26
Delaney : Why are they called wildflowers? Like, surely every flower is a wildflower at some point?
Miles : The fact that this is what you’re thinking about at 5.30 am on a Monday morning is my favourite thing.
Delaney : Hahaha, Emme is making me go to a 6am spin class because apparently she hates me. Anyway, I said I liked wildflowers and now Emme and I are arguing over what defines one.
Miles : Honestly, I’m kind of with you - all flowers are wildflowers at some point. But technically, a flower that’s not been cultivated by humans is a wildflower.
Delaney : I like wildflowers.
Miles : Me too. There’s something satisfying about them.
Delaney : Change of subject: What are you doing up at 5.30 am on a Monday?
Miles : It’s wholesale market day.
Delaney : Is that like a market just for florists?
Miles : Yep. We get a lot of stock delivered but I hate the idea of my carbon footprint these days, and this guy does some fucking beautiful things .
Delaney : Wow. Send me pics pls.
Miles : On it.
*
I’m crawling up the stairs to my flat, mentally cursing Emme and her dumb ideas, when my phone buzzes with pictures of Miles at the market. It’s like one big mega florist but better. There is colour everywhere. Different varieties of flowers, some I’ve never seen. The last picture shows some of the most amazing flowers ever that Miles has gotten for the shop and I want them all.
I hit reply.
Delaney : I would like to live in that place, please.
Miles : Come with me next week. Way better than a spin class.
Delaney : It’s a date.
Once I hit send, I have a three-minute meltdown that he thinks I actually mean it’s a date. I mean, it’s not a date like the other dates and I’m sure he knows that but also what if he thinks I think this is more than the fake dates? But then he replies and I get over my meltdown.
Miles : Perfect.
*
A week later, I am sitting across from Miles in a coffee shop somewhere near Vauxhall drinking my third coffee of the day and coming down from the high of being at a flower market. Both of us are working on laptops, him on some admin and me on a script for one of the murder shows I work on.
It used to be fun working on research for serial killer podcasts, but now I’ve done so many of them that I’m becoming hyper-aware of the men around me.
I watch Miles now over the top of my laptop. He’s drinking black coffee again and I am momentarily caught up in the fact I assumed he would drink something much cooler than black coffee. Or maybe black coffee is the coolest thing he could ever drink? No frills, no additions, just pure, unfiltered (sort of) caffeine?
Really, if I think too hard about it, I was probably the dumbest girl in school to just decide to fake date him. Because I’m at risk of totally falling for a guy like him. I mean, he’s ridiculously handsome, sure. But he’s also such a fucking joy to be around. Like, what am I going to do when this is all over and I don’t have anyone to send me pictures of flowers or cartoons he’s doodled on the back of a receipt of me holding up a busload of primary school kids on Holy Island?
Guys like Miles don’t choose sad sack girls like me. They choose girls with cropped hair, piercings, and sunshine personalities. Or, girls who look like models, like his ex. So, even if we do keep in touch, which I wholeheartedly hope we do, I’m going to be relegated to the friend zone and be the girl all his new girlfriends say, ‘Hey you know she fancies you, right?’ and they will be right because I so have a crush on him.
I don’t even know where it came from. Maybe when I saw him get excited over the rainbow-coloured rose some guy had at the market this morning, or maybe when he stumbled on me hiding out at a party and sat with me too.
It’s gonna suck to see him move on, but I don’t think we can go back to being strangers now.
Another reason this is a bad idea, aside from the emotional toll of having a crush on the guy you’re fake dating, is the fact that he could have been a murderer. I mean, sure we’re at the point now where I’m almost certain he’s not, and if he is, he’s super bad at it because;
a. I’m not dead, and;
b. There’s so much evidence of us together that he is going to be the first, second, and third suspect.
And, even in all of my research, even though I have seen how easy it apparently is for us women to get murdered, and how scared I am when I’m in the house alone and remember people like Ted Bundy existed, for some reason, Miles has always felt safe.
Not emotionally—obviously.
Emotionally, Miles is becoming more and more of a minefield. I should probably stop hoping it’s him every time my phone goes off and feeling annoyed at myself when I realise it’s not him and I’m deflated and sad about it .
But even with that, being with him feels natural. Even with the stupidity of falling for your fake boyfriend. It’s not like I wasn’t warned. At least we’re just in the crush stages. I can admit the crush and a crush can be gotten over, right? I don’t really know, I don’t get crushes. I’m not even sure I had a crush on Caleb when we first went out, I just sort of went along with it because Tilda said we could double date.
Miles is still typing away on his Macbook, but he suddenly looks up and catches me watching him, “Why are you staring at me?”
“Just thinking how I’m pretty lucky you’re not a serial killer,” I say with a chuckle because it’s the least embarrassing of the thoughts currently battling in my brain for attention.
He laughs, “Are you researching for that murder podcast again?” I nod and he grins, “Thought so,” I raise an eyebrow and he continues, “Last time you were working on that you said the same thing to me. We barely knew each other then and I remember thinking wow this girl is weird,”
He winks at me and I smile and suddenly feel all warm and fuzzy that we have known each other long enough to be able to say ‘last time.’
“What are you doing?” I ask, changing the subject before I tell him all of this.
See, I think at the anxious lady who is squatting in my brain, I can hold my tongue. I can be normal. *Sticks tongue out at her*.
He groans, “Stupid cash flow things for last month,” he says, “The end of the financial year was one big clusterfuck, so my accountant made me promise to get on top of it this year. This is me trying but I was never very good at maths,”
“I hate tax season,” I say, “Before my current job, I did some freelance work and it was horrible having to do my taxes,”
“I didn’t know that,” he says.
“Yeah, I’m so lucky to have had the exciting experience of HMRC trying to trick me into admitting I’m committing tax fraud with a series of run-on questions,”
He snorts, “That’s exactly what it is,” he says, “Before I could afford an accountant, doing my taxes was like taking an exam but I didn’t get anything out of it and I had to pay for a government to use my taxes to buy weapons,”
I nod, “Literally,” I say, “At least with PAYE you’re not actually doing the paying yourself,”
*
I get home a little after six and Emme is already lying in her pyjamas watching reruns of The Office .
“Where have you been?” she asks, as I dump all my bags and the bouquet of dahlias that Miles sent me home with on the countertop. Emme clocks the flowers and grins, “Have you been with Miles all day? I’m not even going to have to try marketing you guys anymore, ”
“Why not?” I ask, not looking at her and instead admiring the dahlias again.
“Because you’re basically dating,”
My head snaps up.
“We are not,” I say, “He just suggested we get a coffee after the market and then we did some work and then he gave me these because I love dahlias,”
Emme raises an eyebrow and smirks at me, “Sure, you’re not dating your fake boyfriend,”
“I’m not,” I say indignantly, kicking my Crocs off. Would I wear Crocs on a date? (Yes, but let's pretend I wouldn’t, okay?)
I drop onto the sofa next to her now and she looks at me, “Would it be so bad if you were dating?”
“No,” I say, “I mean, he’s great, but we’re just getting to know each other,” I admit. Emme knows me well enough to know I am crushing on him. I don’t need to speak those words aloud. And if I do then they become something much more concrete and I’m not certain I want to deal with Emme’s sympathy when Miles and I stop fake dating and he meets the latest Miss World, marries her, and has babies so cute that people actually cry when they meet them.
“When you pitched this idea to me, you said it was two dates and then you were out,” Emme says, “But you guys speak every day and hang out all the time, it seems like it’s changed and that’s okay, ”
I shrug, “I like hanging out with him. I probably want to be his friend after this, as long as he does too,”
“I think he could want to be more than friends,” Emme says and I snort really loudly, “What?” she asks, frowning.
I look at her incredulously, “Why exactly would someone as great as Miles date an anxious little mess like me?”
Emme’s frown deepens, “I mean, aside from the fact that he thinks you’re good enough to take to a wedding and pretend you’re his girlfriend?”
“I would say his very limited options played a role in that choice,” I say, laying my head on the back of the sofa and staring up at the ceiling.
Emme rolls her eyes, “That aside,” she says, “He has invited you out, taken you to his flat, taken you to the market. I mean, you were at his place until 5 am the other day. You claim nothing happened, but I don’t know many guys who want to be around someone enough that they will chill with them for nearly 10 hours without once trying to get them naked,”
I frown at the ceiling then look at Emme, “Doesn’t that actually suggest the opposite of what you’re saying?” I ask, “Like if he was so into me, wouldn’t he have tried something when I was drunk and at his flat?”
Emme shrugs, “He seems to me a very kind and considerate guy. I’d say he probably just wants to get to know you. And it’s not like you don’t give off a vibe that says don’t fucking touch me,”
“I do what?” I ask.
“Well, since all you’ve done for the past six weeks is act like a guy—who has shown quite a lot of interest in you I might add, even travelling a few hundred miles up the country to be your fake date to a wedding—couldn’t possibly like you as anything more than a means to an end, I wouldn’t be shocked if you were giving off that vibe to him,”
I consider this for a moment. Am I doing that?
Surely, I would know if Miles liked me as anything more than a friend. I know he likes me, but certainly not like that. He couldn’t possibly when I met his ex and we have absolutely nothing in common.
“I didn’t know I gave off those vibes,” I mutter, “But for the most part, I don’t actually want people to touch me,”
Emme nods, “I know,” she says, “And that is also okay. But if you want Miles to touch you—and yes I am seriously regretting hitching my wagon to ‘touch you’ as the metaphor here—you could open yourself up to it a bit,”
I frown, “But what if I open myself up to it and he rejects me,”
Emme sighs, “Unfortunately, rejection is part of life,” she says, “I know that what Caleb did still affects you. I know that he somehow made you feel unlovable, but not everyone is going to treat you like that. I’ve never met Miles, but from the outside, it seems like he really cares for you,”
“Caring about me and wanting me are two different things,” I say, “And this isn’t like the dates you make me go on. I don’t care if any of them reject me because I don’t usually like any of them. But Miles is my friend and I care about messing that up,”
Emme nods and watches me for a moment.
“I know it’s scary,” she says, “But it isn’t every day that you like someone, Delaney,” she adds.
I raise an eyebrow, “I like not liking people often, I get hurt less,” I say with a grin.
“Life is always going to be painful,” Emme says, “You know that. It doesn’t have to be a romance that breaks us, so when you find something good, you’ve kind of got to hold onto it,”
“Have you been looking at inspirational quotes on Pinterest?” I ask.
She shakes her head at me, grinning, “Ah, typical Delaney, refusing to talk about feelings and making a joke instead,”
I look around me, “What? Who? ME?”