Chapter 14
DREW
BSU might act like they are all about sports, but they take great pride in their academic courses, too.
I’ve been so buried in course outlines and problem sets that my diet’s become nothing but energy drinks and vending machine chips.
For a blissful moment, I’d even forgotten that Jackson and I were the hottest topic in BSU’s rumor mill.
I’m reminded of it, though, when he asks me out to lunch. As friends. Not as a couple.
The Lobster Shack sits on the edge of downtown Berkeley Shore.
The building features wood siding and a red neon sign of a dancing lobster in a top hat, flickering haphazardly in the afternoon sun.
We’re in a booth that overlooks the parking lot.
While it’s not the nicest view, it’s better than staring at a black wall with photos of fishermen.
Aside from the pictures, there are buoys, nets, and a taxidermic swordfish that points the way to the restrooms. The place is packed with the lunch crowd—businesspeople on their breaks, families with screaming kids, and at least three other BSU students that I unfortunately acknowledge.
Our food arrives faster than I expected, considering the number of people here.
The buttered rolls are piled high, the fries are golden and crispy, and steam rises from the salmon that’s been cooked to perfection.
We dig in, and for a while, the only sounds are our appreciative moans as we demolish lunch.
But even the food can’t distract me from Jackson’s tongue darting out to catch a drop of butter on his lip.
My stomach growls for an entirely different reason, and I can’t believe I’m jealous of a condiment.
“What’s most annoying about everything that’s been happening,” Jackson says between bites, “is that the more we deny it, the more people are believing it to be true.”
I’m about to call the waitress to get us some more rolls when I notice a girl two tables over with her phone pointed directly at us. She’s trying to be subtle about it, pretending to text, but I’ve seen that angle before. She’s taking a photo. Or a video.
Heaven forbid we eat lunch like normal human beings without it becoming breaking news.
“Don’t look now,” I mutter, leaning forward slightly, “but we’ve got an audience. Girl at two o’clock with her phone out.”
Jackson’s broad shoulders rise toward his ears, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut as his fingers curl around his glass of water. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” I pop a fry in my mouth, trying to appear easy-going while my brain rushes into overdrive. The words are right there, clawing at my throat. I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since freshman year. Every time I see you, I want to kiss you.
But what comes out instead is, “Maybe we should give them what they want.”
Jackson freezes mid-chew. “What?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. My chance to have him, even if it’s not real. Even if it’s pretend. “Think about it. We keep denying, they keep speculating. So, what if we lean into it? Control the narrative ourselves?”
He blinks at me. “Drew, what are you saying?”
I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll either confess everything or chicken out completely. I stare at my roll as though it’s the most fascinating food item ever. “I’m saying we fake date.”
The words hang between us, heavy and monstrous. My palms are sweating, and my leg is jiggling under the table. This is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had, and I once tried to sled down the library steps on a cafeteria tray back in high school.
“Fake date,” Jackson repeats slowly, as though testing the words to see how they taste.
“Yeah.” I risk a glance up. His face is unreadable, which makes my stomach churn with both dread and a shameful flicker of hope. “They’re going to talk regardless, right? At least this way, we set the terms. And when we’ve had enough, we have an amicable breakup and move on.”
What I don’t say is, and I get to pretend you’re mine. I get to hold your hand without it being weird. I get to be close to you without having to make excuses.
“That’s…” Jackson runs a hand through his hair. The gesture makes his shirt ride up slightly, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like leap across the table and tackle him. “That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
My eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “Really?”
“I mean, it would shut everyone up. Stop the constant speculation.” He’s thinking out loud now, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows that I want to smooth away with my thumb. “We could set ground rules. Make it believable but not complicated.”
Too late. It’s already complicated. It’s been that way since the moment I saw you on that field.
“Right. Rules. Boundaries.” The words are sawdust in my mouth. “Just enough PDA to sell it, but nothing that makes either of us uncomfortable.”
“And we’d need a timeline. How long before we ‘break up?’”
Each word is a tiny dagger, but I keep my expression neutral. “Spring break? That gives us a few months. Long enough to be believable, short enough that it doesn’t get weird.”
Jackson nods slowly. “This is crazy.”
“Completely insane,” I agree.
“But it might work.”
“It might.”
Our eyes lock, and my heart stops beating as I wait for him to laugh this whole thing off. But then he extends his hand across the table, right there in full view of Phone Girl and everyone else.
“Okay. Let’s do it. Fake boyfriends.”
I take his hand, and the warmth of his palm sends a current up my arm. His fingers close around mine, and I instantly know I’ve volunteered for my own execution. “Fake boyfriends.”
“So,” Jackson says, still holding my hand. “Should we start now? Give her something to really talk about?”
My mouth goes dry. “What did you have in mind?”
He grins, that crooked smile that makes my knees weak, and uses our joined hands to pull me slightly over the table. “This.”
He leans forward. His lips touch mine, feather-light, gone almost before I register the warmth.
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs.
My fingers grip the edge of the table as electricity shoots from my mouth down my spine.
The scent of his cologne fills my lungs.
When he pulls back, a flush creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks the color of the neon lobster sign outside.
“Too much?” he asks quietly.
Not enough. Never enough. I want you to kiss me for real. And mean it.
“Perfect,” I manage. “Very believable. We don’t want to give away the farm. We need them to keep coming back for more.”
We finish lunch in relative silence, both lost in our own thoughts.
Under the table, our feet bump. I should move mine away, but I don’t.
Neither does he. My throat tightens with each accidental touch—is it accidental?
I want to believe it means something, even though I know it can’t.
This fake relationship is the stupidest, most brilliant idea I’ve ever had.
I’m setting myself up for heartbreak, creating memories I’ll torture myself with later. But I still can’t make myself stop.
Three months of pretending to be his, followed by a lifetime of knowing what I almost had. Is it worth it? Absolutely not. Will I do it anyway? God help me, yes.
“You really think this is going to work?” Jackson asks softly as we walk through the parking lot, our stomachs full.
“We went from outright denying and telling everyone they were wrong, to saying they’re right.
And, I mean, you’re the guy who never dates, only…
fucks. And now you’re in a committed relationship with me.
” His cheeks flood with color when he says the word fucks, the pink spreading up to the tips of his ears.
I shrug because I honestly don’t know what to say. Will it work? I hope so. Are people questioning my sudden monogamy? Absolutely.
“Why have you never dated? Why do you only hook up?” Jackson asks.
My mouth pops open, and I almost tell him the truth about how my dad left me terrified of commitment. How watching my mom fall apart made me swear I’d never give someone that power over me. How I’m a fucking coward who uses casual sex as armor against real intimacy.
But I don’t for one simple fucking reason. If I tell him why, he’ll want to hug me and make things better.
I am broken. And no amount of fixing me will work.
“I like sex. I like giving and receiving. I like making people fall apart with my hands, my mouth…my cock. Variety is the spice of life, Jacky. But for you, I’ll ‘fake commit.’ I’ll be the best damn monogamous man you’ve ever met.”
He nods after mulling it over. “I guess that makes sense. There’s just one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“We need something that’s going to solidify the ‘truth.’”
Again, I don’t consider myself particularly intelligent. But another idea strikes me.
The library’s automatic doors whoosh open, and I stride in, a man on a mission. Sarah Piper usually works Saturday afternoons, and if my timing’s right, she’ll be at the reference desk pretending to work.
Sure enough, there she is. Black hair pulled into a messy bun, red lipstick perfect despite it being 2:00 p.m., fingers flying across the keyboard. She doesn’t look up when I approach, which means she knows I’m here and is making me wait. Classic Sarah.
“I need a favor,” I announce, leaning against the desk.
“No.” She doesn’t even stop typing.
“You don’t know what I’m asking for yet.”
“Don’t care. Still no.” Her eyes flick up to mine for a split second. “Whatever scheme you’re cooking up, Larney, I want no part of it.”
Time for the nuclear option, I guess. I glance around to make sure we’re alone, then drop to my knees. “Please, Sarah. I’m begging you.”
That gets her attention. She spins in her chair to face me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “Are you on your knees right now?”
“I’m desperate.” I clasp my hands together in prayer. “Jackson and I are together. For real. All we need now is someone with credibility to write about it, so people stop treating us as some circus act.”
Sarah studies me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. “Bullshit.”
“I’m serious!”
“You’re many things, Drew Larney, but serious about relationships isn’t one of them.” She turns back to her computer. “Nice try, though. Points for the knee thing.”
Fuck. Time to play dirty. “What if I could offer you exclusive access to the hockey team’s locker room?”
Her fingers freeze over the keyboard. “I’m listening.”
“Post-game interviews. Behind-the-scenes content. You’d be the only journalist allowed in.
” I lean closer, lowering my voice. “Do you know how often Gerard walks around completely naked? Because it’s a lot.
Like, concerningly so. The man has no concept of what clothing is.
And the rest of the team isn’t much better. Wall-to-wall ass and dong, Sarah.”
She’s trying to act unimpressed, but I catch the way her eyes gleam. “And all I have to do is write one article about you and Jackson?”
“Say you’ve observed us together and we’re genuinely couple-y.”
“Couple-y isn’t a word.”
“Sarah, please.” I’m still on my knees, and my left one is starting to cramp. “I’ll owe you forever. I’ll name my firstborn after you. I’ll—”
“Fine.” She holds up a hand. “But I have conditions.”
“Anything.”
“First, this exclusive access better be worth it. I want real interviews, not just ‘how did the game go?’ bullshit. I want human-interest stories—what makes these players tick.”
“Done.”
“Second, I’m not attaching my name to something fake.”
I consider telling her the truth. That I’m desperately in love with my straight best friend, and this is the only way I’ll ever get to be with him. That every time he smiles at me, I die a little inside. That I’m a pathetic mess who’s using a fake relationship to live out my fantasies.
“It’s not fake,” I lie instead. “We’re together. Hand to God.”
“Third, when you inevitably break up—because let’s be real, this won’t last—I get to write that story too. The inside scoop on what went wrong.”
The words sting more than they should. She’s right, of course. This has an expiration date. But something about the clinical way she predicts our inevitable end twists like a knife between my ribs. “Deal.”
“Good man. When do you want the article to run?”
“Monday’s paper?”
“I can make that work.” She pulls up a new document. “Now get out of here. I have work to do, and you’re distracting me with your whole ‘desperate on your knees’ energy.”
“You loved it.”
I leave the library feeling simultaneously victorious and doomed. Sarah will write the article, and I’ll get to pretend Jackson Monroe is mine for a few precious months.
My phone buzzes, scaring the crap out of me. Thankfully, nobody saw me jump ten feet into the air.
Jackson
How’d it go?
Me
She’s in. Monday’s paper.
Jackson
That was fast.
Me
I can be very persuasive.
Jackson
What did you promise her?
Me
Locker room access. No big deal. Gerard will probably love the attention.
Jackson
True. So I guess this is it. You and me—boyfriends.
Me
Yeah. I’m going to be the best damn boyfriend you’ve ever had.
Jackson
You’re going to be the only boyfriend I’ve ever had lol.
And damn if that doesn’t make my chest puff out.