Page 51 of Not Your Valentine
“Really?”
“Okay, you are a bit cranky at times, but in a cute way.”
“Uh…”
“And you shouldn’t have to smile all the time if you don’t feel like it. I like the fact that when you smile, it’s always genuine, not something you do because it’s expected.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” I say, with less sarcasm than I’d intended. “He was also pissed at me because I refused to lend him money for his sketchy NFT and cryptocurrency business endeavors. That’s why he snapped.”
“I would never ask that of you,” Taylor says solemnly.
“I know.”
Okay, I have to admit it to myself: I want this to be a real relationship. After the light festival in the Distillery District, I blamed my desire for romance on my sexual dry spell and brushed it off the next morning. But now that one hot weekend has failed to get Taylor out of my system, I know I won’t be able to rid myself of the feeling easily.
Yes, despite swearing off love, a part of me yearns for a relationship again.
With Taylor.
But although he’s nothing like Charlie, I can’t make my mouth say those ridiculous words. Even though my heart—which is not shaped like that pink sprinkled donut—wants Taylor, it’s scared of getting hurt and humiliated again.
Especially since I’m not convinced he sees me that way, and it could screw up our friendship. He’s my oldest friend; the only friend I made prior to university whom I still talk to on a regular basis.
“Are you okay?” He puts down his fork and reaches across the table.
I ball my hand in my sweater, the sweater I wore on our first “date.” I wonder if he remembers. It’s horrifically sentimental that I wore it again today.
“Yeah,” I say, though it’s laughably far from the truth.
I want something that I don’t want to want. How did I let this happen?
After dinner, I post a picture of the donut bouquet, as well as one of our quiet meal at home, wishing it were a real Valentine’s celebration and not just for show.
Then we have sex again. I need a distraction, and I’ve recovered from our weekend sex marathon. Plus, that pink shirt really does look good on him—even if it looks better on the floor.
When we’re lying in bed afterward, I say, “You can stay the night, if you want.”
I don’t tell him that I’d like him to stay. Just confessing that…it would be too much.
He shakes his head. “I have to go home before work tomorrow, to get a change of clothes if nothing else, and if I leave it until the morning, I’ll need to wake up super early.”
He’s right. It’s only sensible for him to head home now, but that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed. Ugh, what is wrong with me?
Taylor strokes his hand over my side. “You know, I…”
For one glorious moment, I think he’s going to say it. That even though he can’t stay the night, he has feelings for me, and he wants to make this real.
But he doesn’t. He just shakes his head again. “I'd better get going.”
When he leaves, it feels anticlimactic. Our fake relationship will come to an end soon, a fake relationship that is, paradoxically, better than any of the real relationships I’ve had, and isn’t that messed up?
I look at the comments on the pictures I posted earlier. One friend—well, acquaintance—has written: You’re so lucky.
I want to scream something stupid at my phone, but I settle for hissing instead. Because, you know, neighbors.
Our social media accounts are a curated version of our lives, what we choose to show the world. Of course, occasionally something we choose not to show the world is filmed and goes viral and people make all sorts of stupid comments about you based on the 0.2 seconds you were on screen.
Then I read the rest of the comments…and they’re all from people I don’t know. Strangers who, from the sounds of it, have seen the video.
