25
“Wait, you’re going to your fake boyfriend’s flat tonight?” Emme asks, still half-ready for her date with rollers in her hair and foundation-covered lips that are starting to creep me out.
She still looks fantastic, even with skin-lips. Emme has always managed to look incredible at all times. Seriously, even hungover Emme is hot, with her blonde shoulder-length hair and her full lips. Her long limbs make her look like some kind of otherworldly goddess and she’s got these huge doe eyes that are slightly too far apart, but in the most endearing way.
I try not to wonder how I look when I stand next to Emme, and then I realise she’d punch me if I said any of this out loud to her.
“Well, he gave me the option of the pub or his flat depending on how much I want to socialise,” I say, still on the sofa and still watching The Big Bang Theory .
Nobody is surprised here.
“Wait, he gave you the option?” Emme asks, turning to me now half in and half out of a jumpsuit that is going to be entirely wasted on whichever struggling artist she’s going on a date with tonight.
I nod, looking her over, “We’re staying at his flat so I don’t have to socialise,”
She frowns, “This is starting to feel very much like the second act of a fake-dating novel. You’re becoming closer and acting like a non-fake couple,” she says, finally managing to get her long limbs fastened into her outfit.
“The opposite of fake is real,” I mutter, “And anyway, it’s mostly just for research. He said it’s so we can play 20 questions but in person,”
Emme’s frown deepens, “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that you’re probably going to do a lot more than play 20 questions,”
My mouth falls open, “I am not going to sleep with him,” I say incredulously.
“I didn’t mean that,” she says, “That’s not how these things go, but if you almost kiss him, I won’t be surprised,”
I sit up and look at her, “See, I know what you’re saying. We’ve all read fake dating romance novels, but the issue with those books is that the guy has always been secretly in love with the girl for like ten years. Or he’s always been her enemy but is dating her fakely so that he can get something out of it and then falls for her because she’s great. None of them starts with two strangers,”
“Okay, I see what you’re saying, and I’ll raise you The Wedding Date ,” she says, now finally wiping that crazy foundation colour off her lips and applying her signature cherry red lipstick. It isn’t Emme if it’s not red lipstick.
“Are you suggesting that Miles is a male escort?” I ask, “Sorry, just an escort. Escorts aren’t inherently female and the patriarchy is so deeply ingrained in me I was being sexist,” I admonish.
Emme raises a perfectly-crafted eyebrow at me and then continues, “No, I’m just saying that strangers to fake dates to lovers has been done, and done well I might add,”
“Okay,” I say, “But if I’m not paying him, and we’re not co-workers with secret crushes, what exactly is his motive for asking me on a fake date, aside from his cousin marrying his ex?”
“I’m not saying he has a motive, though it would be sweet if this was all an elaborate plot to date you,” she muses, “The point I’m trying to make you crazy person, is that it seems like you’re becoming closer than fake dates,”
“If this is all an elaborate plot to date me then I have the ick,” I mutter, turning back to the TV.
Not to be dramatic but if this is his plan all along I might get a restraining order. Or I could remember that Miles, MILES, the beautiful and kind stranger I am fake dating is probably not looking for a crazy, anxious, and totally chaotic mess of a human being for a partner.
“Romance has always scared you,” Emme says .
I snort, “There’s a fine line between romance and creep. Concocting two fake dates just to ask someone out is slightly too far over that line for me,” I say, bristling.
I do not have a problem with romance. I have a problem with me being involved in romance. They’re two very different things. Do I like to read about romance? Yes. Do I sometimes want to die when people do anything remotely romantic near me? Also, yes.
I think it’s more that I struggle to want someone to do those things for me. Like, when people get really real with their feelings and I’m just sitting there like ‘bro, it’s not that deep,’ because I feel so unbelievably awkward.
Emme laughs, “Okay fine,” she says, “But I still think he likes you,”
I snort, “Miles is far too cool to like someone like me,”
“Oh, he’s so cool, is he?” she asks, “Didn’t he ask you to be his fake date?”
I ponder this, “Okay fine, you’ve got a point,”
*
Two hours later, I am standing at the entrance of the most amazing studio flat I’ve ever seen.. I mean, I knew Miles had money but fuck me. He lives in one of those old warehouse flats that I thought only existed in New York, and the Northern Quarter in Manchester where they film some New York scenes in films.
It has huge windows, dark wood floors, and an entirely open plan. His bed is huge, covered in white sheets, and most importantly, made which is better than I can say for my own. The space is filled with plants and flowers, and he’s currently standing at the island in his marble and wood kitchen, opening beers.
“This place is so cool,” I say, stepping into the living area and plopping down on the black sofa. There’s a dark wood coffee table with an array of succulents and an intricate-looking incense burner. He’s got something burning in it already and it smells incredible. In the corner is what looks to be an old crate from the shop and sitting on top is a record player, which is currently humming out Hozier. He comes to sit next to me, handing me a beer, “Like, I didn’t know guys could have such a stylish space,” I add.
I accept the beer, even though the anxious woman in my head is telling me not to. She thinks I’ll say something stupid, or worse, do something stupid. She’s got a point. Emme’s stupid comments have gotten in my head a little bit—or they got in the anxious woman’s head—so I’m bound to begin overthinking everything.
He laughs, “I mean, I did live with two other guys for years, but when I got the shop, I finally decided it was time to have a grown-up flat,”
I grin, “All I’m going to say is that I might need to tidy up before you come to my place. And by tidy up, I mean move, ”
He chuckles, “I did tidy up before you got here,” he admits, looking around at the space a little sheepishly.
“I knew it,” I say, “No guy can ever be this tidy,”
He shakes his head, taking a swig of his beer. I try not to watch him swallow because we’ve all seen the romcoms and we all know that when he gulps and his Adam’s apple bobs I’m probably going to fall in love with him on the spot. But I look anyway—of course, I look—and yep, that’s pretty hot.
I shake my head, looking away and taking a swig of my own beer before speaking.
“Okay,” I say, “I’m prepared for your questions now, I’ve even been over a few more embarrassing moments in my head for you. My mental health is at an all-time low but I have a tonne of shameful things to tell you,” I add, turning to him and pulling one of my legs onto the sofa.
He snorts, mirroring my movement and draping his arm along the back of the sofa, “Okay, number one: what made you study English Lit?”
I frown, “Oof, going in with the hard ones. I honestly just liked reading. And my favourite teacher was my English teacher. It felt like she got me, you know?”
He nods, “That’s how I felt about my art teacher,” he says, looking suddenly wistful, “Do you still like reading?”
I grin, “I do, but not classics,” I say, “I’ve had enough Charles Dickens for one lifetime,”
“What is your favourite book? ”
“Pride and Prejudice,” I say, “And now I sound like a fucking liar, but Jane Austen never feels like a classic,”
He laughs, “Do you like the adaptations of her stuff?”
I nod, “Yep, I love the Kiera Knightley one,” I say, “I mean, that bit with Darcy’s hand. Fuck me. That’s the proof right there that love isn’t just all about taking your clothes off,” I ramble.
He frowns, “What bit?”
I sigh, mostly because of course he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but also because it’s really hard to explain.
“So Darcy basically squeezed his hand and it wasn’t in the script but then the director was like ‘Oh my god get that in’ after she saw it in rehearsal. It’s like showing how Darcy wants to touch Elizabeth,” I try to explain.
He raises an eyebrow, “That seems very female gaze,”
I raise an eyebrow right back at him, mostly because he seemed to understand my ramble but also, “How do you know what the female gaze is?”
He grins, “I studied film remember,” he says, “And I took a class with a very cool feminist lecturer who talked about it. It was incredible to see the difference between films made for women by women,”
I nod, “Kind of like how Bridgerton is full of sex but never feels like it objectifies the women,”
He nods, “It’s a very good TV show,” he says, “And the tension of the second season is chef kisses, ”
I laugh, “It’s very refreshing to talk to a man about this,”
He snorts, “My brother told me I was very feminine when I was ten, so maybe I don’t count as a man,”
I shake my head, “He’s wrong,” I say, “Gender is a construct and femininity is just something made up by the patriarchy to keep us under its thumb,” I say, and then take a deep breath, “And anyway, what is wrong with being in touch with your feminine side, like, ‘Oh no, a guy doesn’t pretend he doesn’t have feelings and repress all his emotions until he becomes a bitter woman-hating MRA, what a fucking crime,’,” Miles grins, and I laugh, “Sorry, you unleashed the feminist monster in me,” I say.
He frowns, “Why is she a monster?”
I shrug, “People find it really annoying when I go on about this stuff,” I say, “It’s like they kind of want me to shut up, and I kind of wish I would shut up too, you know? But I can’t because I feel really angry about this stuff, but other people don’t seem to… Sorry,”
Miles frowns harder, “Why are you sorry?”
He’s searching me with his eyes, looking for whatever it is I’m feeling as if he knows it’s there somewhere.
I shrug, “It’s kind of annoying when I talk about this stuff,” I say again.
He frowns, “I don’t know who told you that, but they’re wrong,”
I chuckle, “There must be a lot of wrong people out there then,”
“It’s not hard to imagine,” he mutters.
*
A good few hours later, we’re laid on the floor, our feet on the sofa, and I can’t even remember how we got here, but I’m laughing so hard at something Miles has just told me that I don’t even care. That is until I hit my head on his coffee table, which makes him laugh.
I try to scoot out from under the table but end up hitting my head and then my elbow, which makes Miles clutch his stomach with laughter—though, he manages not to hit his head.
“How did we end up on the floor?” he asks, still chuckling and sliding himself out from under the table looking slightly like a starfish.
I crawl out and sit up too, “I don’t know, I think you were showing me the underside of the table,” I say.
“Oh shit,” he says, laying back down, “Yeah, look, you can see the stamps,”
I lay back down too and listen to him explain the import-export stamp or whatever, wondering at the fact he had meant to show me this a long time ago and we’d gotten distracted by one thing and then the next and then the next, until I gave myself a concussion.
“Anyway, I’m hungry,” Miles says, standing up and managing not to knock himself out again, like a pro. He grabs his phone, “I wonder if anyone still delivers at… fuck it’s one in the morning,”
I laugh, “This is the city that never sleeps, there better be something,”
I crawl out from under the table looking like a really shit worm and clamber up onto the sofa. How, when he is this giant of a human, is he not as clumsy and awkward as me? Why does he have control of his limbs? It seems unfair.
“I’m pretty sure New York is the city that never sleeps,” he says, plonking himself back on the sofa next to me.
“Okay fine, so London just has, like, mild insomnia,” I say.
He snorts, still scrolling through Deliveroo, “What about burgers?”
“Oh, yes,” I say, looking over his shoulder, “Wow, that one has three burgers and bacon,” I add, pointing at the most incredible-looking burger
He nods, “That could be the one,” he says, tapping on the icon and adding it to his cart.
As he begins putting in our order, I stand up to clear some of the bottles and the incense ash which is all over the table—apparently, headbutting the table knocked it everywhere.
“There’s wine in the fridge,” he says, “Unless you don’t want anymore to drink,”
In all honesty, I don’t feel drunk at all, even though we’ve had quite a few beers. I’ve clearly had enough to quiet the anxious lady though because I don’t even hesitate as I open the fridge.
“I can’t believe you have wine,” I say over my shoulder.
He snorts, coming over to the kitchen. He brushes past me and then reaches over my head to pull down the wine glasses. I try not to breathe as he places them beside me and steps back.
“I mean, it’s rosé, so the jury is still out on whether it’s wine or not,” he says. “And Avery left it here last time she was over,”
I laugh, uncorking it and pouring some, “I like rosé, though I didn’t know there were brands other than Echo Falls and Blossom Hill,” I add, looking at the fancy looking label. Honestly, I only ever drink rosé as a cheap, juice-like pregame drink.
He grins, “Now who’s the philistine?” he says. He’s still standing really close to me and I have the insane urge to lean against him as I turn and hand him a glass. His fingers graze mine as he accepts the rosé and I think he notices my breath hitch. I look away quickly.
*
When the burgers arrive, we both devour them so quickly that neither of us speaks and we just inhale the food in silence. I didn’t even realise I was that hungry, but once I’m done, I have a stomach ache from eating too fast .
“Fuck, that was good,” I mutter, laying back on the sofa and rubbing my bloated stomach.
Miles nods next to me, “It was,” he says, “I’m so full,”
“Me too,” I say, “I’m going to have to waddle to the next wedding,” I add.
He snorts, “I had forgotten about that, fuck,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face like I’ve just reminded him of something horrible. I mean, I kind of have.
I laugh, “Honestly, now that mine is over, I feel so free,”
“Have you heard from anyone since?” he asks, looking concerned.
“Well, Tilda sent me an exceptionally graphic message about the first night of her honeymoon, which I think should have come with parental guidance, and maybe a trigger warning. And then my mum texted to tell me it was nice to see me, which is a big fat lie,”
“She didn’t ask if you’re getting back with Caleb?” he asks, but his grin has lost its signature sparkle.
“Oh, she usually gives me a break between each emotional assault,” I say, thinking that I’m probably due for one soon. Can’t wait to hear her real thoughts on Miles once she’s had time to consolidate them.
The issue is, I don’t think I care.
If she hated him, it doesn’t matter. I like him. He’s great and being with him at that wedding was like carrying a little ball of sunshine, too bright for any negativity. So, whatever she says, he is my sunlight.
When this ruse is over, I’m going to have to find more sunlight somewhere because now I know what it’s like to have that person in my life, I don’t think I can do without it.
“Your dad told me he never really liked Caleb,” Miles says, bringing me out of my reverie.
“Oh really?” I say turning back to him.
He nods, “That day you went to sort the dress. He told me he was glad you had moved on and that he always thought Caleb was lucky you were interested in him,”
I snort, “That’s such a dad thing to say,”
“Yeah, but he is right,” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I just mean, from what I saw of Caleb, I imagine he held you back a bit,”
I frown now, “How so?”
“I mean, he didn’t even dance,” he says, laughing and shaking his head, “You and Tilda and Dan were having the time of your lives and Caleb and Nicole were acting like it was somehow cringey to dance at fucking wedding,”
I nod, “He would always tell me off for trying to get him to dance,” I mutter, thinking that it’s an incredibly sad way to live your life—not dancing, I mean.
Miles chuckles, “It sounds like he always wanted to dim your shine, you know?”
I laugh, “Have you been speaking to Tilda?” I ask.
“She did mention that she thought Caleb made you less sparkly too,”
“You know, it’s always nice to hear about how many people thought he was so shit but never told me,”
Miles grins, “They probably just wanted you to be happy,”
“Hmm,” I mutter, “Or they wanted me to fit,”
Miles watches me for a minute, “Or that too,” he says, “But fitting in is so boring,”
I grin, “Is that why you don’t want to fit in with your family?”
“That, and the fact that fitting in with them would make me a nightmare of a person,” he says with a wink.
“I just couldn’t imagine you being a corporate guy,” I say, “You’re kind of like sunshine, and I think sunshine would hate wearing a suit every day,”
“Like sunshine?” he asks.
I nod, “Just so happy all the time. What’s that like?”
He smiles, and I notice that we have somehow shifted closer together, his face is so close to mine that I can see the lightest smattering of freckles across his nose. “I don’t think I’m always that happy,” he says, “I just kind of go with the idea that everything is going to be okay,”
I nod, and then without even thinking about it, I drop my head to his shoulder, “That sounds like a good way to go about life,” I mutter.
I hear him hum his agreement and then we fall into silence. At some point, his arm comes around my shoulder and the longer the silence stretches, the more I think that I could stay like this forever.
I have never just sat in silence before with a guy. It feels somehow poignant, but I don’t know why. And when my phone buzzes loudly, breaking the silence, I almost ignore it, wanting to remain in this moment forever.