My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“Yes,” I said, twisting the ring again. “You would only need to wear the clothes I buy you and answer her questions with the stories we agree on.”
He stood up slowly, towering over me in a way that should have been threatening but felt strangely solid.
“My name is Christopher,” he said, his gravelly voice dropping even lower.
“I am Mia,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my keys.
We walked back to the sedan without another word, the dry leaves scraping against the pavement around our shoes.
He sat in the passenger seat, his knees pressed close to the dashboard because of his height.
As I pulled out into the light traffic of Maple Street, I watched him from the corner of my eye.
He was looking at the small plastic registration card tucked into the sun visor, his expression unreadable.
“You have a small dent in your passenger door,” Christopher said, looking out the side window.
“I scraped a post last spring,” I replied. “My mother still reminds me of it every time I visit.”
“Mothers have long memories,” he said.
He turned his eyes back to the registration card, tracing the letters of my last name written in faded blue ink.
“You have not asked about the money,” I said, turning the corner near the library.
“I do not need your money, Mia,” he said, pronouncing my name with a strange, heavy familiarity.
“A warm suit and a hot meal will be payment enough.”
I kept my eyes on the road, a sudden chill of unease settling in my chest.
Why would a stranger from a park bench agree to a lie this complex without asking for a single dollar?
He did not look like a man who took charity, yet he had accepted my offer without asking a single question about my family.
