Page 80 of Play Along With Me
Jake's face is unfair. Not just the obvious parts (jaw that could cut glass, eyes that shift between gray and blue depending on the light, slight crook in his nose that somehow makes him more handsome rather than less), but the way it changes when he laughs—transformation from serious professional to boyish charm in 0.2 seconds. And his hands. WHY am I noticing his hands?? Long fingers, strong palms, slight callouses. Goalkeeper hands. The way he watches everything, notices everything—intense but not intimidating. Quietness that isn't awkward but comfortable. Makes silences feel safe. How he stands up for me with his mother but lets me handle things my own way. Doesn't assume I need rescuing. The way he's always IN THE MOMENT, fully present, not half-distracted like most people. His heart—not the literal organ, obviously, but the way he cares: about his parents despite their invasiveness, about Jessica the ex who clearly hurt him, about teammates from descriptions. Even the way he apologizes for things beyond his control—mother's Instagram deep-dive, awkward situations he didn't create.
I stare at what I've written, horrified by the detail and emotion evident in every word. This is not the note of someone maintaining professional distance in a fake relationship. This is the note of a woman developing real feelings for a man who thinks they're just playing pretend.
Before I can delete the evidence of my emotional tailspin, my phone buzzes with a text. From Jake.
Jake: Parents thoroughly charmed. Mom hasn't stopped talking about you since we left. Dad says you have "moxie," which is the highest compliment in his vocabulary.
I stare at the screen, heart doing a tiny flip that I immediately try to suppress. Just as I'm crafting a response, another text arrives:
Jake: Also, she's already trying to find a way to extend their trip so we can all do something next weekend. I've explained NHL schedules make this impossible. Sorry in advance for whatever she comes up with instead.
I smile despite myself, typing back:
Me: Moxie! I'll add that to my resume immediately. "Skills include: making excellent Manhattans, writing unfinished novels, and possessing undefined quality known as 'moxie.'"
Jake: Don't forget "surviving Patricia Marshall's interrogation" and "chocolate fountain engineering." Valuable life skills.
Me: Both transferable to numerous professional settings. Future employers will be impressed.
A customer enters, forcing me to pocket my phone, but the warm glow of our exchange lingers as I take their order and prepare a complicated latte with oat milk and three pumps of sugar-free hazelnut syrup.
By the time the after-church crowd dissipates and I check my phone again, Jake has sent two more texts:
Jake: For the record, you were amazing today. Above and beyond. My dad is notoriously hard to impress and you had him at "aggressively creative interpretations" of choir songs.
Jake: Also, does your "switching shifts" offer still stand for dinner tomorrow? Absolutely no pressure. You've already done more than enough.
I shouldn't say yes. I should create distance, establish boundaries, protect my increasingly vulnerable heart from this situation that's spiraling out of my control.
Me: Wouldn't miss it. Patricia promised to bring photo albums. The hockey mullet documentation alone is worth the price of admission.
Jake: I'm going to regret this, aren't I?
Me: Deeply and thoroughly. But think of it as karmic balance for putting me through the "how many children do you want and what are your thoughts on winter weddings" gauntlet.
Jake: Fair point. I deserve whatever embarrassment comes my way.
There's a pause before his next text arrives:
Jake: Thank you, Audrey. Not just for doing this, but for making it... fun. I expected this weekend to be a disaster, but it's been surprisingly not-terrible.
Me: High praise! "Not-terrible" is exactly what I strive for in all social interactions.
Jake: You know what I mean. You make everything easier, somehow.
And there it is—the kind of sincerity that punches through my carefully constructed walls, making it harder to maintain the safe distance of jokes and deflection. Because Jake says things like that—simple, honest observations that feel more intimate than flowery compliments or carefully crafted flattery.
Me: Just fulfilling my contractual fake girlfriend obligations. Section 3, paragraph 2: "Must make family gatherings at least 37% less awkward than they would otherwise be."
Jake: Is there a clause about making the fake boyfriend laugh more in one weekend than he has in the past month? Because you're exceeding expectations there.
Me: That's the premium package. You're getting the deluxe fake girlfriend experience. Consider yourself lucky.
"Secret boyfriend?" Marcos asks as he passes behind me, making me nearly drop my phone in surprise.
"What? No. Just a friend."
"A friend who makes you smile like that?" he says skeptically. "Must be some friend."
