Seven
Gavin
We’re seated on the rooftop terrace and Mia is squinting at me from across the candlelit table. It could be that she forgot
to put in her contacts, but I have the sinking feeling it’s professional curiosity, which in her case means analyzing people’s
motivations.
My reasons for going along with this scheme aren’t as altruistic as I made them out to be. This might be my only chance to
find out if we could ever be more than friends. But things are already slipping off course. Instead of the romantic dinner
I envisioned, I showed up to find Mia in a stained T-shirt, armed with a binder full of ways for us to avoid falling in love.
Seems like overkill, but then again, she has every right to guard her heart. I just wish she didn’t put me on the list of
people who might break it. I’m not sold on the idea that experimenting with romance tropes makes more sense than fake dates,
but hopefully I’ll be able to think more clearly once I’ve eaten something.
Hunger aside, Mia’s scrutiny is making me feel queasy. Resisting the urge to unbutton my collar, I ask, “Everything okay?”
Her eyes rake over me, like she’s taking in my gelled hair and dressed-up appearance.
“Just wondering what entity body-snatched my friend,” she says.
For a split second I wonder if the romantic setting and sunset have worked transformational magic and erased the best-friend filter from over my face.
But then she adds, “You made a reservation.”
“It was supposed to be a date.” Fake or not, I wanted tonight to be special.
“It’s just surprising.” She shakes out the cloth napkin and lays it on her lap. “You never make reservations when we go out.”
“Because it’s not like that between us.”
“Like what?”
I let out an exasperated huff. “You know what.”
How can she be surprised that I act differently around women I’m dating? Then again, I guess there’s a difference between
knowing and experiencing, because damn, when she came out of her room earlier, all long, bare legs and bouncy curls, it was
impossible not to want her to be mine.
Years of knowing she was off-limits should’ve cured me, but all it took was one moment of experiencing what things could be
like if we were together to make me crave more.
She sits back, putting distance between us. “It was thoughtful, that’s all. Thank you.”
Before I can reply, the server walks up with a basket of breadsticks and scoots the binder aside to make room. Eyeing the
glittery stickers on the cover, she says, “Big test tomorrow?”
“You could say that.” Tonight feels like a test of its own, a pop quiz I wasn’t prepared for.
The server must be thinking of her tip because she doesn’t ask any more questions, just recites the seasonal menu. When she’s
gone, Mia says, “We don’t have to go over this right now.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and the silvery strands of her
long earrings catch the light, guiding my eye along the curve of her neck. “We could just have, like, a normal conversation.”
“Pretty sure we’ve never had one of those.” I grin. “Hit me with your best alphabetized mayhem.” Grabbing a breadstick, I
flip open the binder.
“Be careful,” she says. “I don’t want crumbs on the pages.”
“On second thought...” I pluck the wine list off the table and pass it over. “Pick a wine first. I have a feeling I’m going
to need alcohol to get through this.”
“Now look who’s supporting drinking while studying,” she says in a gotcha tone. Mia once brought champagne to a study session in college, and I haven’t let her live it down. Clearly, she’s been primed
for a chance to get back at me.
“Last I checked, this isn’t finals week.” A bunch of us met up at our friend’s apartment to study. Most of us were supposed
to bring snacks, but Mia was a barista at the time, so she got put in charge of drinks. Pretty sure everyone assumed she’d
bring leftover brewed coffee from the early shift.
She sets down the menu, rattling the cutlery. “That wasn’t my fault, and you know it. Delia called it a study ‘party’ and
asked me to bring drinks. I brought drinks.”
“Alcoholic ones.” I can’t hold back a chuckle at the memory of her pulling champagne bottles out of her backpack. “We met
up at ten a.m. to study and you brought booze.”
“Stuff to make mimosas,” she says, as if that makes it better. “That’s a perfectly reasonable brunch beverage.”
The fact that she still gets riled up over something that happened years ago is pretty cute. “I did ace my soil science final.”
With a groan, she lifts the menu again, hiding the smile I saw slip onto her face. While she looks over the selection, I flip
through the pages explaining different tropes. Some are familiar from attending her bookstore events and watching her interviews,
but a lot of them are new.
One trope in particular catches my eye. “Cinnamon roll hero?” Referring to characters as pastries isn’t really that out landish compared to some stuff I’ve heard discussed at her panels over the years. “Not to be confused with the closely related glazed doughnut hero.”
“You joke,” she says. “But I could totally see that term taking off.”
I’m almost afraid to ask. “What would that even mean?”
“Well, a cinnamon roll hero is the opposite of an alpha male. He’s sweet and thoughtful, totally gooey.”
Thinking aloud, I say, “Glazed doughnuts are deep-fried and decadent. Would a hero like that shower his love interest with
gifts and romantic gestures?”
She frowns thoughtfully, then shakes her head. “Glazed doughnuts are indulgent, don’t get me wrong. But they’re not over-the-top.
They don’t have tons of frills like sprinkles and filling, but they’re reliable. You can always count on them for a sweet
pick-me-up. A glazed doughnut is never going to let you down.”
Her eyes soften as she says this, and I catch a glimpse of the same expression I saw for a moment back at her condo. Something
new in the way she looks at me.
But then her phone dings loudly from her purse. She pulls it out and frowns at the screen. “Shoot. I keep forgetting to confirm
which panels I’m speaking on for the book convention next month. Do you mind if I answer this email real quick?”
Neither of us ever bothers with the no-phones-at-dinner etiquette, but maybe it’s because I put effort into making tonight
out of the ordinary that answering a work email right now feels like she’s purposely trying to lessen the impact of the candlelit
atmosphere and rooftop view.
While I wait for her to finish, I check my phone.
There’s a voicemail from my dad, and for a moment, I fear the worst. The morning after trivia night, Scott’s texts pressuring me to visit the farmhouse got in my head and I called Dad to check in, but he didn’t answer.
But the voicemail is just him apologizing for being out of cell range on the back acreage and letting me know everyone’s doing well.
I’m about to put away my phone when the screen lights up with a call from my friend Joe. In my rush to reject it, I accidentally
answer. “Hey,” I say quietly. “Can’t talk right now.”
Mia glances up and I mouth the word Sorry , but she waves a hand, distracted.
Meanwhile, Joe says, “Our softball team needs another player for tonight’s game. You in?”
“Nah, not this time.” Half the people on his rec league have kids and can’t make it to every game, so I fill in when I have
the time.
“I can pick you up. What else you got going on?” His voice is loud amid the hushed conversation around us, and I lower the
volume, cupping my hand over the phone.
“I’m on a date, man.” A flicker of movement catches my eye, and I look over to find Mia frantically shaking her head, eyes
wide. Oh shit.
Joe pounces on my accidental confession. “A date? With who?”
Pulling at my collar, I say, “Not that kind of a date.” True, at least. “I’m just hanging out with—” A kick to my shin cuts
me off short. Not hard but strong enough to make me realize mentioning Mia would raise all sorts of questions.
“Are you making up excuses because you’re still mad we put you in right field last game?” Joe asks.
“That wasn’t cool,” I say, momentarily distracted. “I’m the best fielder that team has and you know it.” Out of the corner
of my eye, I catch Mia’s death glare and cut the argument short. “Give me a call next time you need an extra player and I’ll
prove it.”
“Okay, but I expect to hear all about your date when I see you next.”
“Not a date.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Then I want to hear about this woman you’re keeping things casual with,” he says. “Don’t make me have Sera ask Mia. You know she’ll get it out of her.”
Shit. That would ruin everything. “Sera has enough on her mind.” She’s been putting in a lot of hours in preparation for taking
time off when the baby comes.
“Exactly. She needs a distraction from the stress of getting ready for the little one. She’d jump at the chance.”
The threat fills me with dread. I finally manage to get him off the phone with promises to explain at the Brewers baseball
game this weekend. I’m nervous to see what Mia will say, but she just shakes her head.
“See? That’s why a date was a bad idea,” she says. “Pretending to be a couple would get us in trouble.” She must not have
heard Joe’s threat to get Sera involved, or she wouldn’t be so chill. “Hence, the binder.” She hoists it up with a ta-da smile, and I can’t help but grin back.
“Are you sure trope tests will be any better?” I thought Mia was exaggerating the risks, but after that phone call, I see
her point. I’ve never had to hide anything from Joe, but if it’s a question of telling him the truth or protecting Mia, there’s
no contest.
“Yes, because the situations aren’t inherently romantic.” She scrunches up her nose. “Not all of them at least. Anyway, we
have rules. We won’t be acting like a couple out in public, or fooling our friends and family.”
Mia and her rules. “And if you change your mind, you’ll tell me.” I’m not asking, but she answers anyway.
“Always.”
I blow out a shaky breath. “So we’re doing it. Until you’re ready to call it quits.”
“Or you are.” She issues it like a challenge, but if she thinks I’m scared of intimacy with her, she’s very much mistaken.
The appetizers arrive and we both dig in like we’re grateful for the chance to not talk for a moment. Once the food has hit my bloodstream, I hail a passing server. “Excuse me. Do you have a pen we could borrow?”
With a skeptical glance between me and Mia—dressed up, with emptied wineglasses—and the binder, he shrugs and hands me one
from his apron. Uncapping it, I flip to the list of tropes. “You’re the expert. What trope should we start with?”
“I was thinking workplace romance.”
“You want to come spend a day with me at Hill and Dale?” That actually sounds fun, and I’m sure the owners would go along
with it. “We could tell Faye that you’re shadowing me for book research.”
“Ha, no. It’s supposed to be ninety degrees this week.” Mia’s preferred summer involves moving from air-conditioning to the
pool, not working in the hot sun, which is why I know she must’ve been at her wit’s end to help me pull up paving stones.
“I was thinking you could bring your landscaping design work to my place,” she says.
“You write when I’m around a lot. How would this be any different?” I point to the trope definition and read aloud. “‘Concern
that a breakup would make the workplace awkward.’ You work alone, so if we metaphorically broke up, no harm done.”
She jumps in. “At the core, an office romance is simply about characters who work together falling in love.”
“Which we aren’t going to do.” I raise my brows, daring her to object, and when she doesn’t, my heart falls, even though I
should know better by now. “So I think we need to raise the stakes a little.” She was adamant that a romantic evening wouldn’t
change how we saw each other. How is working side by side in her home office any different?
“Can we at least try it my way first?” There’s a note of desperation in her voice and I get the feeling that even though she
seemed confident about the plan, she doesn’t trust it enough to let go.
But she’s supposed to be getting some distance from her work and this would be the exact opposite. I glance down at the page, looking for a way to change her mind.
I read the next bullet point: “‘Possibility for coworkers to discover the relationship.’ No coworkers at your condo, unless
you count Frank.” The plant I gave her the night we met not only survived but has grown to towering proportions. She often
jokes Frank’s size is the reason she chose a loft. “And let’s face it, he wouldn’t take his chaperoning duties seriously because
he knows you’d never fall for me.”
“Give yourself some credit,” she says, index finger tracing a slow circle around the rim of her wineglass. “You think it’s
never crossed my mind since we made that pact?”
Maybe it’s the wine on a mostly empty stomach, but I can’t let that slip by. “That’s news to me.” When? And why didn’t she
make a move?
“There’s one thing all my exes have in common,” she says, in what feels like a total change of subject. But her next words
make it clear. “We’re not in each other’s lives at all.”
It’s true, for her. All of her ex-boyfriends have disappeared from her life, or she from theirs. But I went to my first girlfriend’s
wedding last year. And I’ve stayed in touch with my college girlfriend, the one I broke up with a few months before I met
Mia. She’s a doctor now, out in Maryland. I dated one of the bartenders I met at trivia night for a few months, and we chat
whenever we run into each other. We’re not the best of friends, but we’re not strangers, either.
Mia speaks again, cutting short my thoughts.
“Friendships last. But relationships...” She pauses.
Maybe the alcohol has loosened her tongue, too, or maybe this fake date is changing how we see each other, after all.
“With relationships, who knows? Could be the best thing that ever happened to you or your biggest regret.” She meets my gaze, dark eyes serious, like she needs me to understand.
“When it comes to you, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. ”
I get it. Love isn’t a sure thing. We’ve both seen it crumble and break. But the one thing I am sure of is Mia. If she wants
to stick with the routine but pretend things have changed, then I’ll enter that fantasy with her.