Chapter 8
EIGHT
Max
The text arrives while I'm still in bed, staring at the empty space where Lena should be.
Brunch with friends at Violet, 11am. Wear something nice. These people matter.
No mention of last night. No acknowledgment that she slipped out while I was sleeping, taking my favorite Radiohead shirt as a souvenir. Just orders, like I'm an employee being summoned for a performance review. My fingers hover over the screen, tempted to type "Still playing the part, then?" Instead, I send back a thumbs up emoji. Noncommittal. Like I'm not lying here breathing in the lingering scent of her on my sheets, wondering why I'm disappointed by her disappearing act when this whole relationship is built on disappearing when the cameras stop rolling.
I drag myself to the shower, letting the water beat against my shoulders where her hands had been just hours ago. Our text exchange after she left was light, deliberately devoid of meaning—me making jokes about my stolen shirt, her deflecting with humor. It's what we do. Keep things surface-level, ignore the depths we stumbled into last night.
Last night. Christ. I didn't expect the rain to wash away all our carefully constructed boundaries. Didn't expect Lena—controlled, camera-ready Lena—to come apart in my arms, to whisper my name like it was something sacred. And I definitely didn't expect to wake alone, the only evidence she was ever here being the dent in my pillow and the lingering scent of her perfume.
I dress with unusual care, settling on dark jeans and a button-down that Ryan once told me "makes you look like you might actually have your shit together." The image in the mirror looks like me but feels like a stranger—a guy preparing to meet his girlfriend's friends, like this is all real instead of an elaborate charade that's spinning increasingly out of control.
Violet is exactly the kind of place that would never appear in my regular rotation—all exposed brick and hanging plants, with a line of people waiting for tables that probably cost more than my electric bill. I spot Lena immediately, holding court at a corner table with three other women who look like they've stepped out of a lifestyle magazine spread. Her back is to me, but I'd know the elegant line of her shoulders anywhere.
As I approach, I catch fragments of conversation—something about a collaboration with a skincare brand, follower engagement rates, a photographer who didn't capture someone's "good side." Then Lena laughs, that practiced sound I've come to distinguish from her real laugh—the one that's slightly too loud, slightly too uncontrolled, the one I heard when I spilled gravy at her parents' house. The one I heard between kisses last night.
She spots me and waves, her smile perfect and utterly unreadable. "Max! We were just talking about you."
"All good things, I hope." The words come out on autopilot as I slide into the empty chair beside her.
"Of course." She leans in for a quick kiss on the cheek, a performance for her audience. Her perfume hits me like a physical blow, memories of last night flashing unbidden—her back against my wall, her breath hot against my ear.
"Everyone, this is Max." She gestures around the table. "Max, meet the squad. Sophia runs the lifestyle blog I've collaborated with. Zara is a fashion photographer who's shot half my brand deals. And Mia is my oldest friend from college, now working in PR."
Three identical smiles, three assessing gazes. I feel like I'm being scanned for defects.
"The mysterious boyfriend," Sophia says, stirring her mimosa. "We were beginning to think Lena made you up."
"I'm very real," I reply. "Mostly."
"He's joking," Lena interjects quickly. "Max tends to deflect with humor."
"A character flaw," I agree, reaching for the water glass in front of me. "Along with my inability to appreciate kombucha and my controversial stance on pineapple on pizza."
Zara laughs, seemingly genuinely. "Oh, I like him. He's nothing like?—"
"How's the avocado toast here?" Lena cuts in smoothly. "I'm starving."
I don't miss the warning glance she shoots Zara, who immediately changes course.
"Divine. Instagram-worthy for sure."
And just like that, the conversation shifts to safe territory—food, venues, upcoming events. I watch Lena in her element, navigating social dynamics with practiced ease. This version of her is all polished edges and calculated charm, a stark contrast to the woman who came undone in my bed last night, who let her carefully constructed walls crumble.
The server arrives to take our order. Lena orders for both of us without consulting me—avocado toast for her, huevos rancheros for me. It's exactly what I would have chosen, which is both impressive and vaguely unsettling.
"So, Max," Mia leans forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity, "how did you tame our Lena? She's been adamantly single since the Cameron disaster."
I feel Lena tense beside me. "I wouldn't say I 'tamed' anyone," I reply carefully. "We just…connected."
"Over cocktails," Lena adds, her hand finding mine on the table—a practiced move we've done dozens of times. "Max made me something special that wasn't on the menu."
"I bet he did," Zara murmurs with a suggestive smirk.
Lena's laugh is too bright, too sharp. "Nothing like that. We took things slow."
The lie sits heavy between us. There was nothing slow about last night—the desperate kisses, the frantic removal of clothes, the whispered confessions in the dark.
"Well, you two look perfect together," Sophia declares, lifting her phone. "Mind if I snap a quick pic for the 'gram? The lighting is fantastic."
Before I can respond, Lena is shifting closer, her smile camera-ready. "Of course not."
I paste on what I hope is a convincing smile, arm sliding around Lena's shoulders with practiced ease. The pose feels hollow now, a mockery of the way I held her last night.
"Perfect," Sophia declares after several shots. "You guys are seriously #relationshipgoals."
"We try," Lena's voice is light, professional. She turns to me, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Don't we, babe?"
The endearment grates. She never calls me 'babe' when it's just us. It's always 'Max,' whispered like she's testing the feel of it on her tongue.
"Always," I manage.
The food arrives, momentarily saving me from further performance. I focus on my plate, letting the conversation flow around me—gossip about people I don't know, discussions of brand collaborations and sponsored content. Lena participates enthusiastically, occasionally touching my arm or smiling in my direction to maintain the illusion that I'm included.
"So how's the boyfriend experience treating you, Lena?" Zara asks, finishing her second mimosa. "Better than flying solo?"
"Definitely has its perks," Lena replies with a practiced laugh. "Though I had forgotten how much work relationships are."
Work. Like I'm a project. A task to be managed.
"Worth it though, right?" Mia prompts, glancing between us.
Lena's hand finds mine again on the table. "Of course. Max is great at playing the part."
Playing the part. The words land like a slap. Is that what last night was to her? Another performance?
"I think I'm getting better at it," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Practice makes perfect."
Lena's fingers tighten around mine in warning. "Max has been a wonderful sport about all the public appearances."
"I bet the perks are worth it," Sophia says with a knowing smile. "Dating an influencer must have some serious benefits."
"Oh, absolutely," I reply, my patience fraying. "Free meals at restaurants that photograph well. Expert direction on how to stand so I don't ruin her Instagram aesthetic. Detailed instructions on appropriate clothing choices."
Lena's friends laugh, oblivious to the tension radiating from both of us.
"He's so funny," Lena says, her smile strained. "Always joking."
"Not always," I counter, meeting her eyes directly. "Sometimes I'm completely serious. Like last night, for example."
The color drains from her face, quickly replaced by a flush. "Max?—"
"Last night?" Zara perks up, scenting gossip. "What happened last night?"
Lena jumps in before I can respond. "Nothing special. Just got caught in the rain after the gallery opening. Had to wait it out."
"At my place," I add. "Where Lena discovered I make an excellent cup of tea."
"Among other talents," I murmur, just loud enough for Lena to hear.
She shoots me a look that could freeze hell. "Max is very…multifaceted."
"I'm learning to be a good boyfriend," I say, voice deliberately light. "Though according to Lena, I still have a ways to go. Isn't that right, honey?"
Her smile is fixed now, eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and panic. "You're doing fine."
"Just fine? After all my hard work?" I place a hand over my heart in mock offense. "I'm wounded."
The tension at the table is palpable now, Lena's friends exchanging uncertain glances.
"You guys are so cute," Mia says, clearly trying to defuse whatever is happening. "How long has it been now? A month?"
"Just about," Lena confirms. "It's still…new."
"New but promising," Sophia suggests.
Lena hesitates, just a fraction too long. "It's been…an adventure."
Something inside me snaps. An adventure. Like I'm a tourist destination she's sampling before moving on to the next trendy spot.
"It's certainly been educational," I say, leaning back in my chair. "I've learned a lot about the influencer world. Apparently, everything's content—even relationships."
Lena's eyes widen in warning. "Max?—"
"But Lena's been very patient with me," I continue, unable to stop myself. "Teaching me how to be the perfect boyfriend for her audience. I still struggle with looking natural in photos, but I've mastered the art of the candid fake laugh."
Her friends are watching us like it's a tennis match, confusion evident in their expressions.
"He's joking," Lena says quickly. "Max has an unusual sense of humor."
"No, I'm serious," I counter. "I'm probably the worst fake boyfriend in history. Can't even remember to compliment her Instagram posts without being reminded."
The word "fake" hangs in the air like a bomb. Lena's friends freeze, forks halfway to mouths, expressions cycling through confusion to dawning comprehension.
"Fake?" Sophia repeats cautiously.
"Figure of speech," Lena says, her voice tight. "He means he's still learning the ropes of social media boyfriend etiquette."
"Exactly," I agree, suddenly exhausted by all of it. "Still figuring out the script."
An uncomfortable silence descends. I can feel Lena vibrating with tension beside me, can practically hear her mind racing to do damage control.
"Well, I think you're doing a wonderful job," Mia finally says, though her smile has turned uncertain. "You guys seem really…compatible."
Lena's phone pings with a notification, and she grabs it like a lifeline. "Oh! It's Tori. Something about the charity gala on Friday." She frowns at the screen. "I should call her back. Excuse me for a minute?"
She stands, not waiting for a response, and strides toward the restaurant entrance, phone already at her ear. The moment she's out of earshot, her friends turn to me.
"Is everything okay with you two?" Zara asks bluntly.
"Perfect," I say, draining my water glass. "Just navigating the learning curve."
"You seem upset," Sophia observes.
I shrug. "Just tired. Long night."
"Because of the rain?" Mia asks innocently.
"Something like that."
They exchange glances loaded with unspoken communication. I focus on my half-eaten breakfast, wishing I could disappear.
Lena returns, tucking her phone into her purse. "Sorry about that. Work emergency." She sits, smoothing her dress with practiced calm. "What did I miss?"
"Nothing important," Zara says. "Just getting to know Max better."
Lena's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Wonderful. He's quite a character, isn't he?"
"Apparently," Sophia agrees, watching us both with newfound interest.
The remainder of brunch passes in excruciating politeness, the earlier warmth gone. I say little, offering one-word responses when directly addressed. Lena works overtime to compensate, her charm dialed up to maximum brightness, but I can see the strain around her eyes.
When the check arrives, I reach for it automatically, but Lena is faster.
"My treat," she says, sliding her card into the leather folder. "For dragging you out on a Sunday morning."
"How generous," I reply, the words more bitter than intended.
Her friends don't linger after paying, making excuses about appointments and deadlines. Their goodbyes are warm to Lena, polite but reserved to me. I wonder what they're thinking—if they caught the undercurrents, if they suspect the truth.
When they're gone, Lena turns to me, fury burning beneath her composed expression.
"What the hell was that?" she hisses, keeping her voice low.
"What was what?" I stand, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here. "Me playing my part?"
"You know exactly what I mean. The 'fake boyfriend' comment? Are you trying to blow everything up?"
"Would it matter if I did?" I challenge. "It's just business, right? Just content."
Her expression falters, something like hurt flashing in her eyes before she masks it. "We have an arrangement, Max. A contract."
"Right. The contract." I step back, hands raised in surrender. "My mistake for forgetting the terms and conditions last night."
She flinches. "That's not fair."
"None of this is fair, Lena." I run a hand through my hair, frustration boiling over. "You can't have it both ways. You can't climb into my bed, tell me I make you feel things no one else has, then sit here with your friends and act like I'm just a convenient prop in your social media strategy."
"I never said?—"
"You didn't have to." I grab my jacket from the back of the chair. "It was pretty clear when you snuck out this morning without so much as a goodbye."
Her cheeks flush. "I had work to deal with."
"So did I. It's called being honest about what the hell is happening between us."
We stare at each other, the air between us charged with everything we're not saying. Finally, I break first.
"I'll see you at the charity gala on Friday," I say, already turning to leave. "I'll be sure to bring my A-game fake boyfriend skills. Wouldn't want to disappoint your followers."
"Max, wait?—"
But I'm already walking away, pushing through the brunch crowd, desperate for fresh air and distance from the woman who's somehow gotten under my skin despite all my best efforts to remain detached.
Outside, the spring sunshine feels like a mockery of my mood. I walk aimlessly, hands shoved in my pockets, replaying the disaster of a brunch in my mind. I shouldn't care this much. This was always temporary, always fake. The fact that we slept together shouldn't change that.
But it has. And judging by the look in Lena's eyes when I walked out, I'm not the only one struggling to separate the performance from whatever real thing is growing between us, whether we want it to or not.