My Fake Girlfriend’s Grandmother Played The Ultimate Trick On Us

Part 1

Brenda reached back from her wheelchair and patted my hand like I had been holding on to her family for years.

Megan was kneeling beside the chair on the front walk of a pale yellow duplex.

I stood behind the black rubber handles with my postal satchel cutting a familiar trench into my shoulder.

Megan looked over her shoulder and whispered that Brenda thought I was her boyfriend.

That was how I ended up frozen on a concrete path with the woman I had quietly admired for months begging me not to ruin the lie.

I had just finished my mail route.

Megan was the senior center activity coordinator who practically ran this half of the valley on color-coded schedules.

She was letting a massive misunderstanding hang in the air, her face flushed and her dark hair slipping out of its clip.

She was silently begging me not to explain to Brenda that I was just the mailman she had flagged down because the van had a flat tire.

I looked down at Brenda and saw a distinct fragility in the way she clutched the armrests.

If Brenda thought Megan had backup, she would let herself be wheeled up the ramp.

My voice sounded deeper than usual when I promised Brenda I would make sure she got inside safely.

Megan thanked me with forced politeness, pointing out that it was supposedly on my way.

It wasn’t on my way at all, but I gave her a slow, easy grin and told her the postal service didn’t charge extra for escort duties.

The door shut with a firm, final click.

A woman who had everything under control didn’t use a fake boyfriend to get her grandmother into a house.

She was drowning in something right there in the open, and she was terrified someone might actually notice.

When I swung by the center the next day to drop off mail, Megan was practically vibrating with tension.

Heather, the director, demanded the roster for the new Sunday walk-home pilot program by tomorrow.

Heather marched away, and Megan let her head drop forward against the heels of her hands.

She immediately straightened her spine, pulled out a plastic container of zucchini bread, and offered it to me as a thank you.

It was her way of balancing the ledger so she wouldn’t owe me.

I leaned my elbows on the counter and told her my rates were much higher than zucchini bread.

I looked down at the desk and saw a stack of folded cards drawn with rough maps in blue ink.

I picked one up and noticed she had the route to Brenda’s house going down Maple.

I picked up a red pen, drew a line through Maple, and traced a path down Elm.

I told her to take the Dogwood side because it was shaded and the pavement was smooth.

I folded the card, slid it into my shirt pocket, and told her I would be there at a quarter past four.

For the rest of the week, a strange, quiet rhythm developed.

Every afternoon, I walked into the center, Megan had Brenda ready, and we walked.

It started as a favor, but it quickly became the anchor of my day.

We were walking down Elm when Brenda complained I pushed the chair too slowly.

I smoothly told Brenda I was a federal employee trained to avoid sudden movements.

Megan let out a sudden, genuine laugh that startled a robin out of the nearby bushes.

The tension was completely gone from her shoulders, and for a second, she was just a woman walking in the sun.

I realized with a sinking feeling in my gut that I didn’t want to be a joke anymore.

I wanted to know whether she ever drank coffee while it was still hot.

I wanted to know if anyone had ever chosen her before she had to ask.

The shift happened on a Friday night when an aggressive rainstorm blew through the valley.

Megan sat at a folding table near the window with Brenda, who was highly agitated and scrambling for the route card.

I walked over, set my satchel on the floor, and pulled out a spare dry flannel lap blanket I had quietly bought two days ago.

I draped it over Brenda’s legs and told her I was going to sit with her until the rain stopped.

Megan slowly lifted her head, her eyes red-rimmed, and whispered that I didn’t have to stay.

I dropped my voice lower and told her to just let me sit there.

She slumped back in her chair, let out a shaky breath, and stayed exactly where she was.

Before I left that night, I wrote down the exact route on a blank card, added notes about Megan forgetting to drink water, and left it on her keyboard.

The next afternoon, Megan stood near the main whiteboard, aggressively wiping away the draft list of volunteers.

She finally faced me, her eyes guarded, and told me she needed to take my name off the roster for tomorrow.

She claimed it was getting complicated because Brenda kept calling me her boyfriend and the seniors were gossiping.

The words stung worse than a dog bite.

I looked at her tightly clasped hands and saw the absolute fear beneath the competence.

She was terrified of what would happen if I ever left.

I told her quietly that I wasn’t a professional volunteer and I wasn’t a fake boyfriend.

I said I was just a guy who wanted to make sure she didn’t have to carry the whole world by herself.

She flinched and said she didn’t ask me to.

I told her that was exactly the point.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a stack of five porch route cards I had filled out the night before.

I set the route cards on her desk, turned around, and walked out without looking back.