Chapter 26
Stella:
The notification on my phone screen made my blood run cold.
Unknown Number: Miss you.
I stared at the message, my mind blank with confusion. Who—
"Stella, are you listening to me?" My mother's voice cut through my panic. "Jonathan is really quite accomplished. Your father and I think—"
My phone buzzed again, and this time my mother's eyes flicked down to the screen in my hand.
Unknown Number: When can I see you again?
I watched in horror as my mother's expression shifted from mild irritation to sharp interest. She'd seen it. Not all of it, maybe, but enough.
"Who is that?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual.
My mind raced. Noah. It had to be Noah, somehow texting from inside that closet. But why would he—
Oh. Oh god. He'd heard everything. The matchmaking, the doctor, my mother's relentless pushing. And he was giving me an out.
The realization hit me just as my mother leaned closer, clearly trying to read more of my screen.
"I have a boyfriend," I blurted out.
The words hung in the air like a grenade I'd just thrown into the middle of the living room. My mother's mouth fell open. My father's coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.
"You... what?" My mother recovered first, her eyes narrowing with that particular blend of surprise and suspicion I'd known my entire life. "Since when?"
"Since..." My mind raced, trying to calculate a timeline that would make sense. "Two weeks. It's still new, but it's serious."
"And you didn't tell us?" My mother's voice rose with indignation. "Stella Morrison, we're your parents. How could you keep something like this from us?"
My phone buzzed again in my hand, another message lighting up the screen. I angled it away from my mother's view, but not before catching a glimpse of the words.
Unknown Number: Your mom's right there, isn't she? Should I stop?
He knew. Somehow, from inside that closet, Noah knew exactly what was happening and was playing along with whatever story I was trying to build.
"I wanted to be sure first," I said, the lie flowing more easily now. "You know how demanding my schedule is. I didn't want to introduce you to someone unless I was certain it would last."
My father set down his coffee cup, his expression thoughtful. "What does he do?"
"He's in tech," I said, grabbing onto the vaguest possible answer. "Software development. Very successful." I paused, then added, "He travels a lot for work. He's actually on a business trip right now. London. He'll be gone for a while."
My mother's suspicion began to soften into interest. "How did you meet?"
"Through Zoe, actually," I said, the lie building itself as I spoke. "At a dinner party. We just... clicked."
It wasn't entirely false. I had met someone through Zoe. Just not the someone I was currently describing.
"What's his name?" my father asked.
My mind went blank. "David," I said finally. "David Miller."
The most generic, untraceable name I could think of.
My phone buzzed again. I glanced down quickly.
Unknown Number: David Miller. Got it. I'll remember that.
I had to bite back a hysterical laugh. This was insane. Completely insane.
My mother's eyes lit up with the kind of enthusiasm that made my stomach sink. "Well, this is wonderful news! When can we meet him?"
"Like I said, he's traveling a lot right now," I said quickly. "But soon. As soon as his schedule allows."
"We should plan something," my mother continued, already mentally organizing what I knew would be an elaborate dinner. "Maybe when he gets back from his trip, we can all have dinner together. Your father and I could drive down—"
"Mom, please." I forced myself to sound calm, reasonable. "Let me talk to him first. We'll figure out a time that works for everyone."
Another buzz. I didn't look at it this time, but I could feel the weight of it in my hand.
"Actually," I said, glancing at my watch, "weren't you two planning to have lunch in the city? You should probably get going if you want to beat the traffic."
My mother looked at her own watch and made a small sound of surprise. "Oh, you're right. We have that reservation at one."
Thank god for my mother's obsession with punctuality.
She stood, smoothing her skirt, then turned back to me with that particular look that meant she wasn't done with this conversation. "But we're going to talk more about this David. I want to know everything. How serious is it? Are you thinking about marriage? Children?"
"Mom." I walked toward the door, desperate to move this process along. "We'll talk. I promise. But right now, you're going to be late."
My father stood as well, giving me one of his rare smiles.
I practically herded them toward the door, my mother still talking about potential dinner dates and whether David would prefer French or Italian cuisine.
Finally, finally, they were in the hallway.
"Now," my mother continued, her grip on my arm tightening slightly, "you're coming to lunch with us, aren't you? We have that reservation, and I want to hear more about this David."
My heart sank. "Oh, I don't think—"
"Nonsense," my father said, already heading toward the elevator. "We hardly ever get to spend time together. Come on, sweetheart. Our treat."
I glanced back at my apartment door, wishing I could run back and tell Noah the coast was clear. But my parents were already in the elevator, and any delay would raise suspicion.
But what choice did I have? If I refused now, after just dropping the boyfriend bombshell, my mother would know something was wrong. She had a sixth sense for these things.
"So," my mother said the moment we were seated at the restaurant, a upscale French bistro she'd been wanting to try. "Tell me everything about David. How did you really meet? And don't give me that vague 'through Zoe' answer. I want details."
For the next hour, I wove an elaborate fiction about a man who didn't exist. David Miller, software developer, met at one of Zoe's networking dinners three months ago. He'd asked for my number. We'd gone for coffee, then dinner, then more dinners.
My mother hung on every word, asking questions I had to answer on the fly. What did he look like? Tall, dark hair, nice smile. What did his parents do? Something in finance, I thought. Where did he go to school? Stanford, maybe? Or was it Berkeley?
The lies piled up, each one requiring another lie to support it, until I felt like I was building a house of cards in a windstorm.
My phone buzzed during dessert.
Zoe Carter: Hey, is Noah with you? He's not picking up his phone.
"Excuse me," I said, standing abruptly. "I need to take this."
I stepped outside the restaurant, my fingers already dialing Noah's number. It rang once, twice, three times. Voicemail.
My heart started to pound. He was probably just asleep. Or his phone had died. Or—