Page 88 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

Some arrangements, it turns out, are worth breaking all the rules for.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Lena

I've missedthe same dinner reservation three times in two weeks. The success of my "authentic relationship" post has been a double-edged sword—yes, it freed me from maintaining separate public and private identities, but it also unleashed a tidal wave of new opportunities that are consuming every waking moment. Two major brand partnerships, a potential book deal about "finding authenticity in the age of performance," and a persistent podcast producer who won't take no for an answer. My calendar looks like someone played Tetris with fifteen-minute increments of my life, and Max's carefully planned date nights keep getting squeezed into increasingly narrow margins. I promise to make it up to him, again, before rushing off to my third meeting of the day, the guilt already forming a knot beneath my ribs that I'll deal with...later. Always later. When things calm down. If things calm down.

By the time I finish the activewear meeting (successful, a six-figure deal if the contract details work out), it's nearly seven o'clock. Three unread texts from Max wait on my phone:

Since dinner's off, I'll come to you. Your place, 8pm. Non-negotiable.

Wear comfortable clothes. Nothing Instagram-worthy required.

And eat something before I get there. I know you, Carter.

The last message brings a reluctant smile to my face. He does know me—knows I'll work through meals when I'm busy, surviving on coffee and whatever snacks Tori shoves into my hands between meetings. Despite my guilt about canceling again, a flutter of anticipation rises at the thought of seeing him.

I make it home by 7:30, just enough time to shower away the day's stress and change into leggings and a soft oversized sweater that Max once said made me look "cuddly as hell." True to his instructions, I order delivery from the Thai place around the corner, inhaling pad thai while simultaneously answering emails on my phone.

The doorbell rings precisely at eight. Max stands in the hallway with a large canvas tote bag and a determined expression that suggests he's a man with a plan.

"Hi," I offer, suddenly shy in the face of his intensity. "I got your texts. I even ate."

"Miracles do happen." He smiles as he steps inside, setting the mysterious bag on my coffee table. "How was the meeting?"

"Good. Great, actually. They want to feature real women with diverse body types, and they're open to my suggestion that we avoid excessive filtering in the campaign photos." I trail behind him as he moves purposefully through my apartment, drawing curtains and adjusting lighting. "What are you doing?"

"Creating ambiance," he replies, pulling various items from the tote: candles, a small portable speaker, a bottle of wine, and what appears to be painting supplies. "Since you couldn't make it to the restaurant, I'm bringing date night to you."

"We're.. painting?" I eye the brushes and small canvases with confusion.

"We," he announces, setting up the supplies with the precise movements of someone who has practiced this sequence, "are having a paint and sip night. At home. No phones, no interruptions, just us, wine, and creative expression."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture makes the knot of guilt tighten further. "Max, this is so sweet, but I still have emails to answer and content to approve for tomorrow's?—"

"Nope." He's already opening the wine, his back to me as he pours two glasses. "Not tonight. Tonight is about reconnecting, because I've barely seen you for two weeks except when you fall asleep mid-sentence on my couch."

"That only happened once," I protest weakly.

"Three times." He turns, offering me a glass of wine with an expression that brokers no argument. "Your work will still be there tomorrow. Tonight, you're mine."

The possessive declaration sends a shiver through me despite my resistance. I accept the wine, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "Okay," I concede. "Paint and sip night it is."

His smile turns genuine for the first time since arriving, and I'm struck by how much I've missed that particular expression—the one where his entire face lights up, crinkling at the eyes in a way no Instagram filter could replicate.

"So how does this work?" I ask, settling onto a cushion on the floor where he's arranged the supplies. "Are we painting something specific?"

"We," he announces, pulling up a reference photo on his phone, "are recreating our first official Instagram photo. The one from Brooklyn Bridge Park.”

The image shows us beneath the willow tree, moments after our staged proposal, my face tilted up to his, his hands at my waist. It's a beautiful photo—one that generated thousands of comments and launched the Luminous Beauty campaign in earnest—but the memory it evokes is complicated. It was before the bet revelation, before our breakup and reconciliation, when we were still navigating the blurry lines between performance and reality.

"Ambitious," I observe, noting the complexity of the image compared to the basic painting supplies provided. "I hope you're not expecting gallery-worthy results."

"The journey is more important than the destination," he says with mock solemnity. "Also, I have exactly zero artistic talent, so my expectations are appropriately low."

What follows should be relaxing, romantic bonding. What actually unfolds is closer to a comedy of errors. The supposedly dripless paint immediately proves its marketing materials false by splattering across my pristine white rug when Max accidentally knocks over a container. The "easy to mix" colors transform into an indistinguishable muddy brown when I attempt to create the perfect willow tree green. Max's attempt at painting human figures results in what can only be described as two vaguely humanoid blobs embracing beneath what might be a tree or possibly a very tall mushroom.

"Is that supposed to be me?" I ask, pointing at the slightly taller blob on his canvas.

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