My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago

My thumb kept moving against the band of my silver ring, turning it round and round until the skin underneath went red.

Two blocks away, the municipal clock chimed twice, the low notes fading into the quiet of the empty car.

If I started the engine now, I would arrive at the colonial house on Pine Lane exactly twelve minutes before my mother expected me for our weekly planning call.

Instead, I let my hand fall back to my lap and stared through the windshield at the park across the street.

On a green bench near the dry stone fountain, a man sat with his hands tucked deep into the pockets of a thin canvas coat.

He had been there since noon, his head tilted slightly as if listening to some distant sound in the autumn air.

I opened the car door and stepped out into the damp afternoon, the smell of wet oak leaves rising from the pavement.

My fingers found the silver ring again, twisting it tight against the knuckle as I crossed the street.

“I need a favor,” I said when I reached the bench, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

The man did not look up immediately, but his thumb brushed his left coat lapel, smoothing the worn fabric.

“People usually ask for directions or spare change,” he said, his voice a slow, gravelly rumble.

“I am offering a warm suit, a hot meal, and forty-eight hours of shelter,” I said, holding my breath.

He slowly raised his eyes, which were a pale, striking gray, and looked at me with a quiet intensity.

“And what does a woman in a seventy-dollar wool sweater need from a man on a bench?” he asked.

“I need a fiancé,” I said, the words tasting dry and false in my mouth.

“My mother is hosting her annual dinner on November sixth, and I cannot face her alone again.”

The man remained still, his gaze moving from my face to the silver ring on my left thumb.

“A fake fiancé,” he murmured, his thumb moving back to his lapel.