Page 25 of Play Fake
“I didn’t know I was being watched.” He glances up at me, a curious look on his face.
“Oh please,” I shove his shoulder. “I am not watching, but I have eyes like everyone else. And the last one practically demanded you fuck her on the spot.“
He shakes his head, a small smile cracking as he dips his head down in a way that almost reads as embarrassment before he shrugs.
“It’s easy with them. They know what the deal is, and they’re happy with it.”
“And you never want more? To date? Have a girlfriend? You know, girlfriends generally know what the deal is and are happy with it, too.”
He studies me for a minute, like he’s trying to make sense of what I’ve just said before he answers.
“Relationships are complicated. There’s a lot more on the line. More expectations. More ways to fuck it up. Hookups with them? The only expectation is we both have fun for a bit.”
“I see. And more is not worth it to you?”
“I didn’t say that. I just never met someone worth all the complications.”
“So, all this time in college? You’ve never gone on a date? Never brought a girl up here to seduce her?”
He shifts his weight. Almost like I’m making him uncomfortable.
“Define date again.”
“Are you serious?”
“I just need to understand your definition.”
“Something more than sex? You watch a movie together. Go out to a bar. Get dinner. Star watch.” I point up to the surrounding sky, that’s still so stunning I get distracted by the sheer number of stars I can glimpse in that second alone.
“Well, then I’m on a date right now,” he smirks.
“Be serious.”
“We went to a bar this evening. We’ve got food. We’re star watching.”
I want to argue this is all fake, but in fairness, only the bar part of the evening was fake. The rest of this was all my doing. I’d asked him to take me somewhere, and he’d been kind enough to play along. A warm feeling creeps up the back of my neck at the thought of being on a date with Waylon, one I absolutely need to ignore.
“Fine. Before you went on a date with your fake girlfriend.”
“So, you admit you’re on a date with me?”
“Stop avoiding my question.”
He scrubs a hand over his face.
“I don’t know, probably freshman year or something.”
“Freshman year?” I practically squeak out the words.
“Why does it matter?”
“I just… wow. So how does it work then? These girls just like, drop in your lap and you just start fucking? No moves required?”
His hand drums on the edge of the truck, and I can tell he’s uncomfortable again.
“We hang out. We’re friends. See each other at parties and the bar and stuff,” he shrugs.
“And then, just like caveman style, you grunt out ‘wanna fuck?’ And it’s on?” A laugh bubbles out before I can stop it.
