Embers of Entanglement

The key turned in the lock and I stopped breathing.

Not the dramatic kind of stopped. Not the hand-to-chest, silent-movie gasp. Just a small catch in my chest, a pause I couldn't explain, as the deadbolt slid back and the door swung open into darkness.

I'd been standing there for three full minutes. Keys in hand. Forehead pressed against the cool wood of the doorframe. Trying to remember why this felt like walking into a trap.

The apartment smelled like him. That was the first thing. Cedar and coffee and something sharp I'd never been able to name. After six months of living together, I'd stopped noticing it during the day. But coming home late, when the place had been empty for hours, the scent hit me like a wall.

I dropped my bag by the door. Kicked off my shoes. The floorboards creaked in their usual spots, the ones I'd mapped out in the first week so I could avoid them when I came home drunk. Tonight I was sober. Stone cold sober. Which meant I couldn't blame the wine for the way my hands were shaking.

The living room was dark except for the blue glow of the fish tank. His ridiculous, enormous fish tank. Seventy gallons of water and twelve fish he'd named after dead rock stars. Morrison was doing laps near the top. Cobain hid behind the plastic castle. I watched them for a minute, letting the hum of the filter fill my head.

He was supposed to be at his brother's place tonight. That was the arrangement. I got the apartment on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He got it on Mondays and Wednesdays. Weekends were a free-for-all, which meant we both usually ended up crashing on opposite ends of the couch, pretending to watch movies we'd seen a dozen times.

But tonight was Wednesday. And his car was in the driveway.

I found him in the kitchen.

He was sitting at the small table we'd bought at a garage sale, the one with the wobbly leg that we kept meaning to fix. A bottle of whiskey sat in front of him, half empty. Two glasses. One full, one waiting.

He didn't look up when I walked in. Just kept staring at the glass, turning it in slow circles, watching the amber liquid catch the light from the stove hood.

"You're early," I said.

"I know."

I leaned against the counter. Crossed my arms. Tried to remember how to be normal around him. "Your brother kick you out?"

"Didn't go."

The words sat between us. Heavy. Deliberate. He finally looked up and I felt it in my gut, that familiar pull I'd been ignoring since the day he moved in with his suitcase and his fish tank and his crooked smile.

Leo had a face that didn't know how to hide anything. That was the problem. Every thought, every feeling, every doubt written right there in the lines around his mouth, in the way his jaw tightened when he was about to say something he'd regret.

Right now his jaw was tight.

"I need to ask you something," he said. "And I need you to not laugh."

"I'm not going to laugh."

"You might."

"Leo."

He poured the second glass. Pushed it across the table toward me. I took the seat across from him, felt the familiar wobble of the chair leg, and waited.

He took a long drink. Set the glass down. Ran his hand through his hair, the way he always did when he was nervous, and I watched the muscles in his forearm shift under his sleeve.

"You know my parents are coming next week."

I nodded. His parents. The ones who called every Sunday and asked when he was going to settle down. The ones who'd sent him a photo of his ex-girlfriend's wedding announcement with a note that said *"She looks happy. Don't you want to be happy?"*

"They think I'm engaged."

The words hung in the air between us.

I blinked. "What?"

"Engaged. To you. I told them we were engaged."

"You told your parents we're engaged."

"Yes."

"Leo, we're roommates."

"I know."

"We share a bathroom. I've seen you cry over a broken toaster."

He winced. "The toaster was a gift from my grandmother."

"That's not the point."

He poured himself another drink. Didn't sip it this time. Just held it, both hands wrapped around the glass, like he was trying to warm himself.

"The point," he said slowly, "is that I panicked. My mom called. She was talking about my cousin's wedding, about how everyone's settling down, about how she just wants to see me happy before she dies."

"She's not dying."

"She's sixty-two and she's been saying she's dying since I was twelve. It's her thing."

I pressed my palms against the table. Felt the grain of the wood under my fingers. "So you told her we're engaged."

"I told her we're engaged."

"And she believed you?"

"She cried. She was happy. She said she always knew I'd find the right person."

I stared at him. He stared at the table. The fish tank hummed in the other room and somewhere outside a car drove past with its bass turned up too loud and I thought about how strange it was that this was my life now. That I was sitting in a kitchen at midnight, being told I was engaged to a man I'd known for three years, a man I'd never kissed, a man I'd watched eat cereal in his underwear on a Sunday morning.

"What are you going to tell her?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"When she gets here. Next week. What are you going to tell her?"

He looked up. His eyes were dark in the low light. Brown and warm and full of something I couldn't name.

"I was hoping you'd help me."

"Help you what?"

"Pretend."

The word landed soft. A stone dropped into still water.

"Pretend we're engaged," I said.

"For a week. Just until they leave. Then we break up. Amicably. You get the apartment, I move out, we never speak of it again."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. It bubbled up out of me, sharp and surprised, and he flinched like I'd slapped him.

"You're serious," I said.

"Dead serious."

"You want me to pretend to be your fiancee."

"Yes."

"For a week."

"Yes."

"With your parents."

"They're lovely people. You'll like them."

I picked up the glass of whiskey. Took a drink. The burn hit my throat and spread warm through my chest and I thought about all the ways this could go wrong. All the ways it already was wrong. The way my heart was beating too fast for a joke. The way I couldn't stop looking at his mouth.

"Why me?"

He hesitated. Just for a second. But I saw it.

"Because you're the only person I trust."

The words hit harder than they should have. I set the glass down. Looked at the way his hands were wrapped around his own glass, the way his knuckles were white, the way he wasn't meeting my eyes.

"One week," I said.

He looked up.

"One week. I play your fiancee. Your parents leave. Then we go back to normal."

"Normal," he repeated. Like he was testing the word. Like he wasn't sure it fit anymore.

"Normal."

He nodded. Slow. "Okay."

"Okay."

I held out my hand. He looked at it for a long moment, then reached out and shook it. His palm was warm. Rough. His fingers closed around mine and I felt it again. That catch in my chest. That pause.

He didn't let go right away. Neither did I.

"You should probably kiss me at some point," he said. "To sell it."

My heart stopped. Started again. "Probably."

"Just so they believe it."

"Right."

"Method acting."

"Absolutely."

He was still holding my hand. I was still letting him.

"Maybe we should practice," he said.

I swallowed. "Practice."

"Just to be safe."

The fish tank hummed. The whiskey burned. His thumb traced a slow circle on the back of my hand and I forgot how to breathe.

"Okay," I said. "Practice."