Tired of my family’s nonstop questions about my dating life, I devised a daring plan: I’d ask a homeless man to pose as my fiancé for our holiday dinner. It felt like the perfect way to shut them up—until my mom’s reaction unveiled a startling link to his past.
I sat in my car near a city park, dreading the family weekend ahead. Mom’s expectant looks, Dad’s encouraging smiles, and endless “When’s the wedding?” queries were unbearable. Then I saw a man on a bench, bundled in a frayed coat, his face weathered but still captivating. A bold idea sparked: could he be my fake fiancé? It was wild, but I was desperate. I walked over, nerves jangling. “Hi, this is odd, but would you pretend to be my fiancé for a weekend? I’ll offer a warm bed, clothes, and meals.” He studied me, then nodded. “Alright.” His quick yes surprised me, but I didn’t pause. “Great, let’s get you ready,” I said.
At my apartment, I gave him my ex’s clothes—a button-up and jeans. “You can shower. I’ll make dinner,” I said. “Appreciate it,” he replied, his smile gentle. As he showered, I prepped food, second-guessing myself. A stranger in my home? When he came out, clean and refreshed, he looked entirely different. “Best shower in ages,” he said, chuckling. “I’m Ethan.” I smiled. “Claire.” Over dinner, he raved about my cooking. “This is unreal. Haven’t eaten like this in years.” We talked about films and books—he loved noir thrillers and Vonnegut’s quirky tales. His humor eased my nerves, and soon, we were chatting like friends. Later, I noticed the dishes were done. “You didn’t have to,” I said. He shrugged. “Wanted to.” His thoughtfulness warmed me.
The next day, we got ready for the dinner. A barber neatened Ethan’s hair, and new clothes made him unrecognizable. “This feels weird,” he said, glancing in the mirror. “Good weird?” I asked. He grinned. “Yeah.” At the dinner, Ethan was flawless—polite, warm, and charismatic. Mom beamed, her usual questions gone. “Ethan, you look familiar,” she said, half-joking. “Big screen?” He laughed. “Just a generic face.” Dad chuckled, but Mom dug deeper. “What did you do before Claire?” Ethan paused. “Business, until a car accident five years ago flipped my world.” My pulse spiked—this wasn’t rehearsed. Mom’s face went white, her hands clutching the table. “An accident?” she said, voice sharp. The air grew heavy. “Crashes leave scars,” she said coldly. Ethan stayed composed, but Mom snapped, “He’s not safe for you.” Shocked, I watched him step outside. I faced her. “What was that?” She whispered, “Five years ago, I hit a man in a crash. It was him. He was drunk, Claire.”
I found Ethan by the fence, his eyes heavy. “Is it true?” I asked. He nodded. “I’m Ethan Brooks. It was me. I was on meds for grief after my wife died, not drunk. I drove safely.” He pulled out a small ring. “This was hers. You’re the first I’ve wanted to share it with. Thanks, Claire.” He gave me the ring and walked off. I turned to Mom. “You didn’t tell me everything, did you?” She admitted, “I was speeding. I panicked.” I asked, “Is he worth chasing?” Her eyes said yes, but he was gone.
Ethan’s story stuck with me. I placed an ad in the paper: “Ethan Brooks, meet me at our dinner restaurant. I’m there every night. Claire.” It felt foolish, but I had to try. The next evening, at the restaurant, I waited, hope fading. Then Ethan walked in, smiling. “Saw your ad,” he said, sitting down. I exhaled. “Mom admitted she was partly at fault. And… she took your money.” He nodded. “After my wife died, I didn’t fight it.” I apologized, and he waved it off. “Not your fault.” I said Mom wanted to repay him. We talked all night, honest and open. By the end, I’d fallen for him, and his look said he felt the same. A fake fiancé became real love, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
