21
The venue is exactly what I pictured when West said “upscale coastal wedding.”
Perched on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, all weathered wood and glass windows that frame the ocean like living artwork.
There are white chairs arranged in neat rows on the lawn, an archway of eucalyptus and white roses facing the water, and string lights already twinkling even though it’s only four in the afternoon.
It’s the kind of place where people spend more money than I make in six months to have the perfect wedding.
“Jesus,” West mutters under his breath as we walk up from the parking area. “This is fancier than I knew it would be.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s intimidating.”
“You’re intimidating. You’re six-foot-three and built like you could bench press a small car. These are just people in fancy clothes.”
“People in fancy clothes who knew me when I thought beer pong was a sport.”
“Beer pong is a sport.”
“See? This is why I brought you. You get it.”
We smile at each other.
Then I straighten his tie even though it doesn’t need straightening, just because it feels like something a girlfriend would do.
“You look handsome,” I tell him. “Very handsome. Like the kind of man who’s evolved past beer pong.”
“Have I though?”
“Definitely. Now you’re into sophisticated activities like... what do professional hockey players do for fun?”
“Golf. Fishing. Expensive dinners.”
“See? Very mature.”
He laughs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He’s always had a problem with anxiety, and I’m only now realizing how much it truly affects him. Maybe that’s why he needed a fake girlfriend so bad. Someone to show up with, be a buffer, and help with his anxiety.
“Come on,” I say, linking my arm through his. “Let’s go charm your college friends.”
The thing about being someone’s fake girlfriend at a wedding where you don’t know anyone is that you have to stay in character constantly. There’s no break, no moment to drop the act and just be yourself.
Which means I spend the entire cocktail hour attached to West’s side, smiling and nodding and playing the role of supportive girlfriend while he reconnects with people he hasn’t seen in years.
“West! Holy shit, man, how long has it been?”
“Dude, you look exactly the same. Still huge.”
“I saw you on SportsCenter last month. That goal against Calgary was insane.”
Everyone wants to talk to West, which makes sense. He’s the one who made it. The one who turned college hockey into a professional career while everyone else became lawyers and accountants and whatever else people do with their lives.
I stay close, listening to stories about fraternity parties and road trips and inside jokes I’ll never understand, and I watch West navigate it all with an ease that surprises me.
He’s not the nervous person from the car ride anymore. He’s charming and funny and completely in control, and I can see glimpses of who he must have been in college. Confident, popular, the kind of guy everyone wanted to be friends with.
“And this must be the famous girlfriend,” someone says, and I realize they’re talking about me.
“Liv,” West says, his hand finding the small of my back. “Liv, this is Jamie. We lived in the same dorm sophomore year.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand.
“Nice to meet you too. West’s been holding out on us.”
“He’s very modest,” I say, glancing at West. “Doesn’t like to brag.”
“That’s new,” Jamie says with a grin. “College West was not modest about anything.”
“People change,” West says, and something in his voice makes me look at him more carefully.
“They do,” I agree. “Usually for the better.”
The ceremony starts at four-thirty, and we find seats toward the back of the guest area. West insisted on sitting in the back, something about not wanting to be too visible in the pictures of the photographer.
As we settle into our chairs and the music starts, I can feel him relax next to me.
The bride is stunning in that effortless way that only seems to happen at beach weddings. Flowing dress, hair loose and natural, barefoot in the sand. The groom, Jamie, looks like he might cry the moment he sees her walking down the aisle.
“They look happy,” I whisper to West.
“Yeah. They do.”
The officiant is saying something about love being a choice you make every day, about commitment being more than just feelings, and I’m trying to pay attention when I feel West’s hand slip into mine.
Not dramatically. Not like he’s making a statement.
Just quietly, naturally, like it’s something he does without thinking.
I stiffen slightly, not because I don’t want him to hold my hand, but because the gesture feels automatic. Real. Like we are a couple who reaches for each other during emotional moments.
But then his thumb traces over my knuckles, and I relax into it.
Because it feels good. Because his hand is warm and steady and familiar now.
The bride and groom are exchanging vows now. Personal ones they wrote themselves, and I can hear people around us sniffling.
I glance at West and realize he’s not really watching the couple.
He’s staring out at the ocean, but there’s something distant in his expression. Like he’s thinking about something else entirely.
Like he’s feeling everything.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He turns to look at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Just... they seem really sure.”
“Sure about what?” I ask.
“About this. About each other. About forever.”
“They do.”
“Must be nice. Being that sure about someone.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me study his face more carefully, but before I can figure out what he means, the couple is kissing, and everyone is cheering, and the moment passes.
The reception is held on a terrace overlooking the water, with round tables draped in white linens and centerpieces of white flowers and greenery. It’s elegant and romantic and exactly the kind of wedding that makes you believe in love.
West and I are seated at a table with some of his other college friends and their dates, and I immediately slip back into girlfriend mode.
I laugh at the right moments, ask interested questions about people’s jobs and lives, and make sure to touch West’s arm or shoulder occasionally like someone who’s comfortable with casual intimacy.
“So, Liv,” says a woman named Giselle who’s sitting across from us. “What do you do?”
“I’m a freelance writer. Mostly lifestyle and entertainment content.”
“That’s so cool. Do you write anything I might have read?”
“Probably not but thank you for asking.”
“How did you and West meet?” she asks.
I glance at West, and he nods slightly, a signal that I should take this one.
“Through his sister, actually. Tessa and I are best friends.”
“Oh, that’s sweet. So you’ve known each other for a while?”
“Years. But we only started dating recently.”
“What took you so long?” asks a guy named Harry, grinning at West. “Was she out of your league?”
“Completely out of my league,” West says without hesitation. “Still is.”
“So what changed?” Giselle asks. “What made you finally make a move?”
I feel West tense next to me, and I realize we’re venturing into territory we haven’t prepared for.
“I wore him down,” I say with a laugh. “Persistence and excellent cooking.”
“She makes the best pasta I’ve ever had,” West adds, which is funny because I’ve never cooked pasta for him.
“That’ll do it,” says another guy. “Food is the way to a man’s heart.”
“Among other things,” says West, and something in his tone makes me look at him.
The conversation moves on to other topics like Jamie’s law practice, someone’s recent promotion, the logistics of planning a wedding during tourist season, but I’m only half listening.
I’m too aware of West next to me. The way he keeps his hand on my knee under the table. The way he leans in when I talk like he doesn’t want to miss a word.
The way he says “my girlfriend” when he introduces me to people, like the words feel natural in his mouth. I can tell he’s more on edge at this wedding because he holds my hand tightly, and I’m not sure what he’s so nervous about.
“So how long have you two been together?” asks a guy named Tom who just joined our table.
I open my mouth to give our practiced answer—four months, just like we agreed—but West speaks first.
“Feels like forever,” he says, looking directly at me. “But not long enough.”
My stomach does a complete flip at those words. Because that’s not our story. That’s not what we practiced.
I smile at him and rub his cheek.
“Aww,” says Giselle. “That’s so sweet.”
“You guys are adorable,” adds Tom’s date.
I smile and nod and try to look like someone who’s used to her boyfriend saying romantic things about their relationship.
But inside, I’m reeling.
Because the way West said it, the way he looked at me when he said it, didn’t feel like acting.
It felt real.
And I know I said I don’t want to complicate things, but boy, am I tempted to throw that out the window.