Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
Max
The bottle slips from my hand just as I'm completing a particularly flashy pour, sending expensive bourbon splashing across the bar and onto the shirt of a customer who definitely won't be tipping now. It's the third fumble of my shift, unusual for someone who's spent years perfecting the theatrical aspects of bartending. Ryan raises an eyebrow as I mop up the mess, offering apologetic drinks to the splattered patron. He knows why I'm distracted—the same reason I've checked my watch seventeen times in the past hour. Tonight, Lena and I are having The Talk. Not the relationship-ending variety, but the future-planning kind that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me. The kind that involves discussions of living arrangements and career trajectories and whether a bartender-turned-reluctant-musician and a social media influencer-turned-authenticity-advocate can build something lasting from the strangest of beginnings.
"You're going to get us both fired if you keep hydroplaning customers," Ryan mutters as he slides past me with a tray of clean glasses. "Just call her and move the meeting up if you're this nervous."
"It's not a meeting," I correct him, wiping sticky residue from the bar top. "And I'm not nervous. Just…anticipatory."
"Right." He rolls his eyes with the practiced exasperation of someone who's witnessed every phase of my relationship with Lena. "That's why you're sweating through your shirt and checking your watch like it might suddenly sprout legs and run away."
"It's hot in here," I protest weakly, though the bar's temperature hasn't changed in the three years I've worked here.
Ryan leans against the counter, studying me with unexpected seriousness. "You're really all in with her, aren't you? Like, building-a-future, matching-rocking-chairs all in."
The question should terrify me. Six months ago, it would have. But now I find myself nodding without hesitation. "Yeah. I am."
"Huh." He seems to consider this information. "Never thought I'd see the day. Max 'Commitment Issues' Donovan, ready to settle down with an Instagram celebrity."
"She's more than that," I say automatically, the defense of Lena's complexity now second nature.
"I know." His tone softens, surprising me. "She's good for you. You're different since she came along. Better."
The unexpected sincerity catches me off guard. "Better how?"
He gestures vaguely toward the corner of the bar where my guitar case leans against the wall. "You're playing again. Writing music, booking small gigs. You smile more. You've stopped running from the things that scare you."
His assessment is uncomfortably accurate. In the months since Lena and I found our way to a real relationship, I've gradually reconnected with music—first privately, then in small open mic nights, recently even booking paid gigs at local venues. After years of creative silence, songs flow again, many inspired by the woman who crashed into my life with a fake relationship proposal and somehow made everything more authentic in the process.
"She makes me want to be brave," I admit, the truth of it settling in my chest like a physical weight. "To stop hiding from the things that matter."
Ryan pretends to gag. "Save the poetics for your girlfriend. I'm just saying I approve, that's all."
"Your approval means everything to me," I deadpan, though secretly, it kind of does.
"Good. Now stop destroying our liquor inventory and go meet your future wife."
The W-word sends a jolt through me—not panic, as it might have once, but a strange, warm certainty. Not yet, but someday. Maybe someday soon.
Dave arrives for his shift fifteen minutes early, sensing my desperation to escape. I change quickly in the back room, swapping my bourbon-splashed work shirt for a clean button-down. As I exit through the main bar, Ryan calls after me:
"Don't screw it up, Donovan!"
Solid advice from a true romantic.
Lena suggested meeting at a small café halfway between The Copper Key and her office—neutral territory for a conversation that could reshape our future. When I arrive, she's already there, seated at a corner table with two coffee cups and an expression that mirrors my own mix of excitement and trepidation.
"Hi," she says as I slide into the seat across from her. "I ordered your usual. Hope that's okay."
"Perfect." I take a sip of the coffee, buying time as I study her face. She looks beautiful, as always, but there's something different about her today—a focused intensity, a quiet determination.
"So," we both begin simultaneously, then laugh, breaking some of the tension.
"You first," I offer, reaching across the table to take her hand.
She takes a deep breath, her fingers tightening around mine. "The Luminous Beauty contract expires in three weeks. Victoria called today to discuss renewal options."
"And?" I prompt when she pauses.
"And I told her we needed to think about it." She meets my eyes directly. "This needs to be a mutual decision, Max. The contract has been a big part of our lives, for better or worse. Whatever comes next, I want us to decide together."
The consideration touches me deeply. A year ago, Lena might have made this decision independently, weighing only professional factors. Now she's prioritizing our partnership, our shared future.
"What are the options?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Option one: we renew, but with adjusted terms. Less 'perfect couple' narrative, more authentic relationship story, fewer mandatory appearances." She counts on her fingers as she lists possibilities. "Option two: we don't renew, and I look for partnerships that don't directly involve our relationship. Option three: we create our own project—something that reflects who we are now, not who we were pretending to be when this started."
"What's option three look like specifically?"
Her eyes light up with enthusiasm. "That's what I wanted to talk about! We could document our real journey—how we went from fake to real, the challenges, the growth. Not in a curated, 'everything is perfect' way, but honestly."
"Like a relationship reality show? Because I draw the line at cameras in the bedroom" I keep my tone light, teasing.
She rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Nothing that invasive. More like…a joint creative project. Your music, my platform, our story. Authenticity as it actually exists, messy parts included."
The idea is intriguing, particularly the musical aspect. Since reconnecting with performance, I've toyed with recording some original compositions, potentially exploring digital distribution options that didn't exist when I was touring with The Last Remark.
"I like it," I say slowly, ideas taking shape. "But if we're going public with a completely authentic version of us, we should make it memorable. Really lean into the unusual aspect of our beginning."
A mischievous glint appears in her eye. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
What follows can only be described as escalating absurdity as we brainstorm increasingly ridiculous ways to announce our "official" real relationship to the world.
"We could recreate our first meeting," Lena suggests. "Me walking into The Copper Key, you mixing drinks, the whole fake relationship proposal. But filmed as it actually happened, awkwardness and all."
"Or we could stage a fake breakup of our fake engagement," I counter, warming to the game. "Really confuse everyone before revealing it was all part of the journey to something real."
"Too complicated," she decides, sipping her coffee. "What about a dramatic reading of our text exchange after you spilled cherry Italian ice all over your crotch at Tony's?"
Each suggestion becomes more outlandish than the last—Lena proposes hiring skywriters to spell out "FAKE RELATIONSHIP, REAL FEELINGS" over Brooklyn Bridge Park. I counter with matching tattoos of the plastic ring I gave her during our staged proposal. She ups the ante with a flash mob performing at The Copper Key.
"What about," I begin, then hesitate, a more serious idea forming.
"What about what?" she prompts, still laughing from our ridiculous brainstorming.
"What about I write a song about us? Our real story. And perform it publicly, record it, make it the centerpiece of whatever project we develop."
Her laughter fades, replaced by surprise and something softer. "You'd do that? Perform publicly, I mean. In a recorded format that would live forever on the internet?"
I nod, surprising myself with how right it feels. "It's time to stop hiding from the things that scare me, remember? Music was always part of me, even when I wasn't playing. And this—us—it's worth overcoming my fears for."
She reaches across the table, taking both my hands in hers. "I would never ask you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, not even for a creative project."
"You're not asking. I'm offering." I squeeze her fingers gently. "The song I played for you that night in your apartment, the one with the broken string and spilled water? I've been working on it, finishing it. It tells our story better than any scripted video or recreated scene could."
Her eyes shine with unexpected emotion. "I'd love that. But only if you're sure."
"I'm sure about you," I say, echoing her words from earlier. "The rest is just details."
The intensity between us shifts, deepens, as our lighthearted planning session transforms into something more consequential.
"Speaking of details," Lena says, her voice careful but determined. "There's another future plan we should discuss."
"What's that?"
"Living arrangements." She says it casually, though her tight grip on my hands betrays her nervousness. "My lease is up in two months, and your place, while charming, isn't exactly built for two people long-term. I thought maybe we could start looking for something together. Something that's ours from the beginning, not mine or yours."
The proposal shouldn't surprise me—we've spent nearly every night together for months, maintaining two apartments primarily to house our respective belongings rather than out of desire for separate spaces. Still, the formality of the suggestion, the deliberate step toward permanence, momentarily steals my breath.
"Unless it's too soon," she adds quickly, misinterpreting my silence. "There's no rush. We could wait until?—"
"Yes," I interrupt, certainty flooding through me. "Let's find a place together. Something with space for my vinyl collection and your ridiculous number of throw pillows. With good natural light for your content creation and maybe a small area I could set up for recording."
Relief and joy illuminate her face. "Really? You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything," I tell her honestly. "Except maybe that I love you."
"I love you too." Her smile is radiant, unfiltered in a way that still feels like a private gift. "So we're doing this? A place together, a creative project about our real relationship, potentially a music release?"
"We're doing all of it." I lift her hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Though maybe we shelve the skywriting and matching tattoos for now."
"Party pooper," she teases, though her eyes remain soft with emotion. "So how do we announce all this? The real way, not the ridiculous brainstorming version."
I consider this, thinking about how far we've come from that first night at The Copper Key. "What if we simply tell the truth? No gimmicks, no elaborate staging. Just us, sitting somewhere meaningful, explaining our journey in our own words. Authentic, like we've been striving for."
"With your song as the backdrop," she adds, warming to the concept. "Simple but meaningful."
"Exactly. And we film it ourselves—no production team, no scripted lines. Just us talking about how the fakest beginning led to the most real relationship either of us has ever had."
She nods, excitement building in her expression. "I love it. It feels right—true to who we are now, respectful of the journey that brought us here."
As we continue refining our plan, mapping out next steps, discussing neighborhoods where we might want to live, I'm struck by the natural ease of our collaboration. What began as a business arrangement has evolved into a partnership in every sense—creative, emotional, practical. We complement each other, challenge each other, make each other better.
The bottle that slipped from my hands at the bar feels symbolic now—the last vestige of nervousness about the future, about commitment, about stepping fully into a life with Lena. In its place is certainty, a grounded confidence that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
Later, walking hand in hand toward her apartment, I glance down at the woman who changed everything—who marched into my bar with a business proposal and somehow helped me find my way back to music, to authenticity, to myself.
"Thank you," I say suddenly, the words inadequate for what I'm trying to express.
"For what?" she asks, looking up with curious eyes.
"For hiring me to be your fake boyfriend," I reply, smiling at the absurdity of our beginning. "Best job I ever took."
Her laugh echoes in the evening air, genuine and unfiltered. "Best business decision I ever made."
As the setting sun casts golden light across the Brooklyn streets, I pull her closer, thinking of the future we're building—a home together, a creative collaboration, a love story unlike any other. All because she walked into my bar one night with the strangest proposition I'd ever heard.
Sometimes the fakest beginnings lead to the most authentic endings. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, those endings turn out to be just the beginning of something even better.