Page 55 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

I eye him skeptically. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He shrugs. "If it's real, it's not fair game for stupid bets."

"So no rent payment? No birthday performance?" The relief I expect doesn't come. If anything, the easy cancellation makes the bet seem all the more trivial, all the more shameful for having caused so much distress.

"Well," Ryan hedges, a glint returning to his eye, "I wouldn't object to a song or two at my party. For old times' sake, not because of any bet."

Despite everything, I find myself smiling. "You've been trying to get me to play again for over a year."

"Because you're good," he says simply. "And you love it, even if you won't admit it."

The observation hits closer to home than I expect. Since walking away from music, I've kept my guitars mostly as decoration, playing only in private moments when the urge becomes too strong to ignore. Lena has asked about it a few times, but I've always deflected, unwilling to excavate that particular wound.

"Maybe," is all I say. "But that's a conversation for another time."

"Fair enough." Ryan stands, grabbing fresh beers from the fridge and handing them around. "So what's your plan? When are you going to tell her?"

"I don't know," I admit. "We've got a Luminous Beauty campaign event next week. I don't want to drop this bombshell right before she has to perform professionally."

"After, then," Drew suggests. "Just rip the bandaid off."

I nod, though the thought makes my stomach churn. "After the event. I'll tell her everything."

"For what it's worth," Ryan says, uncharacteristically sincere, "I think you're overthinking this. From what I saw at the bar that night, the way she stood up for you with Sophie, she's not going to throw away something real over a stupid bet that predated your actual relationship."

His attempt at reassurance surprises me. "Since when are you the relationship guru?"

"I contain multitudes," he replies with a grin. "Besides, anyone can see you two are disgustingly into each other. It's nauseating, really."

"Thanks. Very supportive."

"Anytime." He clinks his beer bottle against mine. "And Max? For what it's worth, I'm happy for you. Even if it means you're going to be insufferably sappy for the foreseeable future."

The sentiment, delivered with Ryan's typical sardonic tone, nevertheless feels genuine. A lump forms in my throat, unexpected emotion welling up after weeks of stress and guilt.

"Thanks," I manage. "That actually means something, coming from a heartless cynic like you."

"Whoa, let's not get carried away with the emotional declarations," he protests, but there's no heat in it. "Save that for your Instagram girlfriend."

Drew watches this exchange with amusement. "This is touching and all, but are we actually going to watch the game, or just continue this bromantic heart-to-heart all evening?"

"The game," Ryan and I say in unison, both eager to retreat to safer conversational ground.

As Drew turns on the TV, Ryan catches my eye and gives me a brief nod—an unspoken acknowledgment of the significance of our conversation. Then, in a gesture so awkward and unlike him that it's almost comical, he reaches over and pulls me into a quick, back-slapping hug.

"It's gonna be fine," he mutters against my shoulder, clearly uncomfortable with the display of affection but pushing through anyway. "Just be honest with her."

The hug lasts approximately two seconds before he practically shoves me away, immediately pretending to be engrossed in the pregame commentary. Drew snickers at the display, earning himself a thrown couch pillow from Ryan.

As we settle in to watch the game, the weight on my chest feels slightly lighter. The bet is officially canceled, though the confession still looms. But Ryan's clumsy encouragement—so out of character yet so genuine—gives me hope that maybe, just maybe, Lena will understand too. That what started as something artificial has grown into something too real, too important to lose over a stupid wager made before I knew what I was gambling with.

I pull out my phone, looking at the most recent text from Lena: a photo of her desk covered in campaign materials, with the plastic ring visible on her finger as she gives a thumbs up. The caption reads:

Drowning in work but thinking of you.

The simple message, meant for no audience but me, reinforces my decision. I have to tell her the truth—all of it, even the ugly parts. Because what we've built, strange and backward as its foundation may be, is worth fighting for.

And if that means swallowing my pride, facing her potential anger, and yes, even playing at Ryan's birthday party as a self-imposed penance rather than a lost bet…well, that seems a small price to pay for the chance at something real.

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