Page 15 of Love is an Open Book
Evie is nodding along like she’s starting to see my point, but like always, she doesn’t let me off easy. “Why couldn’t he just enroll in acting classes?”
“Because people are roasting him on social media for the celebrity impressions that were supposed to be for Sydney’s ears only,” I offer, seeing things fall into place. “Remixes are popping up, people commenting that he wasn’t even close and not to quit his day job, that sort of thing. His confidence is at an all-time low. Sydney wants to boost his spirits and get him back on track, and this is her solution.”
“You’re onto something,” she says. “If they’re acting then they can justify whatever romantic situation comes up. Sydney won’t be as worried about the potential repercussions to their friendship.”
“This could work, Evie. This could be my breakthrough.”
She’s grinning at me. “Told you it was only a matter of time.”
What would my relationship with Gavin look like, if there was no chance of getting hurt? I ignore that unhelpful train of thought.
Technically, I have the solution to my plot problems. An excuse to cancel the date. But part of me is worried I only got here because the stakes were high. Did trying to solve a real-world problem unlock a hidden well of creativity?
Role-playing.I write it down, and the word sends a delicious thrill down my spine, like sanctioned rule-breaking—pretty appealing as someone who’s always played it safe. But how could Gavin and I get into character without the excuse of acting out a scene? Fake dating is a trope, but it isn’t the only one. I begin to jot down ideas, pen flying across the paper. Is this risky? Yes, but I’m also feeling more inspired than I have since I signed the contract, and it’s all because I agreed to date my best friend.
Five
Gavin
Sitting at the bar after work on Sunday for trivia night, I slide my phone out of my pocket to check my texts again, but Mia’s left me on read. That’s not like her. She probably got pulled away, but it feels weirdly like I’m being ghosted. Serves me right for asking her out like that.
I had to think of a way to play it off. Maybe it’s all the romance plots that Mia’s talked through with me, but faking it was the first excuse that came to mind. I know she doesn’t model her books off real life. It reminds me of the time a creep came up after one of her events and asked if she needed help with “research.” The look she gave him was enough to have him apologizing in an instant. But did I do the same thing? God, I hope not.
She doesn’t need me to fill the role of boyfriend in her life, but maybe she does need me to get past her writer’s block. And we care about each other. That’s what friends do, right? They step up. But I can’t help but worry this impulsive move will drag us down.
This dive bar, with its ripped vinyl booths and plastic pitchers and sticky floors, feels a lot like the college bar where Mia made me promise to never let her date a friend. She made it clear that’s what I was to her, and I haven’t forgotten. Haven’t let myself get close to that line, because I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all, and most of the time, I can convince myself I’m not interested in anything else.
But I’ve heard all the stories about her bad first dates, watched her try to make it work with mediocre guys. I’ve seen her pick herself up and try again, and I’ve done the same, telling myself I’ll find someone who makes me feel better than she does. Hasn’t happened yet.
I’m still staring at the screen as if a response will magically appear when my buddy Morris yanks my phone out of my hand. “Man, quit checking that.” He slams it face down on the bar. “You’re going to get us disqualified.”
“No one’s even looking at us,” I mutter, but it doesn’t matter. Even though trivia night has been taken over by a new bartender who just reads off a tablet with the enthusiasm of a substitute teacher, Morris and Riley take this seriously. They dragged me here after work a few years ago and decided I was worth keeping around for the sports questions. Sometimes one of the other guys on our crew joins us, but he likes to win, and we don’t do much of that.
“Doesn’t matter if he sees or not,” Riley says, eyeing me from under the swoop of bangs, more auburn than red in the low light. “They’ll review the security footage if someone complains.”
I doubt they have cameras in here to deter theft, let alone keep trivia teams honest when the prize is a T-shirt. “Isn’t that a violation of our rights?” I say, just to egg her on. Somewhere along the way, we became good friends outside of work and trivia night. In fact, I don’t think trivia night is good for our friendship, if I’m being honest.
She gives me a flat stare. “Why do you keep checking it,anyway?” Not waiting for an answer, she stuffs my phone in her purse, zipping it shut for good measure. “Did you meet someone?”
“No,” I say, grateful not to have to lie.
“Is your dad pestering you?”
“No,” I repeat, more annoyed this time. I love my dad, and only I get to call him a pest. Did he rely on me a lot in the years after the divorce? Yeah. But lately, I haven’t heard from him much. I would worry, but he posts plenty on social media. Mostly pictures of meat he just pulled out of the smoker or baseball memes. When I checked in with him last week he was in good spirits, talking about the new contract our family’s tree farm scored for a fancy mixed-use development.
“Then get your head in the game, because the next category is sports. Last time you cost us the win because you were too busy chomping down on nachos,” Morris says.
They rely on me to pull my weight, but I’m mostly here for the half-price food. Not having to cook dinner on Sundays is a bigger draw than getting quizzed.
Intense teammates aside, I love my life here in the Chicago suburbs. After college, I had a job waiting for me at the tree nursery, but when the time came, I just couldn’t bring myself to go back. Going to college in Illinois had given me some distance from Dad, and the idea of being his whole support system again was too much. Not to mention running the farm isn’t the type of job you can clock out of at the end of the day.
The bartender reads out a question about pickleball and by some miracle I get it right. By the end of the round, we’re in the lead, and Morris buys a round of beer. I’m more interested in dinner and am biting down on a brisket-topped corn chip when Riley comes back from the bathroom, scowling.
“Your phone kept going off while I was in there,” she says with disgust, like it’s my fault she confiscated it. “What kind of person keeps their volume on?”
The kind of guy waiting on a text, that’s who. I can’t remember ever feeling this nervous to get a reply from Mia; usually it’s the opposite. But the texts are from my brother, not her.
Scott:Just made it to the farm.
