Page 28 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

About last night...

The three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Then:

Was exactly what it was. No pressure, no expectations. We're adults. We can handle this.

I stare at the words, relief and something like disappointment warring in my chest. This is what I wanted, isn't it? No complications? Then why does his easy acceptance sting?

The charity gala is Friday. *Still on?

Wouldn't miss it. I've been practicing my 'devoted boyfriend' face in the mirror. It's somewhere between 'puppy seeing owner after five minutes' and 'man watching sports team score important point thing.'

And just like that, we've navigated the morning after without a single sincere conversation about what happened or what it means. It should feel like a victory. Instead, as I set down my phone and begin the process of reconstructing Lena Carter, Influencer Extraordinaire, I'm left wondering why his humor feels like both a lifeline and a shield.

But this is better—safer—than the alternative. We have a contract to fulfill, a narrative to maintain, and a clear expiration date. Last night was a detour, nothing more.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I deliberately hang his t-shirt in my closet instead of adding it to the laundry pile, unable to quite let go of the tangible reminder that for one night, at least, something real happened between us.

EIGHT

Max

The text arriveswhile 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."

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