Page 67 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Shit!" he exclaims, grabbing napkins from the dispenser. "I'm so sorry."

I jump up as the hot liquid seeps through my jeans, bumping into him in the process. We perform an awkward dance of apologies and evasive movements, both trying to clean the mess while avoiding further contact.

"It's fine," I say, though it's clearly not—my carefully selected outfit now sports a large coffee stain, a physical manifestation of the mess we've made. "Really, don't worry about it."

"Let me help," he insists, offering more napkins.

Our fingers brush as I take them, a jolt of electricity that makes us both freeze momentarily. His eyes meet mine, and in them I see everything I'm feeling—grief, longing, regret.

"I really did love you," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. "It wasn't just for show."

"I know," he says softly. "I loved you too. Still do."

The present tense hangs between us, a bridge neither of us can cross right now. I step back, creating necessary distance.

"I should go clean up," I say, gesturing vaguely toward the restroom.

He nods, understanding that I'm not just talking about the coffee stain. "Lena—" he begins, then stops himself. "I'll wait for Tori's email about the next appearance."

"Okay." Such an inadequate word for everything we're not saying.

When I emerge from the restroom, having done my best to salvage my jeans, he's gone. The table is wiped clean, our cups disposed of, no evidence remaining of our brief, painful encounter except for the small paper bag he's left behind.

Inside, beside the plastic ring, is a folded note in his familiar scrawl:

Real or not real, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm sorry I ruined it. -M

I stand in the cafe, clutching the note, the cheap ring digging into my palm, caught between the certainty that I've made the right decision and the devastating knowledge that right doesn't always mean painless.

As I walk out into the bright morning, the contrast between my public composure and private devastation has never felt more stark. For once, the performance isn't for an audience—it's for myself, a shield against the simple, awful truth: sometimes love isn't enough when trust is broken.

And trust, for someone like me, is the rarest commodity of all.

TWENTY

Max

I've been pouringthe wrong drinks all night. Vodka tonic instead of gin and tonic. Bourbon neat when the customer asked for scotch. My mind is a thousand miles away—or more accurately, about twenty blocks east, in a sleek high-rise apartment where Lena is presumably moving on with her life while I slowly drown in mine. It's been two weeks since the coffee shop disaster, two weeks of robotic text exchanges about Luminous Beauty obligations coordinated entirely through Tori, two weeks of sleeping on the couch because my bed still smells like Lena's shampoo. Ryan keeps telling me I look like "a sad country song come to life," which might explain why customers have been tipping with pitying looks instead of actual money tonight.

"Manhattan, please," a woman in a business suit requests, settling onto a barstool.

"Coming right up," I reply automatically, reaching for the rye whiskey. My hand hovers over the bottle as an unwelcome memory surfaces—Lena, perched on this very stool the night we met, skeptical eyes watching me mix her drink, no idea she was about to propose a fake relationship that would unravel both our carefully constructed defenses.

"Sometime tonight would be great," the woman prompts, eyebrows raised.

"Sorry." I shake myself back to the present, focusing on the simple task that suddenly requires all my concentration. Sweet vermouth, bitters, cherry. Basic bartending. I can do this, even if I can't seem to do anything else right lately.

The bar door swings open, and Ryan and Drew walk in, scanning the room before spotting me. Great. The Sympathy Squad has arrived for their nightly check-in to ensure I haven't completely fallen apart. Their concern would be touching if it weren't so suffocating.

"You look like shit," Ryan announces by way of greeting, sliding onto a barstool after I serve the Manhattan woman. "Even worse than yesterday, which I didn't think was possible."

"Charming as always," I mutter, automatically reaching for the beers they usually order.

"We're worried about you, man," Drew says, his tone gentler than Ryan's but no less concerned. "You've been going through the motions for two weeks. It's like watching a zombie tend bar."

I set their beers down with more force than necessary. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, clearly." Ryan gestures to a customer frantically trying to get my attention from the other end of the bar. "You're the picture of functional adulting."

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