My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
I reached for Christopher’s coat, the heavy tweed smelling of the dry pine needles from the park bench where we had sat only hours ago. I handed it to him, and he took it with both hands, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. His skin was cold.
My father came out of the living room then, his steps slow and heavy on the rug. He stopped three feet away from us, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the small brass coat hooks on the wall.
“David,” my mother said, her voice warning him.
My father did not look at her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brass key, the one that opened the lawnmower shed behind the garage. He held it out toward me, his palm flat.
“The gate is locked,” he said. “You will need this to get the car out.”
“She does not need the key, David,” my mother said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “The side gate is open.”
