Pretend You Love Me by Julie Anne Peters

said, turning and extending my arms along the crossbar. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
    “Okay, Katie Couric. He’s from Alabama, and he’s got the sexiest southern drawl to prove it. He works in a gas station, but
     that’s just temp. He wants to become a filmmaker. He’s twenty-two—”
    “Twenty-two!” My voice bounced off the water tank. “He’s too old for you.”
    “No, Mother Superior, he is not. That’s only five years’ difference. Geneviève and Hakeem are twelve years apart and it works
     for them. They’re celebrating their twentieth anniversary this year.” Geneviève and Hakeem. Jamie’s parents.
    Jamie scrunched up, hugging his knees. “He lives in a small town where there’s not much action. None, he says. He’s lonely,
     Mike. Like me. I’m so fucking lonely.” Jamie’s eyes bore into mine. “And so are you.”
    I hustled to gather up my gear and shove it in my pack. My towel, sunscreen. “You’re a horndog,” I told him.
    “And you’re not?”
    I shouldered my pack and headed for the gate.
    “You’re leaving already? It’s barely noon.”
    Let him wallow in self pity. My life was fine, perfect. So what if I didn’t have a girlfriend? That was about to change.
    As I stepped onto the top rung of the ladder, I glanced back to find Jamie staring at me. Excavating my soul. I had to admit,
     he knew mebetter than anyone. What was it we had between us? An indefinable connection, an understanding. A shared desperation. I don’t
     know. The gay thing.
    He was right. I was lonely.
    “Just be careful,” I said. “Please?”
    Jamie nodded. “You too.”

    There were five messages on the answering machine. The first was Nel, from the tavern. “Mike, call me as soon as you can.
     I have a disaster here and I need your help. Let’s see, it’s twelve-forty. Call me.”
    What kind of disaster? I wondered.
    The second message was from Xanadu. “Oh my God, help me!” she cried. “I’m stuck in a freaking time warp in Sublette, Kansas.
     Where the hell is Sublette? Isn’t that an apartment? You think Coalton’s small? Aunt Faye and Uncle Lee dragged me along on
     their weekly visit to his folks, who are old as Egyptian mummies. Right now Uncle Lee and his dad are in the parlor—yes, the
     parlor—comparing war injuries. God. Before that, they pulled out these shoe boxes full of old photos for me to see, like I
     know who Bella and Abel Cleveland are and all their twenty-five-hundred children and grandchildren. They’re probably all dead
     by now—”
    Beep. The message timed out. A memory resurfaced. My grandparents. Grandma and Grandpa Szabo. Darryl and I used to go stay
     at their house in Leoti for two weeks every summer. I loved how we’d dump out Grandma Szabo’s hatbox full of black-and-white
     photos and pass them around. She’d tell us about the people; share the family secrets. She didn’t make up stories the way
     Dad did.
    Grandma Szabo. She made me a quilt for my tenth birthday. I loved that quilt; still do.
    Beep.
“How rude. I’m back. Uncle Lee’s mother and Aunt Faye arein the kitchen with the next door neighbor, Elektra. Yes, Jamie. That’s her real name. I actually laughed out loud when she
     said it. Of course, I had to repeat my name three fucking times before she got it. They’re comparing recipes for their Jell-O
     ambrosia. Do you know what’s in a Jell-O ambrosia, Mike? Lime Jell-O and coconut; fruit cocktail and cottage cheese. Cottage
     cheese, in Jell-O. It has to look like someone blew chunks in a cake pan.”
    I burst into laughter.
    Beep.
    Jell-O ambrosia. Wow, I hadn’t had that since… since I stopped going to church. The church ladies used to hold a potluck after
     the last service. I sort of liked Jell-O ambrosia.
    Beep.
    “You need to set your machine for longer messages if we’re going to be best friends,” Xanadu said. My heart leaped. Were we?
     Going to be best friends? “Anyway,” she exhaled loudly, “there’s this