Page 66 of Play Along With Me
"Like the time I accidentally signed up for a silent meditation retreat thinking it was a wine tasting," I supply. "Spent three days trying to communicate my mistake through increasingly desperate charades before finally escaping in the middle of the night."
"Did that really happen?" Jake asks, momentarily breaking character.
"Distressingly, yes," I confirm. "Ask Leila for photographic evidence sometime."
Jake laughs, a real laugh that transforms his face. "See? Adventures."
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of increasingly outlandish stories (some true, some improvised), Patricia's enthusiastic questions about our "relationship," and Jessica's thinly veiled attempts to remind everyone of her shared history with Jake. By dessert, I've developed a strange, almost telepathic ability to know which fictional anecdotes Jake will back up and which he'll gently redirect.
"—and then the duck just walked right into the bar!" I conclude what is actually a true story from my bartending days.
Jake is laughing so hard he has to put down his fork. "The security guard just let it waddle right past?"
"He said, and I quote, 'Not my jurisdiction,'" I confirm. "The duck then proceeded to swim in our decorative fountain for an hour before animal control arrived."
"You lead a very interesting life, Audrey," Robert observes with a smile.
"That's one word for it," I agree. "Jake's been remarkably understanding about the random elements that seem to follow me around."
"You make life more interesting," Jake says, and for a moment, the line between fake relationship and real connection blurs uncomfortably.
As we finish our coffee, I excuse myself to the restroom, needing a brief break from the performance. In the elegant marble bathroom, I stare at my reflection, trying to process the surreal evening. I've spent the past two hours pretending to be in a relationship with someone I barely know, creating an entire fictional history together, and—most disturbingly—enjoying it immensely.
The door opens, and Jessica enters, because this night apparently needed one more layer of awkwardness.
"Hello," she says, moving to the sink beside me.
"Hi," I reply, suddenly fascinated by my own handwashing technique.
"You and Jake seem very... compatible," she observes, her tone neutral.
"Thank you?" I respond, unsure if it's a compliment or an observation.
Jessica dries her hands carefully before turning to face me directly. "I'm not trying to make things uncomfortable," she says. "Jake and I have been over for years. It was just... unexpected to see him so different with someone else."
I feel a stab of guilt so acute it's almost physical. "Different how?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.
"Lighter," she says after a moment's consideration. "More present. With me, he was always... somewhere else. Thinking about hockey, planning his next career move. You seem to pull him into the moment."
The guilt intensifies. "We haven't been together long," I say weakly.
"It doesn't always take long," she replies with a small smile. "Sometimes it's just the right chemistry. I'm glad he's found that."
She leaves before I can respond, leaving me staring at my reflection again, now with an added layer of complicated emotions. This charade was supposed to be simple—help Jake avoid an awkward situation, get free nachos, everyone wins. But seeing the genuine hurt and envy in Jessica's eyes makes me feel like the villain in someone else's story.
When I return to the table, Patricia is showing Jake something on her phone, making him groan in embarrassment.
"Audrey!" she exclaims when she sees me. "You must see these! Baby Jake in his first pair of skates!"
"Mom, please," Jake protests, but there's no real resistance in it.
Patricia hands me her phone, displaying a photo of a chubby-cheeked toddler standing wobbly on tiny skates, his face a perfect mix of determination and terror.
"This is adorable," I say truthfully. "Look at those cheeks!"
"I was three," Jake explains. "My dad built a backyard rink every winter. I basically lived on it."
"He fell constantly for the first week," Robert adds. "But refused to come inside. Just kept getting back up."
