Sweet Romance13 min read
My Fake Fiancé, My Old Fire, and the Night I Threw Out a Suitcase
ButterPicks13 views
I never expected a single dinner to turn the simplest things into a war zone.
"I like rough-housing," Alec said from the head of the table, grin too wide. "She likes to hit people. That you still dare to marry her?"
"Shut up." I was about to tell him to shut up, but Archer reached over and eased his arm around my shoulders. "Maybe I'm just good enough," he said, smiling where men usually kept poker faces. "My sweetheart only gives me kisses."
Alec's face went the color of crushed limes.
I thought the day would be polite and small: me bringing my boyfriend home, my mother making more food than a table should hold, my father trying to laugh at every pause. I had rehearsed what to say, how to smile. I had not rehearsed Alec coming through the door the same moment I did, dropping into a chair like he owned a spot on our family couch.
"She likes to hit people," he repeated as if it were a joke. The room went quiet enough I could hear the rice cooker in the kitchen.
"Don't say that," my mother scolded softly, more maternal warning than command. "Not today."
"My voice isn't loud enough," my father muttered, trying to patch the hole between awkward and normal. "Alec's always been a handful, but we thought— I thought—he might marry Juniper once upon a time."
"Well, thanks to Alec's non-marriage, I got lucky," Archer said and kissed my temple in front of everyone like it belonged on a stage. He made a show of smiling toward Alec. "Maybe I'm just obedient enough. My baby only kisses me."
Alec's fingers clenched like twigs. The air felt full of sparks.
Dinner was a tightrope. After, my parents sat with Archer in the living room. Alec crossed my path, glared, and said, "Come out. I want to talk."
"I have nothing to say to you," I answered.
He came closer, lowering his head until our foreheads almost met. "Do you want him to know what our first kiss felt like? Or how long we lasted the first time?"
"Alec, you're a jerk," I snapped.
"You know I'm a jerk," he shot back, "and you still won't behave?"
He tipped his cigarette between two fingers and hummed as if he had finished the world. I kept my face still because he was not my boyfriend anymore; I told myself I wouldn't strike him.
Outside, he got more aggressive, poking under my chin, demanding, "When did you start dating him? Did you sleep with him? Kiss?"
When he squeezed my jaw, I didn't think. Muscle remembered before my brain did. I slapped him hard enough to sting. We both froze.
"You never used to hit faces," Alec said through gritted teeth. "Not back then."
I wanted to apologize because I had no business slapping anyone, not now. "I'm sorry," I said, honest.
He rubbed his cheek and smirked, "Does it hurt?"
The picture that flashed in my head was one he'd shown me once—his hands gentle, massaging my palms when I had pain. It made my throat tighten. "You always used to be careful," I said.
He leaned in like he was nostalgic, "You could hit other places. Face is for keeps. Don't hit the face—it's too serious."
"How would you know?" I shot back. "You're the one who used to be careful, but who left, Alec? Who chose the rest of the world?"
He stared, jaw set. He flicked his cigarette into the night air. "Juniper, I'm your childhood friend. I have a say."
"You mean ex," I said. "Which identity of yours controls my life?"
He stepped back and shrugged. He began taunting about my looks—"You look dangerous in skirts, you know that?"—and about men and temptation. I told him, flatly, "You're one of the men."
Something about the old arrogance hadn't left him, but that arrogance was fraying at the edges. I walked away. He chased me and grabbed my wrist. I turned and, before thinking about anything, slapped him again.
Later, when people had returned to the living room and my parents chatted like they hadn't been inside a thunderstorm, Alec spoke to me low, insisting, "Why don't you come out with me? I want to be honest with you."
"I'm not interested," I said.
He tried to charm and to guilt. "Come with me," he begged. "Won't you give me a chance? I can't lose this. I don't know how to lose you."
"No," I said. "I've moved on."
He smiled with a sadness on it, the kind I'd seen when we were young and stupid and everything he thought was a prophecy. "Even if we're over, Juniper, being hit is printed in my DNA," he said faintly. "I can't help thinking it's a mark."
I told him then that such talk was cruel. We left for a quiet that was a little like sleepwalking.
I will admit I'm a coward for some things. The truth is, I had planned all of it with Archer.
We weren't lovers in any usual way when we signed the contract with our lives. It had been an agreement: me, Juniper, Corporate Project Manager; him, Archer King, my CEO—a man who had loved someone else and had kept that love like a carefully packed suitcase. We swore not to make love work if it required heartache. We swore it would be a business arrangement: me, to appease my father who ached with cancer; him, to keep his parents away from the altar. I needed a "son-in-law" my father could trust. Archer needed a reason to present a calm, settled life to his family. So we staged it. We shared rehearsed kisses and public tenderness, and private boundaries. It was a deal.
But life isn't a contract you can staple to a desk and forget.
After I brought Archer home, my father reacted as if relief had a face. When my father said the words—"We planned to marry next month; we'll have two ceremonies"—I felt the floor tilt under my feet.
"Next month?" I asked Archer later, stunned and cornered in the stairwell. "Why did you tell them that?"
"Because your father is scared," he said. "He told me not to tell you. I didn't want him to worry. If we say it's real, he might rest easier."
That sentence opened a pressure valve inside me. I curled my hands into my coat and crouched on the landing. "You kept my father in the dark and told him we'd marry so he'd have hope?" I said, almost laughing at how adult that sounded.
"Maybe we should perform the hope," Archer said quietly. "If pretending brings him a month of happiness, why not?"
He held my shoulder and squeezed the way someone who knows a thousand griefs might squeeze. "We can be married but still honest. We'll make it real in small ways."
I sank to my knees on the cement step. "If he dies thinking I'm married to someone I don't love," I said, "I'll live with that."
"It's less lonely for him," Archer countered, "and I can be by your side. We are both safe this way." There was no melodrama in his voice, only a steady, patient warmth. "I will protect you, Juniper."
That kind of kindness isn't a cheap thing. It roots you where you are.
The days ahead blurred into hospital appointments, coercing a stubborn man to let himself be fixed. The doctors said: the surgery might buy time—years maybe, months maybe. We prepared for the worst with bright smiles and lie after lie that tasted like medicine.
Alec kept drifting through my margins. He came when he wanted and left when he felt guilty. He brought fruit, he stood in doorways, he challenged Archer in ways that were as much about me as about reclaiming some part of himself. "You hid the truth from her father," he'd say, voice low. "How can you do that?"
"Because it's kinder," Archer replied once, still as a statue. "Because he asked me not to tell."
That night my father died. It was quiet—so quiet that the usual noise of the apartment sounded like a market in an empty city.
I tear out the hours after like a blind person pulling down curtains. There were funerals, the slow, cruel paperwork, and then the empty house and my mother sitting like a small candle in a big room.
Alec came immediately when he heard. He knelt by my father's chair and didn't script anything. He said awkward, honest things, and he cried. He said, "You still have me and your mother. I'm here."
"I have a mother and a job," I said to him and to the air. "I don't need promises."
But he stayed. He sat in the kitchen and took apart his guilt with a fork while he tried to put the pieces of himself back together. He told me about his father's death years earlier, about the violent illness, about the stain of a man leaving the world like a storm. He said he had stepped away because he thought he might someday hurt me, that the fear of turning into his father made him choose absence.
"I was owning my cowardice with pride," he admitted. "I thought leaving you would be mercy."
That was the moment I saw the hollow his leaving had left. He had not asked for my life to continue without him; he had decided that I would be better off without the risk he carried. That arrogance hurt as much as anything else.
We drifted into days that felt like rehearsals for grief. Archer left to return to the city because the company needed him. He told me calmly, "I'll be at the office. Call me if you need me. Take the time you need."
So I stayed home with my mother and a halo of tired relatives. Alejandro—no, not Alejandro; River—River Fernandes came and stayed, a friend who was more family than most people. He brought over soup and drove us to the hospital when my mother couldn't make it alone.
Time does its slow work. My mother's laugh came back in small pieces: a joke about a neighbor's hat here, a criticism of a bad soup there. Alec began to behave like a man who wanted something honestly. He fixed lights, he carried baskets, he made tea—he was bad at all of it but tried with a sincerity that was a mirror to his earlier immaturity.
One night, at a small rooftop noodle stall, after a local cousin teased that I was having two lovers—my boss and my neighbor—Alec did the most dramatic thing I'd seen in years. He burst into tears under neon lights, a ridiculous crying that made everyone around us stare.
"Stop," Archer said when he leaned down and put a hand on my shoulder. "Stop watching."
"Why are you crying?" I asked him.
"Because I realized I lost you," Alec hiccuped. "And I was an idiot. I drunk-argued with the world."
Archer's eyes were quiet. "You weren't the only idiot," he said. "But the question is: what now?"
"Please," Alec begged, then dropped to his knees in the middle of a noisy street, "Forgive me. Don't go. Let me be small and stupid so you can be big and okay."
People laughed, some took photos, someone handed him a napkin. The scene was ridiculous and terrible and public. I pulled him up, embarrassed and furious. "Get up now," I hissed.
I had no romantic epiphany then. I had only fatigue, and a long acquaintance with my own weakness.
"Not here," I said. "Tomorrow. Let's talk tomorrow."
The next morning, Alec came armed with small gestures: a bag of hot coffee, a note, a ridiculous apology written like a song. He outlined things he would do: therapy, a physician, a promise to stop drinking at nights when he couldn't steward himself. He named steps like a project manager presenting milestones. I listened.
But there was a line of people watching, and a string of rumors where Alec had been the problem. I had to stop him from breaking my mother's fragile peace. I had to keep away from the chaos. He begged for something public: an apology declared aloud, a cleansing. The world wanted spectacle and his shame would stitch him back together.
So I staged what everyone asked for: an honest reckoning in the only open place we had left—my father's wake, the day people would come with condolences and watch what remained of us try to be human.
The scene I had to prepare hurt more than I’d imagined. I called River and Archer. We agreed. I told my mother I had to set something straight for Juniper—no, for Juniper's own good, though that sounded dramatic in a house where our grief was private and tender.
On the night I chose, there were roughly thirty people: relatives, cousins, a neighbor who liked scandal, and a few of my father's old colleagues. River leaned in near the door as if to keep anyone from fleeing. Archer stood back like a trained actor, watching the set. Alec walked in with the old casual arrogance and the new rawness mixed like two tides. He didn't expect a full audience.
"Juniper," he said, the old nickname he used like a key. "Please—"
"Sit." I pointed to a chair. "I want you to tell everyone why you made me feel small."
He blinked. Around the room, people shifted forward like a wave.
"Tell them," I said. "Tell them why you lied about us to make yourself feel safe."
His face went through stages—embarrassment, denial, anger, then panic. "That's not—"
"Tell them how you put a junior into our space and told me she made you happy," I told him. "Tell them that you hugged a girl in front of me and said she was easy to be with."
The crowd's murmur shifted. My cousin cleared her throat. "Was that true?" she asked.
"It's complicated," Alec said. He tried to charm without charm. "I was—confused."
"Confused is a polite word for cowardice," Archer said coolly, stepping in front of me. "You left instead of fighting. You left instead of taking responsibility."
Alec's smirk briefly returned. "You think you own the narrative, Archer? Don't act like you know her better than I do."
Archer looked him in the eye. "I don't. But she deserves men who can stand in the daylight."
The crowd laughed—small, sharp, like the sound of dishes clinking. Alec's face changed. He tried to salvage pride, then anger. "You're all judging what you don't understand," he shot back. "You were the one who wanted me to leave!"
The room buzzed. My mother stepped forward like someone waking from a nightmare. "Is any of this true?" she asked Alec.
He flicked his hand. "I thought I was protecting you. I thought—"
"Protecting her by abandoning her?" River cut in. "That's not protection. That's cowardice."
Alec's breathing quickened. The narrative we'd rehearsed burned him. He began to sputter, "You don't get it. I didn't want to hurt Juniper."
"You hurt her because you chose your fear over her," I said, voice steady though everything in me trembled.
"She hits me," he retaliated petty and bruised. "You said she hits people."
"That was an adolescent joke," I shot back. "You made it a weapon."
He tried to flip the scene—"I loved you," he told the room. "I came back because I loved you. Can't you see that?"
Archer's answer was simple and sharp. "Love is not a thing you keep in your pocket for convenience. Love is what makes you stay when you are afraid."
The room went quiet. My cousin had her phone out. Someone took a photo. There were whispers—some sympathetic, some gleeful, the worst kind. Alec's face crumpled in stages: triumph, then denial, then shock as he saw the faces that once gave him applause now folding their arms. He went through the sequence the rules demand: arrogance, then confusion, then denial, then collapse. His voice thinned and he began to sputter apologies.
"I didn't mean to— I'm sorry— I'm sorry—"
"Say it to her straight, not to this room," I said.
He walked toward me, mouth trembling. "Juniper—"
"Get up," I told him. "Say it aloud why you left. Say you feared yourself. Say you chose leaving over being broken with me."
He froze. The room watched. He swallowed like a man trying to swallow a boulder. "I was scared," he whispered. "I was afraid I'd become like my father. I didn't want that. I thought if I left, you'd be safe."
The room reacted: some scoffed, some leaned in, some shook their heads. My mother's face crumpled and then softened—this man had been raised like a son by her, and the pain was multiple.
"Are you asking for forgiveness?" my aunt asked.
He nodded, tears cut streaks in the sweat on his cheeks. "Please. I'm sorry."
People murmured. A few shook their heads. Someone clapped once—a rude, awkward noise that broke the pressure. Then my cousin—the one who loved gossip—stood and said, "Actions are louder than apology. If you're so sorry, start proving it."
The humiliation was tangible. Alec's shoulders drooped. He tried to make a joke and it fell flat. "I'll do it," he said. "I'll go to therapy. I'll stop drinking. I'll—"
"And if you fail?" my mother asked, voice small and church-like.
He looked at her, then at me. "If I fail, I accept whatever you want to do. I accept you choosing someone else. I accept you being done."
The crowd gave him the near-final verdict. A neighbor sighed. "He must have thought this would win her back."
"No," I said, and for once they listened only to me. "You don't get to make my life your project. You don't get to demand performance. You hurt me. You can't undo that with a fall at my feet."
Alec's expression changed into something like clarity. He looked around and realized he had no supporting cast; the room, the lights, the audience—they were not his to command. He stood up slowly as if rising from a grave. He walked to the door.
"I'm sorry," he said to everyone, softer than any drama needed. "I am sorry."
There were small noises—sympathy, disgust, boredom. He walked out. People watched him go. He walked into the night, and the door closed like a final act.
The punishment had been public. It had been messy and necessary. He had transformed in front of everyone—boastful to bewildered to broken—his armor stripped by the fact that everyone had seen the truth. He had begged, been denied, and then accepted the denial. The crowd reacted as crowds do: someone took photos, some whispered, "Poor boy," others clucked like hens. A child nearby asked her mother why the man was crying. The mother hummed and said, "He lost something." People are complicated witnesses.
Afterwards, the room felt lighter. My mother apologized for letting Alec in and letting him cause this bite in our family. She washed dishes with exaggerated calm, as if to erase the stain. Archer held my hand and squeezed. River stayed like a rock by the door.
"What now?" River asked me later, when the guests had gone, and we sat on the sofa in a messy circle.
"We move forward," I said. "Archer and I will finish what we started—honestly. We'll stop pretending for others and start being kinder for the people we love."
Archer kissed my forehead. "I'll keep my promises."
"And Alec?" River asked.
"I can't make his life simple," I said. "I can't ask him to be a different man overnight. He needs to do his work, for himself. The public shaming helped; it made him realize the cost of cowardice. But whether he becomes better is his work, not mine."
We cleaned up the plates together. The night ended with small laughter and soft exhaustion. It was a healing of a kind.
A few weeks later, life reorganized. My father was gone, my mother learned to laugh at small things again. Archer and I finished the staged parts: a short ceremony to comfort two families, a real contract to settle inheritance and care. We kept the promise: we were honest in our arrangement. He was steady. He put his palm over mine during moments that quivered and said, "We'll do this with respect."
Alec wrote occasionally, messages that reached me more as an effort than as an invasion. He told me once, "I'm starting to see a counselor." He sent pictures of small acts—books he read, a letter of apology he had mailed, a small box of paper cranes. He didn't ask for me to transform my life to fit his healed shape.
In the end, I learned how to accept kindness when it was given, and how to refuse drama when it came dressed as apology. I didn't marry to make my father live on; I married because two people agreed to protect something fragile and real between them.
Months later, in a small kitchen warmed by noon sun, Archer took out a ring-sized object wrapped in napkin paper. He held it between two fingers and set it on the table. "I thought about asking you properly," he said, "but you always hated dramatic proposals."
I laughed, and the ring slid onto my finger like a secret.
Later that night, a message whispered across my phone: "Are you happy?" It was Alec.
I looked up at the ceiling, thinking how our lives had reshaped like origami—creased, folded, made into new forms. I typed back, "I'm okay. I'm living honestly."
He replied with three words that sounded like both surrender and hope: "Do better, Juniper."
I smiled, surprised. The world didn't require one kind of ending. It demanded the hard work of living.
The End
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