Page 82 of Play Along With Me
"I guess," I hedge. "But what if he was just being nice? Thanking me for helping him out? What if—"
"What if the sky falls and we're all crushed by celestial debris?" Leila interrupts. "What if aliens invade tomorrow? What if your mutual attraction is actually mutual and you could be happy together? So many terrifying possibilities."
"You're insufferable," I inform her.
"You love me," she counters. "And I love you, which is why I'm telling you to stop sabotaging yourself before you've even given this a chance."
My phone buzzes with another text.
Jake: Dinner tomorrow at La Famiglia, 7pm? Unless that's too Italian after today's brunch? Mom's choice, not mine. Apparently they have "a pianist who plays all the classics" which is Patricia-speak for "fancy but not intimidating."
Leila watches me read the text, a knowing smile on her face. "Let me guess. Dinner plans?"
I nod, already typing a response.
Me: Italian works. I contain multitudes of pasta capacity. And I'm always pro-live music, even if it's just a guy playing "Piano Man" on repeat for three hours.
Jake: I'll specify "no Billy Joel" on the reservation.
Me: Dealbreaker. I only date men who provide me with regular Billy Joel musical accompaniment.
Jake: I'll learn to play "Piano Man" immediately. Can't risk losing my fake girlfriend over something so easily remedied.
I'm smiling again, that involuntary reaction to Jake's texts that's becoming embarrassingly predictable.
"You know what your problem is?" Leila says, watching me with that infuriating insight she sometimes displays. "You're scared of being happy. Real, uncomplicated happiness."
"That's not true," I protest. "I'm happy lots of times. When there's a good book and a rainy day. When Mr. Darcy does something cute. When I find money in an old coat pocket."
"Small happinesses," Leila nods. "Safe ones. I'm talking about the big, life-changing kind. The kind that comes with risk."
I want to argue, but she's not entirely wrong. The prospect of real happiness—the vulnerable, dependent-on-another-person kind—terrifies me more than failure or rejection. Because if you never really let yourself have it, you can't really lose it.
"He's probably leaving, you know," I say quietly. "After the season, or whenever his contract is up. That's how hockey works. They get traded, called up, sent down. His whole life is in transition."
"So is everyone's," Leila points out. "That's just life. You can't pre-reject someone because of future hypotheticals."
"I'm being practical," I insist.
"You're being a coward," Leila says, but gently. "And I get it. After Daniel, after watching him move on so easily while you're still checking his Instagram daily—"
"I haven't checked today," I interject, then realize how pathetic that sounds as a defense.
"Progress," Leila acknowledges. "Look, all I'm saying is don't sabotage something potentially good because you're afraidit might eventually end. Everything eventually ends. That's not a reason not to start."
My phone buzzes again, and I check it reflexively.
Jake: Just a heads up—Mom's bringing the photo albums tomorrow. I've negotiated down from three albums to one, with the stipulation that photos from ages 13-17 are off limits. This is the best deal I could secure.
Me: Unacceptable. The awkward teenage years are precisely what I'm interested in. I'll handle the negotiations directly with Patricia. She likes me better anyway.
Jake: Betrayed by my own fake girlfriend. The ultimate deception.
I laugh out loud, earning another knowing look from Leila.
"What's the worst that could happen?" she asks. "You admit you like him, he feels the same way, you date for real, and eventually he gets traded to Arizona? At least you'd have had something genuine in between. Or he doesn't feel the same way, you're momentarily embarrassed, and life goes on. Neither scenario is actually apocalyptic."
Put that way, it sounds almost reasonable. Almost.
