whole lives. That’s a good sign. You have a solid relationship.”
Bree’s face goes red as I thank the lady for her words. Her observation warms my chest. I think it has to do with the fact that Bree and I were friends first and developed an immense trust from that.
When we leave the plane and walk to the outside of the airport, I can sense Bree’s nerves return, so I hold her hand, intertwining our fingers to give her support.
“Are your parents here yet?” she asks.
I nod.
“At least that’s what mom texted me,” I let her know.
But honestly, my mom is never on time. I’m counting on the fact that she’s excited to meet Bree, and that I told her that we were arriving ten minutes before the actual time.
“Did your mom dye her hair purple?”
I’m about to deny it when I spot her. Yes, that’s definitely my mom with purple hair. I wish I could say that I’ve gotten used to this, but her radical changes are always catching me off guard.
Mom lets out an excited shriek as she runs to me. Except that she’s not, she passes by my side, hugging Bree tightly.
“You’re real!” she says and backs away to examine her. “And so tiny.”
Bree stares at my mom without knowing how to react. She has that confused frown.
“And you’re, well, a fucking pole. Now I know where Stanley got his giant genes from,” Bree expresses without a hint of a filter.
Mom laughs.
