Page 68 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

After serving the neglected customer, I return to find my friends in serious conversation, their heads bent together like they're plotting something. Never a good sign.

"What?" I demand.

"We think you're being an idiot," Ryan says bluntly.

"More specifically," Drew adds, "we think you're giving up too easily."

I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "You didn't see her face at that coffee shop. She's done. She made that perfectly clear."

"And you just accepted it?" Ryan shakes his head in disbelief. "The Max Donovan I know doesn't roll over that easily."

"This isn't some bar dispute or band disagreement," I snap, frustration leaking through my carefully maintained numbness. "I betrayed her trust. I made a bet about not falling for her, and then I fell for her, and then I hid the bet from her. She found out in probably the worst possible way. There's no fixing that."

"So you're not even going to try?" Drew asks quietly.

The question catches me off guard. "What's there to try? She doesn't want me anymore."

"Did she actually say that?" Ryan presses. "Or did she say she couldn't trust you?"

"Same difference."

"No," he insists, "it's not. Trust can be rebuilt. But only if you're willing to put in the work."

I focus on wiping down the already-clean bar top, avoiding their too-perceptive gazes. "You don't understand her history. After what Cameron did to her, making their relationship into content, exposing her publicly…and then she finds out I made a bet about her? It confirmed her worst fears about men seeing her as something to be used or won."

"Then help her understand it wasn't like that," Drew suggests. "Make her see the truth."

"I tried explaining at the coffee shop. She believes I care about her, but she says she can't be with someone she doesn't fully trust." The memory of her composed face, the careful way she maintained distance between us, still aches like a physical wound. "I respect her enough to accept that decision."

"Bullshit," Ryan says flatly. "You're not respecting her decision. You're protecting yourself from further rejection."

His accusation lands with precision, uncomfortably close to a truth I've been avoiding. "That's not?—"

"It is." He leans forward, uncharacteristically serious. "I've known you for years, Max. You did the same thing with music. When things got scary, when success was actually within reach, you walked away. You're doing it again with Lena."

"I'm not walking away," I protest. "She ended things."

"And you just accepted it," Drew points out. "Didn't fight, didn't pursue, didn't make any grand gestures to prove you're worth trusting again."

"Grand gestures are for movies, not real life."

"Maybe," Ryan concedes. "But real love means fighting for someone when it matters. Does she matter, Max?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. Does Lena matter? She's all that matters. She's the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before sleep. She's the reason music is flowing through my head again after years of silence. She's the woman who saw through my carefully constructed nonchalance to the scared, passionate person beneath—and loved that person anyway, until I gave her reason not to.

"Of course she matters," I admit quietly. "She's everything."

"Then why are you here, moping and pouring the wrong drinks, instead of fighting to get her back?" Ryan demands.

"Because I'm terrified," I confess, the words finally breaking through the numbness I've been cultivating for two weeks. "Terrified she's better off without me. Terrified she'll never trust me again no matter what I do. Terrified of trying and failing and having to live with the certainty that it's over instead of this…limbo."

Drew's expression softens. "That's the thing about love, man. It's always terrifying. But sometimes you have to risk everything for the chance at something real."

"When did you two become relationship philosophers?" I ask, trying to deflect from the uncomfortable truth of their words.

"We've been watching a lot of rom-coms," Ryan admits shamelessly. "Research to help your sorry ass."

Despite everything, I laugh—a genuine sound that feels foreign after weeks of hollow existence. "And what do these rom-coms suggest I do? Stand outside her window with a boombox?"

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