Chapter Text
Hating your family is a normal thing teenagers do, but Clove never really grew out of it. She was nineteen, and she hated her family, and then she was twenty-one, and she still hated her family. And at the respectable but unworldly age of twenty-three, she hated her family more than ever. They had always expected way too goddamn much of her, and she was currently very busy not living up to all of these unfair expectations.
It had been like this for as long as Clove could remember, but at age twenty-three, it was at its worst. At twenty-three, they expected her to have a steady job and a five-year plan, not a part-time gig supervising inventory in the back of a Target warehouse as she pursued the Sisyphean labors of a starving artist. At twenty-three, they expected her to be in a serious relationship, not to still be recovering from a devastating breakup that had happened while she was hating her family at age twenty-two. At twenty-three, they expected Clove to have her life together. And frankly, she just wasn’t there yet.
Thanksgiving is probably the worst time of year to be a young person who does not have their life together. Clove knew this at age nineteen, and at age twenty-one, and at all the ages in between. She would sit at that stupid fucking table in her paternal grandparents’ stupid fucking dining room and be scrutinized maliciously from every stupid fucking angle, while at the same time, her perfect sister Carver would be lauded for every trivial little thing she’d accomplished since June. When the announcement came that Great Aunt Etna would be flying down from Saskatchewan to join in on this pointless goddamn American holiday, Clove had a sinking feeling that this Thanksgiving was going to be her worst one yet.
Ironically, Clove only started feeling better about spending the holidays with her family when she began to sink faster and further towards rock bottom. No longer possessing enough money to keep living alone in her dingy apartment, Clove turned to Craigslist in search of a roommate, and surfaced with something much, much better.
It’s Thanksgiving. Want to skip that long, insulting conversation about how you’re still single? About how your parents really want grandchildren? Well, look no further!
I am a 28 year old felon with no high school degree, and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of 20 and 29 depending on if I shave. I’m a line cook and work late nights at a bar. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game.
Clove had to Google Eddie Van Halen and that lurid striped guitar to really get the picture in her mind. She wasn’t disappointed in the least. The search results gave her a pretty clear idea of what this guy was all about. And oh fucking lord was it perfect. There was a whole mess of replies underneath the post. God, she had to snatch this guy up before someone else did.
And so she hit reply. Sent the original poster a brief message, which was miraculously reciprocated with a brief reply, and the two agreed to a brief meeting the very next day. This was preferable, because it did not give Clove a lot of time to think about what she was doing, or who this dude was, what kind of crimes he’d committed. Yes, having a lot of time to consider these things would be a bad idea.
Clove would have to drive into Nashville regrettably early to meet this guy, but she did her best to convince herself it would be worth it to get to know a little more about the man she was going to fake-date before jumping right into it. And so she was off.
After walking into two different Starbucks establishments, neither of which was the one she’d made plans to meet him at, and startling a green-haired punk so badly he’d spilled his coffee, she finally stumbled upon the right location, spotting the garishly painted van parked outside. It was every bit as awful as she’d hoped it would be. Hopefully, the man who drove it here was the same way. However, another part of her hoped he’d be more pleasant. Especially since she had arrived twenty minutes later than they’d originally planned.
Ironic that I’m the late one. thought part of her.
Why? Just because he’s a felon doesn’t mean he’s not punctual. thought another part.
And sure enough, there he was, sipping a pink smoothie through a long straw. Mercifully, she could immediately tell it was him. Either the guy had taken great lengths to dress exactly like his profile picture, or he really did wear black studded jeans and old band T-shirts all the time. This particular shirt was ripped off at the shoulders, revealing two tattoo sleeves spattered with words and phrases inked in unintelligible fonts. He topped off the look with a pair of thick-framed glasses and the beginnings of a scruffy beard that matched the straw-colored hair on his head. Clove noted with some admiration that his earlobes were stretched to fit a pair of almost comically large neon plugs. And, in all of his metal studs and ripped clothes glory, he looked like someone her parents would move to the other side of the street to avoid.
In short, he was perfect.
With a tall black coffee in hand from one of the other locations she’d mistakenly walked into, she sat down across from him. He glanced up, and to her relief, the look on his face wasn’t one of irritation. Which was good, because once she was in front of him, she realized for the first time that he towered over her. Ah, to have a relationship with a height difference. It was something she missed about her last boyfriend, reaching up to throw her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to kiss him…
“…Right?” The man in front of her had been saying something. Clove blinked.
“Sorry, what?” She felt like she’d just been underwater.
After a moment of confusion, the guy was surprisingly patient. “You’re kind of late. You’re Clove Mallon, right?”
Clove nodded. “Yes. And I, uh, never got your name.”
“Hah, yeah, I try not to include that in my profiles.” Huh. For a high school dropout, he was awfully careful about what he put online. “It’s Cato.” He was also pretty cute. For a felon, Clove corrected herself quickly.
“Cato.” She sounded it out, trying to loosen up. “Hm, Cato and Clove. Sounds nice. I can tell we’re going to be a power couple.” A touch of sarcasm seemed to help counter the ridiculousness of the situation, and the man sitting across from her appeared to relax as well.
“Good. But listen, I do have the one condition.” Cato held up a finger. “It’s a platonic arrangement, our date next week. If I’d just wanted to get laid this Thanksgiving, I’d have stuck that in my profile. So you’re going to have to try your hardest not to fall in love with me.”
Clove let out a nervous laugh. “Ah, I don’t think I’ll have a problem with that.” she said without thinking. “Wait! Shit. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
“No worries.” Cato set down his empty smoothie cup. He didn’t seem too offended. “I know I’m kind of a mess, but I’ve been told I wear it well.”
He wears it well? Clove thought. What’s he saying, that he thinks the Van Halen van—and all the awful thing represents—suits him?
Cato gave an easy smile. “So, now that we’ve gotten the initial awkwardness out of the way, can we make some plans for next week?”
“Talking about our future already.” Clove said, regaining some confidence. “And next week you’re going to meet my parents. We’re moving awfully fast.”
“That’s how our relationship rolls.” Cato replied with a gleam in his eyes. “Especially with what I have in mind for our first Thanksgiving together.” This sounded promising to Clove. Maybe this was the right decision after all.
“I’d love to hear the details.” She leaned forward in her seat.
“Let’s get down to business, then.” Cato grinned, folding his tattooed arms. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. First off, I’d love the chance to tell your parents all about myself.”
At this, Clove deflated slightly. “Hm. Seems a bit lame.”
“Oh, no, it’s anything but.” Cato promised her. “You read my original post. I figure the reality of it all’s at least bad enough to jar them a little. I think it’s best to ease them in slowly. You know, before the real shitstorm begins.”
“So you weren’t lying about the whole felon thing.” Clove said. “You’ll tell them that?”
Cato thought about it for a moment. “Sure. I could bend the truth about what I did. Make it worse, if you want. How does vehicular homicide sound?”
Clove paused. “What did you really do?”
The man’s expression sobered for a moment, though in his words he remained as casual as ever. “I had a bit of a problem with anger, back in the day. Cracked someone across the face real good in a bar fight, broke his nose. And uh, dislocated his shoulder. He wasn’t too happy with me after that.” Cato laced his fingers together in front of him, a number of rings clinking against each other as he did it.
A quiet “Wow.” escaped from Clove’s mouth before she could stop it. “I don’t actually think you have to expand on that too much.”
Cato raised a blond eyebrow. “Huh. I see your family has a low threshold for what’s considered shocking.”
“Honestly, I think the earrings alone would be enough.” she admitted, noticing that a class ring was not among the jewelry on his hands. “But keep going, you seem like you have more ideas.”
Cato cleared his throat. “That I do. I can also openly hit on other female guests while you act like you don’t notice.”
Clove hummed. “I like that. So not only am I dating a violent felon—no offense—but our relationship is also dysfunctional to the point where I’m ignoring everything you do to try and salvage what we’ve got.”
“What can I say?” Cato quipped, winking. “I’m just worth it.”
Clove smiled. “What else have you got?”
The line cook sat back in his chair. “Alright, how about this? I have a knack for starting heated discussions about politics. Or religion. Or both.”
“Got a sample?”
“I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Don’t even tell me their affiliation, I’d like to figure that out as I go.” He was obviously as excited about this as she was. It seemed like he’d put a lot more thought into their arrangement than she’d expected him to.
“I see you enjoy a challenge.” Clove pointed out.
Cato shrugged his inked-up shoulders. “To be honest, it’s not as hard as you might think. Can we talk substance abuse for a second?”
“I like where this is going.”
“I can pretend to be really drunk towards the end of the night. Like, stone-cold shitfaced speaking-in-cursive drunk. That sound like something your parents would appreciate?”
“Sounds ideal.”
He nodded. “Okay. Good. But I should probably give you a heads-up, before we do this.”
“Sure. What?”
“The thing is, I don’t actually drink.” Cato stretched, bumping his smoothie dangerously close to the edge of the table. “But don’t worry about it. I used to. A lot. Too much, really. So I know the drill.”
“Oh.” Clove blinked. The next thing she knew, a short silence had settled, which was the last thing she wanted. After a moment and a short cough, she offered, “If you want, you can pour whatever you’ve got into that gross beige carpet as an extra little ‘fuck you’.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Cato nodded, rewiring his plan. “That’s great. Man, you have no idea how hard it is to just keep spitting it into your hand.”
Reassured, Clove let out a laugh. “Or if you want, we can trade glasses under the table when we need to. I can take it. Mallon family Thanksgivings are a lot more bearable under the influence.”
“Hm, I think you’re gonna want to be sober for this next part.” Cato said. “Because you might have to pull me off of someone.”
Clove stared at him, her smile gone. “Wait, whoa. Are you talking about—”
“A legit, physical fight? Yes.”
“With one of my relatives?” The thought of colossal Cato in a brawl with her Great Aunt Etna was almost unbelievable.
“Who else? I can either do it in the house or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see. Up to you.” For all he was saying to her, the man in front of her seemed awfully nonchalant. Had he done this before?
“I don’t know…” Clove grimaced. “Maybe that’s a bit much, on top of everything else.”
Cato shrugged. “That’s fine. We can pocket the idea for now.”
Clove nodded, considering it. “Yeah, I think getting fake-hammered seems like an acceptable way to end the night.” she said after a while. “Hey, what if they have to carry you out? That’d be funny.”
“Or I could propose to you.”
Clove almost choked on her coffee. “What?!”
“Go big or go home, Clove Mallon from Craigslist.” Cato told her, swirling his straw around his empty cup. “Go big or go home.” There were a few specks of pink smoothie dotting the collar of his Simple Minds T-shirt.
Clove laughed nervously. “I don’t know. I almost prefer the fight.”
“Well, think of it this way—” Cato put the cup down so he could gesture. “With this move, we’d steal the show for sure. And you really can’t go wrong with your answer. You say hell yeah, you want to be Mrs. Bailor, and you’ve got a pissed-off family. You say no, and you’ve got a pissed-off piss-drunk me. It’s a very versatile strategy, popping the question after a night like that.”
Clove could see what he meant, and she had to admit, imagining both scenarios gave her too much satisfaction to want to waste the opportunity.
“Okay, then.” she agreed. “Let’s add it to the list.”
Cato tapped the side of his head. “Noted.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this free of charge.” Clove shook her head. “You could make a killing around the holiday season. Plenty of girls in Nashville are dying to torment their parents like this.”
Cato shrugged. “I’m just out here to have a good time, Clove. And for the free meal. My Thanksgiving dinners are usually absolute shit.”
Clove raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a cook?”
“The food is not the problem.”
Clove looked at the man sitting across from her. “I see.” she said. His quiet amusement was unwavering. “So you’re just trading one shitty Thanksgiving for another? Where’s the logic in that?”
“Excellent question, my dear non-girlfriend.”
“And the answer?”
At that, Cato shot her another grin. “There is none.”