Page 93 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

Her laugh echoes in the evening air, genuine and unfiltered. "Best business decision I ever made."

As the setting sun casts golden light across the Brooklyn streets, I pull her closer, thinking of the future we're building—a home together, a creative collaboration, a love story unlike any other. All because she walked into my bar one night with the strangest proposition I'd ever heard.

Sometimes the fakest beginnings lead to the most authentic endings. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, those endings turn out to be just the beginning of something even better.

EPILOGUE

SIX MONTHS LATER

Lena

Three years ago,my carefully orchestrated life was imploding thanks to an ex with a YouTube account and a grudge. Two years ago, I hired a bartender to pretend to be my boyfriend to save my career. One year ago, that same bartender staged an elaborate fake proposal that turned into the most successful beauty campaign of my career. Six months ago, we moved into this apartment together, merging his vinyl collection with my throw pillows in a harmony no one (especially not our friends) thought possible. And today—a completely ordinary Tuesday—I'm sitting cross-legged on our couch, answering emails about a children's literacy charity event, wearing Max's old Radiohead shirt and fuzzy socks, completely unaware that in exactly four hours and twenty-seven minutes, he's going to ask me to marry him. For real this time.

Of course, I don't know that yet. Right now, I'm focused on coordinating celebrity readers for the charity event while simultaneously planning content for a new partnership with a sustainable fashion brand. Our apartment—a sun-filled two-bedroom in Brooklyn with exposed brick and windows that actually open—has become my favorite workspace, especially the corner desk that overlooks a small community garden.

The past six months of living together have been surprisingly seamless. Max's bartending schedule means he's often home during the day, writing music in the small studio we created in the second bedroom while I work on content creation and brand partnerships. Evenings when he's working, I sometimes bring my laptop to The Copper Key, settling into "my" corner table where I can watch him in his element while I finalize campaigns or respond to emails. We've found a rhythm that accommodates both our careers while prioritizing our relationship—a balance that took effort but now feels natural.

The song he wrote about our journey—released independently with a simple video of us telling our story—has become something of a minor viral sensation. Not chart-topping, but successful enough that Max has been approached about licensing it for a streaming service's original film. The authenticity of our story resonated with people tired of perfectly curated social media narratives, creating an unexpected niche audience for what Max calls our "fake-to-real brand."

My phone chimes with a text from the man himself:

Done at the studio earlier than expected. Meet me at Tony's at 7? Important matter to discuss.

Tony's Italian Ice—the humble storefront in Queens where Max took me on one of our early real dates, reconnecting me with childhood memories of visits with my grandfather. We've been back several times, though it's a bit of a trek from our apartment.

Everything okay?

I text back, a hint of concern flickering. Important matters are usually discussed over dinner, not Italian ice in the outer boroughs.

Everything's great. Just in the neighborhood and craving lemon. You game?

The casual tone reassures me.

Of course. See you at 7. Love you.

Love you too. Wear comfortable shoes. xx

The footwear recommendation is odd—Tony's is hardly a formal establishment requiring special attire—but I dismiss it as one of Max's endearing quirks. He's become increasingly concerned with my comfort since I sprained an ankle trying to photograph a sunrise yoga pose for a wellness brand partnership three months ago.

I return to my emails, unaware that my ordinary Tuesday is about to become anything but.

At 6:15, I close my laptop and change into jeans and a lightweight sweater, adding sneakers per Max's suggestion. The early October evening carries a hint of autumn crispness, so I grab a jacket before heading out to catch the subway to Queens.

The journey gives me time to reflect on the contentment that's settled into my life since Max and I moved in together. My career has evolved in ways I never anticipated—fewer purely commercial partnerships, more cause-focused collaborations, a growing audience that seems to appreciate my increasingly authentic approach to content creation. Max's music has found its audience too, his weekend performances at local venues consistently packed, his confidence growing with each positive reception.

We've become a true partnership in every sense—supporting each other's ambitions while building something meaningful together. The "fake boyfriend" arrangement that started it all now feels like a distant prelude to something far more significant.

By the time I emerge from the subway in Queens, twilight has settled over the city. The walk to Tony's takes me through neighborhoods far removed from the carefully curated Brooklyn spots I once frequented exclusively for their Instagram aesthetic. Here, family-owned businesses operate beside discount stores and community centers, creating a patchwork of authentic urban life rarely captured in my earlier content.

Tony's familiar storefront comes into view, its vintage sign glowing in the early evening darkness. But as I approach, I notice something strange—the shop appears closed, metal security gate pulled down over the entrance, lights off inside.

I check my watch: 6:58 PM. Then my phone: no messages from Max explaining the closure. Confused, I step closer, peering through the security gate for any sign of activity inside.

"Looking for something?"

Max's voice behind me makes me jump. I turn to find him standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, an unreadable expression on his face.

"The place is closed," I state the obvious, gesturing toward the shuttered storefront. "Did you know?"

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