My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
When he pulled the curtain back, he had the dark sweater halfway over his head, his t-shirt caught in the wool. His left shoulder was bare in the sharp light of the cubicle, revealing a thick, jagged surgical scar that ran from his collarbone down toward his chest.
The pale tissue was puckered and uneven, the mark of a deep, traumatic impact and subsequent reconstruction.
“The shoulder,” I said, my voice catching in my throat as he pulled the sweater down to cover it. “What happened?”
Christopher adjusted the collar of the charcoal wool, his face flat and unreadable. “A bad night on the road five years ago.”
I felt a sudden, sharp prick of guilt for dragging this man into my family’s orbit just to avoid my mother’s criticisms. He was not a prop; he was someone who carried the physical weight of a ruined life.
“We can still call this off,” I said, touching the silver band on my thumb. “I can drive you back to the park.”
“We made an agreement,” Christopher said, stepping out of the fitting room. “I will see it through.”
