13
The LAX baggage claim feels like a different planet after three days in Seattle.
Everything’s too bright, too loud, too chaotic. People are pushing and rushing and generally acting like retrieving luggage is an Olympic sport, and all I want to do is find a quiet corner and pretend I’m still in West’s kitchen, drinking coffee he made and eating eggs he cooked for me.
But I’m not. I’m back in LA, where the sun is too hot, and my bank account has an extra five hundred dollars and everything feels slightly wrong.
My phone buzzes as I’m waiting for my suitcase. Tessa.
How was it? Are you traumatized? Did my brother drive you insane?
I type back: Survived. Heading to your place now to debrief.
Good. I need details. Charlie’s napping, Emma’s eating Cheerios off the floor, and I have wine.
Perfect.
An hour later, I’m sitting in Tessa’s living room with a glass of wine I definitely don’t need after this weekend’s alcohol consumption, trying to figure out how to explain the past three days without sounding like I’ve lost my mind.
“So,” Tessa says, settling into her chair with the kind of careful movements that suggest Charlie is still asleep. “Rate the experience. One to ten.”
“Seven.”
“Seven? That’s it?”
“It was fine. Easy. Your brother was... helpful.”
“Helpful?” she asks, taking a sip of wine.
“Yeah. He had everything planned out. Knew what to say. Made sure I was comfortable.”
“West’s idea of planning is buying three types of bread because he can’t decide which one he wants. You’re telling me he had everything organized?”
“He bought me two choices of shampoo and a welcome gift basket, Tess.”
“Oh,” she says with her brows raised. “Maybe all that hockey has gotten to his head. It doesn’t sound like him.”
I take a moment to think, to compare childhood West to adult West. “You think so?”
“He was trying to take care of you. Like, actually take care of you. Not just fake-relationship-for-show take care of you.”
I take a sip of wine and try not to think about the way he remembered I like honey mustard or how he booked my next flight without being asked.
“How was he? Really? I mean, was he a nervous wreck? Did he overthink everything? Did he change his shirt seventeen times before the wedding?”
I think about Saturday morning, the way he moved around his kitchen like he’d been making breakfast for two his whole life. The way he handed me electrolytes without making me feel pathetic about my hangover.
“No,” I say slowly. “He was... calm. Sweet, even.”
“Sweet?”
“Yeah. Is that weird?”
“It’s not weird. It’s just... surprising.”
I remind her, “We’ve known each other for fifteen years.”
“Yeah, but you stayed at his house, met his friends, watched his teammate get married.”
I chuckle. “I’m starting to think that you’re overthinking it too.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle.
“No,” she says finally, softening her expression. “I’m just glad it went well.”
I grin. “Yeah. It did.”
“And you’re okay? No weird feelings or awkward moments?”
“Nope.” I shake my head.
“You two didn’t kiss?”
I laugh. “No, we didn’t kiss. This is your brother. The one you’ve ingrained in my brain that he’s off-limits?”
She laughs. “I told you, the limits are no longer off.”
I huff out a laugh and sip my wine. She dives into talking about something new that Charlie learned and won’t stop doing it.
After leaving Tessa’s, I drive to my parents’ house in Glendale, and the contrast between West’s pristine adult-human home and my childhood house is jarring.
The lawn needs mowing. The paint is peeling around the windows. The mailbox is overflowing with what looks like weeks’ worth of mail.
Inside is worse.
Dishes are piled in the sink, some of them growing things that probably qualify as new life forms. The coffee table is covered with unopened bills and empty takeout containers. The laundry hamper in the hallway is overflowing onto the floor.
“Mom?” I call out.
“In here,” comes a weak voice from the bedroom.
I find her exactly where I expected to. She’s in bed, wearing the same pajamas she was wearing when I left for Seattle, staring at the TV like a zombie. It feels like my heart is cracking. This isn’t living. This is how she’s spending her second chance.
“Hey, mama,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” she says, placing a hand on mine.
I ask, “Did you eat today?”
“Dad brought me cereal this morning.”
“That’s good,” I say, even though all I can think about is how cereal is the last thing he should have brought her.
“How was your trip?” she asks.
“Good. Fine. Just work stuff.”
She nods but doesn’t ask for details, which is probably for the best because I’m not sure how I’d explain fake-dating my best friend’s brother for money.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“Work. Double shift this week.”
“Okay. I’m going to clean up a little. Maybe make some dinner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I pat her hand and leave the room.
I spend the next three hours attacking the house like I’m being paid to do it. Dishes, laundry, bathroom, kitchen counters that haven’t seen cleaning supplies in what looks like months.
It’s therapeutic in a way. Mindless work that keeps me from thinking about Seattle or West or the way my chest feels tight every time I remember the way he said he didn’t want me to leave.
When I’m done, I drive to Ralph’s and spend $200 of West’s money on groceries for my parents. Fresh vegetables, actual protein, the kind of food that might convince my mom to eat something other than cereal.
Standing in the checkout line, I feel weird about it. Guilty, like I’m cashing in on something I didn’t earn.
Because what did I do, really? Showed up, wore a dress, smiled at his friends, danced at a wedding. That’s not work. That’s not worth five hundred dollars.
We even kissed three years ago. I’ve had a crush on him forever, and it doesn’t feel fair to take his money. Maybe I shouldn’t, but then I couldn’t afford these groceries.
Being paid by him doesn’t feel like a job I should be getting paid for.
Which is exactly the problem.
Because if it was just a job, I wouldn’t feel guilty about the money. I wouldn’t be replaying every conversation we had or wondering what he meant when he said I was perfect.
I wouldn’t be checking my phone every five minutes to see if he’s texted me.
Which he hasn’t.
Not since I told him that my flight landed.
That was four days ago. Radio silence since then.
Which is fine. Expected, even. We’re not actually dating. There’s no reason for him to text me random updates about his day or funny memes he found online.
But I keep checking anyway.
The next week falls into a rhythm that’s both familiar and somehow wrong.
I babysit Charlie and Emma three days in a row while Tessa handles some work crisis.
I apply for freelance gigs during naptime and playtime, sending out pitches that will probably get rejected by people who think AI can do my job better than I can.
“Are you crying?” Charlie asks on Thursday while I’m helping her build a princess Lego castle.
I smile, shaking my head. “I’m not sad, honey.”
“Don’t cry,” she says. “It’s okay.”
I smile at her sweet baby face. “I’m just thinking.”
Friday morning, I’m sitting at Tessa’s kitchen table with my laptop, halfheartedly responding to an email about a potential writing gig, when my phone buzzes.
For a second, my heart jumps, thinking it might be West.
It’s not. It’s a notification from Instagram.
But when I open it, it’s a photo that makes my chest tighten.
West posted a picture from the wedding. It’s the two of us on the dance floor, his arm around my waist, both of us laughing at something. We look happy. Like a real couple.
Like people who are actually in love.
The caption just says: Good times with good people.
I stare at the photo for way too long, zooming in on our faces, trying to remember what we were laughing about.
Then I notice the comments.
Reed: Told you she was a keeper.
Chelsea: You two are adorable!
Hurley: When’s the wedding?
Someone from high school: No way! So cute! Couple goals
I close Instagram and set my phone face down on the table, feeling something that might be panic or longing or just plain confusion.
“You okay?” Tessa asks, looking up from where she’s changing Emma’s diaper.
“Yeah. Fine.”
She fights Emma to put her diaper on. “You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just work stuff.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Nope. All good.”
But I’m not all good. I’m sitting in my best friend’s kitchen, staring at a photo of myself with her brother, and I can’t stop thinking about the way his hand felt on my back or the sound of his laugh or the fact that he hasn’t texted me in five days.
Which shouldn’t matter.
But does.
A lot.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
14
I’m on my third set of deadlifts when Colton walks into the team gym and stops dead in his tracks.
“Jesus, West. What did those weights do to you?”
“Nothing,” I grunt, lowering the bar with more force than necessary.
“You’ve been here since seven AM. It’s nine-thirty.”
“So?”
“So normal human beings don’t spend hours in the gym unless they’re training for the Olympics or running from something.”
“I’m not running from anything.”
“You’re not?” he questions, settling onto the bench next to me, clearly planning to stick around until I crack.
“How’s the girlfriend?” he asks, because Colton has never met a topic he couldn’t make awkward.
“She’s fine.”
“Fine? That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Something more than ‘fine.’ You guys looked pretty good at the wedding.”
“We are good.”
“When’s she coming back to visit?”
“July,” I answer.
“That’s like three weeks away.”
“Two and a half.”
He laughs. “But who’s counting, right?”
I give him a look that would freeze water, but Colton’s apparently immune to death glares.
“I’m just saying, if I had a girlfriend who looked at me the way Liv looks at you, I wouldn’t be able to go three weeks without seeing her.”
“We’re both busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“Life.”
“Okay. You know what I think?”
“I really don’t want to know what you think.”
“Don’t wait three weeks, man. Visit her.” He pats my shoulder. “Get the hell out of the gym before I drag you out of here.”
By Thursday, I’m losing my mind.
I’ve worked out every day this week like I’m training for the Stanley Cup finals. I’ve reorganized my entire house twice. I’ve answered emails that don’t need answering and scheduled meetings that don’t need scheduling.
I’ve done everything except the one thing I actually want to do, which is text Liv and ask her how her week is going.
Because that would be weird. We’re not actually dating. There’s no reason for me to check in on her daily life or care about whether she’s happy or if she’s thinking about me even a fraction as much as I’m thinking about her.
But I want to know anyway.
So I do something that’s probably even weirder than texting her directly.
I call my sister.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Tessa answers on the second ring.
“Can’t I just call to say hi?” I say.
“You could, but you never do. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just checking in.”
“Uh-huh. How are you doing?”
“Yeah, fine. Great. Really good.”
“That’s a lot of adjectives for someone who’s fine.”
“I’m fine.” I chuckle.
“You said that already.”
“Because it’s true.”
“If you say so. What’s really going on?”
I walk to my kitchen window and stare out at the backyard, trying to figure out how to ask what I want to ask without sounding pathetic.
“How’s Liv?” I say finally.
“Liv?” she teases.
“Yeah. Is she good? Back to normal? Not traumatized by the weekend?”
“She seems fine,” my sister mutters. “Why?”
“Just wondering. Making sure the whole fake dating thing didn’t mess with her head.”
“As far as I know, she’s fine. Back to her regular routine. Babysitting, applying for jobs, taking care of her parents, who by the way literally do nothing for themselves, West, she goes there every other day and it’s just a wreck, but that’s the usual.”
My heart squeezes thinking about her taking care of her parents. I can’t ask her to move to Seattle. She’d have to leave behind her parents. I let the thought leave my head when I hear Tessa say something to Charlie. I say, “Good. That’s good.”
Tessa adds, “She hasn’t mentioned you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. “I wasn’t asking that.”
“You weren’t?” she says, but I hear the hint of sarcasm in her tone.
I shake my head. “No.”
“West.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay? You sound weird.”
“I’m not weird. I’m fine.”
“There’s that word again.”
“Tessa, I am fine.”
“If you say so.”
We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important, and when I hang up, I feel worse than I did before I called.
She hasn’t mentioned me.
Not once, apparently, in the week since she left.
Which is exactly what I should want. It means the whole thing was professional for her. Clean. No messy feelings or complications.
It means she’s moved on with her life like the weekend never happened.
So why does that bother me so much?
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way she looked when she was dancing in my living room Sunday night. The way she fit against me when we fell asleep on the couch. The way she said my name when she was half-asleep and happy.
I’ve been sleeping like shit all week. Every night, I dream about her laughing in my kitchen, making coffee in the morning, curled up on my couch reading a book.
Dreams where she lives here. Where it’s real. Where I don’t have to pretend I’m okay with her being gone.
I get up and walk past her room, stopping outside the closed door like I have every night this week.
I could open it. Strip the bed, put away the toiletries, pretend she was never here.
Instead, I keep walking.
Because opening that door feels like admitting it’s over, and I’m not ready to admit that yet.
Even though it was never really started.
I wanted fake. I paid for it. I got exactly what I asked for. A beautiful woman who played the part of my girlfriend perfectly and then went home and forgot about me.