3
Friday.
Then I spend the next three hours trying not to have a full-blown identity crisis over a fake relationship with my sister’s best friend.
It’s fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.
I never told the team Bea’s name. Just that she existed. A vague, hot, off-limits woman who definitely wasn’t into hockey and totally wasn’t imaginary.
So technically, I’m not even lying. I’m just revising the narrative. Retroactive girlfriend swap. Happens all the time.
Right?
I open my Notes app and scroll through my bullet points.
FAKE DATING PLAN
Liv = girlfriend since January Long-distance until now She’s not on social media (blame “digital detox”) Team group chat gets cute pics once a week MAX No PDA in front of Tessa or Mom unless Liv initiates
I throw my phone on the couch and exhale hard enough to rupture a lung.
This would all be so much easier if Liv wasn’t Liv. If she wasn’t… sharp and hot and terrifying. If she wasn’t the same girl who once told me I looked like a golden retriever who didn’t get drafted.
Now she’s flying to me. And we have to pretend we’re in love. And not murder each other.
No big deal.
Now I’m driving to Target in a panic because I can’t just sit at home any longer.
I walk to the shampoo aisle and grab two different bottles.
Herbal Essences or Pantene?
Does Liv have a preference? Does she use fancy stuff? Is there a wrong choice here that will immediately blow our cover before we even get to the wedding?
Jesus Christ, I’m losing my mind.
A teenage employee who looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else is walking past me, so I stop her. She glares at me, so I gulp.
“Do you know what kind of shampoo women like?” I ask, then immediately realize how that sounds. “I mean, my girlfriend is visiting, and I want to make sure she has everything she needs.”
The girl looks at the bottles in my hands, then back at my face, and I can see her mentally calculating whether I’m a thoughtful boyfriend or a potential serial killer.
“Most people just bring their own shampoo,” she says like it’s a fact.
“Right. Of course. That makes sense.”
She walks away quickly, probably to report me to security.
I put both bottles in my cart because I’ve lost any ability to make rational decisions.
This is what my life has become. Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal person with normal problems, like whether to order Thai food or pizza for dinner. Now I’m spiraling in a Target, overthinking toiletries for my fake girlfriend who’s arriving tomorrow to help me lie to everyone I know.
My phone buzzes. Text from Reed.
Reed:Dude, can’t wait to meet your girl tomorrow! Chelsea’s so excited to have another girl in the group.
I stare at the message, panic rising in my throat like acid reflux.
This is really happening.
West:Yeah, she’s excited too.
Which is probably a lie. Liv’s probably dreading this entire weekend. She’s probably already planning her escape route and calculating how much therapy she’ll need after pretending to be attracted to me for forty-eight hours.
Another buzz. This time it’s from the group chat.
Hurley:West bringing the girlfriend to Jake’s wedding too?
G:Better be. He can’t be third wheeling with us all summer.
Reed:Couples group chat is planning a wine tasting double date next week.
My hands start sweating. Wine tasting. Double dates. These people think I’m domesticated now. They think I’m the kind of guy who knows about farmers market schedules and home decor.
I am so fucked.
I push my cart toward the grocery section, trying to focus on the list I made this morning. The list that started as “food for weekend” and somehow devolved into “everything a fake girlfriend might need to not hate me immediately.”
Greek yogurt. Because girls eat Greek yogurt, right? It’s healthy and sophisticated.
Almond milk. In case she’s lactose intolerant. Do I know if she’s lactose intolerant? I should know if she’s lactose intolerant. We’ve known each other for fifteen years.
Organic apples. Because organic means I care about the environment and her health.
Fancy cheese. Because who doesn’t like fancy cheese?
Wine. To lighten the mood.
I’m reaching for a bottle of Pinot Grigio when my phone rings.
“Hey, Tessa.”
“Please tell me you’re not spiraling,” she says.
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re absolutely spiraling. I can hear it in your voice.”
“I’m grocery shopping. For Liv. Who’s arriving tomorrow to pretend to be in love with me in front of all my friends. This is totally normal behavior.”
“West.”
“I’m buying three different types of bread, Tess. Three. Who needs three types of bread?”
“Put the bread down.”
I look at my cart, which has somehow accumulated sourdough, whole wheat, and brioche. “How did you know I was spiraling?”
“Because I know you. You stress too much. Remember when you got cut from varsity junior year? You bought seventeen types of protein powder.”
“That was different. That was for gains.”
“That was for feelings. Just like the bread.”
“I put back the brioche.”
“Listen to me very carefully. Liv is not actually your girlfriend. She’s doing you a favor. A very expensive favor. Don’t make this weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“You’re making it weird. I can feel the weird through the phone.”
“How am I making it weird?”
“Are you redecorating?”
I glance at the throw pillows in my cart. “No.”
“West.”
“Fine, maybe a little. But the guest room is boring. It looks like a hotel room. A bad hotel room. Like a Motel 6.”
“It’s supposed to look like a hotel room! She’s not moving in!”
“I know that. I’m just trying to make her comfortable.”
“By buying throw pillows?”
“They’re accent pillows.”
“There’s no difference!”
“There’s totally a difference!”
Tessa sighs, and I can picture her rubbing her temples the way she does when Charlie’s being particularly destructive.
“Okay, new plan,” she says. “Go home. Put away the decorative pillows and the seventeen types of bread. Make the guest room clean but not fancy. Stock the bathroom with normal toiletries. Order pizza for dinner. Do not, under any circumstances, light candles.”
“I wasn’t going to light candles.”
“You were absolutely going to light candles.”
“Fine, maybe one candle. For the smell.”
“NO CANDLES.”
“Jesus, okay. No candles.”
“And West?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to remember that this is fake. She’s not actually your girlfriend. She doesn’t actually like you. She’s doing this for money.”
I nod. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“I’m serious. Don’t catch feelings. She’s been struggling, so I’m trying to do her a favor. That’s why I pay her to watch the girls.”
I put back another loaf of bread. “I’m not going to catch feelings.”
“You caught feelings for the barista who drew a heart in your coffee foam.”
“That was different. That heart was really well done.”
She hangs up on me.
I stare at my phone, then at my cart full of unnecessary purchases, and realize she’s probably right. I am making this weird.
But also, what if Liv doesn’t like Greek yogurt? What if she’s vegan? What if she has opinions about thread count?
I grab my phone and Google “what do women want in a guest room.”
The first result is an article titled “10 Ways to Make Your Guest Feel Welcome.” I click it immediately.
Number one: Fresh flowers.
I pivot toward the floral section.
Number two: Quality linens.
Do I have quality linens? What even makes linens quality? Thread count? Thread type? The color?
Number three: Toiletries and amenities.
See? I was right about the shampoo.
Number four: Snacks and beverages.
Back to the grocery section.
Number five: Good lighting.
Do I have good lighting? What’s good lighting? Warm lighting? Bright lighting? Mood lighting?
Oh god, I’m spiraling again.
My phone buzzes with another text, this time from Liv.
Liv:Flight lands at Gate B12. Try not to have a panic attack.
How does she know I’m having a panic attack? Can she sense my anxiety through text messages?
West:Not having a panic attack. Totally calm.
Liv: Sure you are. Don’t bring flowers to the airport.
West: Why would I bring flowers to the airport?
Liv: Because you’re you and you’re probably overthinking everything right now.
Damn. She really does know me.
West: I’m not overthinking anything.
Liv: Good. See you tomorrow.
I stare at the text, then at the bouquet of roses in my hand.
Shit.
I put the flowers back and head to the checkout, trying to look like a normal person buying normal groceries for a normal weekend. Not like someone whose entire life is about to become an elaborate lie.
The cashier is the same teenage girl from the shampoo aisle. She looks at my cart, which now contains two types of bread, three different shampoos, fancy cheese, organic everything, and accent pillows, and gives me a look that clearly says “yeah, this guy’s definitely a serial killer.”
“Find everything okay?” she asks, scanning the Greek yogurt.
“Yep. Just getting ready for my girlfriend to visit.”
“The one who doesn’t bring her own shampoo?”
“That’s the one.”
She nods slowly, like she’s humoring a crazy person. “Cool.”
The total comes to $247.83, which seems excessive for a weekend’s worth of groceries, but I hand over my card anyway because at this point, what’s another bad financial decision?
I drive home with my car full of what Tessa would definitely call “panic purchases” and try to rehearse my story for tomorrow.
Okay, so details.
Liv and I have been dating for four months. We met through Tessa, which is true, and realized we had feelings for each other, which is absolutely not true. We’ve been keeping it quiet because we wanted to make sure it was serious before telling everyone, also not true, but believable.
By the time I get home, I’ve worked myself into a full anxiety spiral. I unload the groceries, trying to remember Tessa’s advice about keeping things normal, but somehow I still end up arranging the throw pillows on the guest bed.
They look good. Welcoming but not try-hard. Comfortable but not presumptuous.