the rearview. “Rare to find a teen dad who not only wants to take care of his kid, but has the means.”
Yeah, this lie is so much worse than our other ones. Wouldn’t surprise me if we stepped out of the car and got struck by lightning.
“So you got a budget in mind then?” Greg asks Zan.
“Trying to keep it under three K.”
“A month?”
“Yeah. Is that too low?”
“No, no.” Greg clears his throat and signals to change lanes. Wonder if Zan notices the course correction. “We can work with that….”
And work with it, we do. Over the next two hours we visit a three-bedroom condo in the most expensive part of Atlanta (overkill), a loft in Midtown (not at all child-friendly), a penthouse downtown (is he serious?!), and an “apartment” within a larger Victorian house in some historic district.
Now we’re walking into a cute little two-bedroom cottage in Decatur.
“The best thing about this place is it’s got an open floor plan and no stairs, so if you’re here long enough for your kid to reach the crawling stage, you’ll be able to forgo the baby gates,” Greg says. “Have a look-see. I’m gonna step outside for a sec.”
“Okay, this kitchen is adorable,” Zan says, looking around. In addition to the modern appliances, there’s a potbelly stove in the corner. It’s got the perfect-sized table and chairs near the wide window, and a breakfast bar that overlooks the little living room.
And fine: it is adorable.
I’m so confused, I really could puke.
It’s like my brain’s being pulled in two directions: on the one hand, fake future-home-hunting with Zan Macklin is kinda thrilling. As he takes my left hand so we can walk around this place like we’ve done at the others, I’m reminded of how invigorating the sense of possibility can be.
But then there’s that right hand. The one Zan’s not holding. The one that’s been clenched in a loose fist since the moment he put his hand on my stomach. As nice as the near-constant contact and undivided attention I’ve experienced today have the potential to be, right now, all I can think about is how it’s a giant façade.
Despite the fact that we’ve been acting like a couple all day, that Greg Andree is under the impression I’m carrying Zan’s spawn, the hard truth remains: I’m not his girlfriend.
It’s just that the longer he treats me like I am, the angrier I get.
“My sister would have a field day decorating this place,” he says as we peek into one of the two bedrooms. “It’d be a good spot for us even without a kid.” He steps behind me and wraps both arms around my shoulders.
Which…“A good spot for us, huh?”
“Totally. It’s a nice area, two bedrooms, and a great location. We’ll be near enough to our families to drop in, but far enough away that they can’t drive us insane. Out of all the places we’ve seen, it’s the best option.”
The best opt—There’s no way he’s serious. Couldn’t possibly be.
If this whole thing’s a joke, it’s officially not funny anymore.
I pull his arms off and turn around to face him. “Are you really suggesting we move in together, Macklin?”
He shrugs. “Ness and Jess are. Maybe it’s a good idea for us too. We are both sticking around after graduation.”
**Tomorrow’s headline: TEEN GIRL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTS FROM OVERWHELMING DOSES OF BEWILDERMENT**
“ ‘Ness and Jess’ have been a couple for two years, Zan. And as you made clear to your family, I’m not your girl—”
“You two get a good look around?” Greg appears in the living room, and that’s the end of that.
I (low-key furiously) take Zan’s hand so our “Realtor” doesn’t think there’s trouble in paradise. We haven’t actually gotten the info we need.
“We did, Greg,” Zan says. “This place is great. Probably number one at this point. Where to next?”
Nope. We’re done here. “Greg, what do you know about the owner of this place?” I say.
Zan looks confused, so I give him the I got this smile he gave me back when we visited Checker Cab (feels like an eon ago that we were there).
Greg opens the file in his hand and flips through a few pages. “Dutch guy,” he says. “This is one of four properties ORG manages for him, and the other three are happily tenanted.”
I nod. “What about the Druid Hills house? I know we haven’t seen it yet, but is the owner American?” God, I sound like a xenophobe.
Greg goes back to his file, and