Page 85 of Play Along With Me
The words flow more easily than they have in weeks, the chapter unfolding as Eliza becomes increasingly entangled in strangers' lives while ignoring the growing disconnect in her own relationships. By the time I pause, I've written nearly three thousand words—more than I've managed in a single sitting in months.
I save the file, a quiet sense of accomplishment warming me. Progress, finally.
But as I close my laptop, the parallels between Eliza's situation and my own become uncomfortably obvious. Am I so busy protecting myself from potential hurt that I'm creating the very regrets I'm trying to avoid?
I pull out my journal—not the organized, productivity-focused planner I use for work schedules and writing goals, but the battered composition notebook where I occasionally dump my most honest thoughts. I haven't written in it for months, not since the weeks after Daniel's engagement announcement.
What do I actually want?I write, the question looking stark against the blank page.
I stare at it for a long moment, then continue:
Not to be hurt again. Not to watch someone I care about decide I'm not enough, not worth prioritizing. Not to invest years in a relationship only to end up back at square one, alone and starting over.
But that's all what I DON'T want. What do I actually WANT?
The question is harder to answer than it should be. I've spent so long defining myself by what I'm avoiding that I've lost sight of what I'm moving toward.
I want to finish my novel. I want it to be good. I want to stop bartending eventually, though I don't hate it. I want to not check Daniel's Instagram every day. I want to stop using humor as armor against real connection.
I pause, then add:
I want to know Jake better. Not fake-relationship Jake, but real Jake. The one who texts me about his childhood dog and his favorite books and his pre-game rituals. The one who apologizes for his mother's Instagram posts and makes sure I know he's grateful for my help and never assumes I can't handle things myself.
The admission feels both terrifying and freeing. I haven't wanted to get to know someone—really know them, beyond surface attraction or convenient companionship—in a long time. Not since Daniel. Maybe not even with Daniel, if I'm being brutally honest with myself.
But the thought of canceling dinner tomorrow, of pulling back from whatever this is becoming, produces an immediate hollow feeling in my chest. I could text Jake now, make up an excuse about work, retreat to the safety of distance and deflection. It would be easier, in the short term.
And I'd regret it immediately.
The irony doesn't escape me—a writer whose protagonist can see other people's regrets, unable to avoid creating her own. Maybe that's just life, though. Maybe the trick isn't avoiding all potential regrets but choosing which ones you can live with.
I close my journal, decision made. I'm going to dinner tomorrow. Not because I'm obligated, not just to help Jake with his parents, but because I want to. Because getting to know him better is worth the risk of whatever complications might follow.
My phone buzzes with a final text from Jake:
Jake: My mother's Instagram campaign probably crosses several harassment thresholds. Totally understand if you need to back out on dinner.
I smile at the screen, typing:
Me: I'll be there. Can't back out now that I'm Instagram official with the Marshall family. Plus, I've already planned my strategic approach to the photo album situation.
Jake: Should I be worried?
Me: Deeply and constantly. See you tomorrow, Hockey Jesus.
Jake: Looking forward to it, Audrey.
I put my phone on the charger and climb into bed, where Mr. Darcy promptly claims his usual spot on my pillow, leaving me the narrow edge as usual. Despite the discomfort, I fall asleep more easily than I have in weeks, thoughts of tomorrow's dinner following me into dreams that, for once, don't feature Daniel at all.
Chapter 12
I'm lingering outside La Famiglia fifteen minutes early, partly from my pathological punctuality and partly to intercept my parents before they can ambush Audrey with whatever new embarrassing material my mother has undoubtedly prepared since brunch.
The Instagram photo incident still has me cringing internally. Twenty-three relatives and counting have now texted, called, or emailed about my "serious relationship" and "that lovely girl" they've never met but already approve of based solely on my mother's enthusiastic digital oversharing.
If I were Audrey, I'd have run screaming for the hills by now, fake relationship be damned. The fact that she's still willingly participating in this charade is nothing short of miraculous.
And terrifying. Because somewhere between her diabetic cat fiction and watching her charm my parents at brunch, I've developed feelings that weren't part of our original arrangement. Real feelings that make this whole scenario considerably more complicated.
