Page 91 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Your approval means everything to me," I deadpan, though secretly, it kind of does.

"Good. Now stop destroying our liquor inventory and go meet your future wife."

The W-word sends a jolt through me—not panic, as it might have once, but a strange, warm certainty. Not yet, but someday. Maybe someday soon.

Dave arrives for his shift fifteen minutes early, sensing my desperation to escape. I change quickly in the back room, swapping my bourbon-splashed work shirt for a clean button-down. As I exit through the main bar, Ryan calls after me:

"Don't screw it up, Donovan!"

Solid advice from a true romantic.

Lena suggested meeting at a small café halfway between The Copper Key and her office—neutral territory for a conversation that could reshape our future. When I arrive, she's already there, seated at a corner table with two coffee cups and an expression that mirrors my own mix of excitement and trepidation.

"Hi," she says as I slide into the seat across from her. "I ordered your usual. Hope that's okay."

"Perfect." I take a sip of the coffee, buying time as I study her face. She looks beautiful, as always, but there's something different about her today—a focused intensity, a quiet determination.

"So," we both begin simultaneously, then laugh, breaking some of the tension.

"You first," I offer, reaching across the table to take her hand.

She takes a deep breath, her fingers tightening around mine. "The Luminous Beauty contract expires in three weeks. Victoria called today to discuss renewal options."

"And?" I prompt when she pauses.

"And I told her we needed to think about it." She meets my eyes directly. "This needs to be a mutual decision, Max. The contract has been a big part of our lives, for better or worse. Whatever comes next, I want us to decide together."

The consideration touches me deeply. A year ago, Lena might have made this decision independently, weighing only professional factors. Now she's prioritizing our partnership, our shared future.

"What are the options?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Option one: we renew, but with adjusted terms. Less 'perfect couple' narrative, more authentic relationship story, fewer mandatory appearances." She counts on her fingers as she lists possibilities. "Option two: we don't renew, and I look for partnerships that don't directly involve our relationship. Option three: we create our own project—something that reflects who we are now, not who we were pretending to be when this started."

"What's option three look like specifically?"

Her eyes light up with enthusiasm. "That's what I wanted to talk about! We could document our real journey—how we went from fake to real, the challenges, the growth. Not in a curated, 'everything is perfect' way, but honestly."

"Like a relationship reality show? Because I draw the line at cameras in the bedroom" I keep my tone light, teasing.

She rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Nothing that invasive. More like…a joint creative project. Your music, my platform, our story. Authenticity as it actually exists, messy parts included."

The idea is intriguing, particularly the musical aspect. Since reconnecting with performance, I've toyed with recording some original compositions, potentially exploring digital distribution options that didn't exist when I was touring with The Last Remark.

"I like it," I say slowly, ideas taking shape. "But if we're going public with a completely authentic version of us, we should make it memorable. Really lean into the unusual aspect of our beginning."

A mischievous glint appears in her eye. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

What follows can only be described as escalating absurdity as we brainstorm increasingly ridiculous ways to announce our "official" real relationship to the world.

"We could recreate our first meeting," Lena suggests. "Me walking into The Copper Key, you mixing drinks, the whole fake relationship proposal. But filmed as it actually happened, awkwardness and all."

"Or we could stage a fake breakup of our fake engagement," I counter, warming to the game. "Really confuse everyone before revealing it was all part of the journey to something real."

"Too complicated," she decides, sipping her coffee. "What about a dramatic reading of our text exchange after you spilled cherry Italian ice all over your crotch at Tony's?"

Each suggestion becomes more outlandish than the last—Lena proposes hiring skywriters to spell out "FAKE RELATIONSHIP, REAL FEELINGS" over Brooklyn Bridge Park. I counter with matching tattoos of the plastic ring I gave her during our staged proposal. She ups the ante with a flash mob performing at The Copper Key.

"What about," I begin, then hesitate, a more serious idea forming.

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