Page 16 of Your Rule to Break
tell me what because you’re giving me whiplash
dating Emilie. It's casual.
Dating? Did your phone autocorrect “fucking” again?
haha, you’re so funny
I can date
you’re right, you can, but you don’t
As soon as I put my phone in my pocket, trying to get away from my sister, Tripp is walking toward me like someone put his tennis shoes in the showers or pissed in his cereal. The locker room is conveniently empty. Wonder why people didn’t want to hang around?
“You really know how to clear a room,” I laugh at Tripp.
“Just remember, whatever you’re doing with her, she’s not someone who will disappear when you get bored.” His voice is stern, but still full of care and caution.
Ouch. That stings. Doesn’t mean he isn’t onto something. I’ve not been known to ever really pursue someone for more than an evening. But this isn’t even that; it’s not real.
“It’s just for the wedding and then—”
If Tripp rolled his eyes any harder, they’d get stuck looking at his brain. “I heard the same thing from Emilie this morning. Don’t need the speech. Just be careful.” He lets out a breath, an emphatic pause. “She's important.”
His eyes latch onto mine, and I hear the message loud and clear: don’t hurt Emilie.
Tripp squeezes my shoulder and is out the door before I have a chance to say another word.
“I’m just saying, it’dbe nice to hear things from you before the women at Pilates ask me about it.” My mom shrugs her shoulders as she sits back with a cup of tea.
“Mack, he’s a grown man. Give him some space,” my dad says before placing a kiss on her cheek. She leans into him as a grin starts to form, knowing it’s coming before his lips touch her skin.
They’ve been like this my whole life—in deep, deep love. I used to joke about how disgusting they were and had my fair share of get-a-room-paired-with-an-eye-roll tantrums. It only took a sleepover at a buddy’s house, and an uncomfortable after-dinner fight between his parents, before I started to realize how lucky I was. I'll never forget how they spoke to each other, how the pit in my stomach grew.
Mackenzie and Christopher Andersen set the standard high for what forever could look like. They loved and supported Riley and me in big ways. Even though they both worked demanding jobs—my dad as a pilot and my mom a marketing executive—they did their best to show up for us.
Theystill do, as they sit in my apartment, bringing over lunch from my favorite deli from our home neighborhood—about an hour away.
Mom continues her prodding. “I’m just saying, we finally get you back for a long period of time and you’ve got a mystery girlfriend? When do we get to meet her?”
“I'm sure you’ve met. She's always at Cosmos things.” I try to sidestep the pointed request.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what she means. She wants to ask her at least fifty questions, preferably over a meal. You know, really get into it,” my dad teases, sarcasm dripping from his words as my mom nudges him playfully.
I’m a jackass. I should’ve called my parents as soon as Riley texted me about Emilie.
Truth is? I love family dinner. When I was away for college or living in Florida, I'd come home every time I had the chance. The guys would give me such shit for not staying back to party or hang out, but it was worth it.
“Once Riley’s back in town, we can come over for dinner,” I reply, watching my mom’s face light up like she found something she’s been looking for.
My heart picks up, thinking about bringing Emilie to my family home, which means the world to me. I offered to buy my parents a new place when I signed my first big contract with guaranteed money, but they refused. My mom always used to say, “There’s too much love in these walls to give it up.” I would pretend gag but secretly sigh in relief, knowing our home meant as much to them as it did to me.
There’s something special about being able to go home to your bedroom. Not that I’d show Emilie my bedroom. I mean, yes, I would show it to her, but there wouldn’t be anything for us to do in there.
“Why are your cheeks so red?” Mom puts the back of her hand on my forehead, like she’s feeling for a fever.
And because I can’t say, “Well, I’m thinking about bringing my pretend girlfriend back to my room, and it’s kind of hot but it shouldn’t be,” I answer, “It’s kind of hot in here. I’m going to turn the AC down.”
I walk to the thermostat before they can look too closely and find a tell—point out they know I’m lying.