Page 89 of Play Along With Me
"Okay," I protest weakly.
"It's true," she insists. "A mother knows these things."
My father, mercifully, keeps his goodbye more restrained—a warm handshake for me, a brief hug for Audrey, and a meaningful "Enjoy your evening" that manages to convey volumes while maintaining plausible deniability.
And then they're gone, leaving Audrey and I alone at the table, the pianist in the background transitioning to a jazzy rendition of "The Way You Look Tonight" as if taking cues from some invisible rom-com director.
"That was..." I begin.
"Subtle," Audrey finishes with a laugh. "About as subtle as a hockey puck to the face."
"I'm so sorry," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm apologizing for.
"Don't be," Audrey says, still smiling. "They're sweet. Intensely invested in your happiness, but sweet."
"They like you," I tell her. "For real, not just as my pretend girlfriend. My mom doesn't usually warm up to people so quickly."
"I'm very likable," Audrey says with mock seriousness. "It's my most marketable quality. That and my extensive knowledge of mullets through the decades."
"Speaking of which," I groan, "I cannot believe my mother brought that photo album. The hockey mullet phase was supposed to be buried in the past where it belongs."
"Never," Audrey declares. "It's historical documentation of a critical developmental phase. The flow, the volume, the business-in-front-party-in-back aesthetic—it's a cultural artifact that must be preserved for future generations."
She's laughing as she says it, her eyes bright with mischief. Before I can respond, she reaches out and runs her fingers lightly up the back of my neck and into my now much shorter hair, a teasing gesture that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
"Much improved," she assesses, her fingers still lingering. "Though I'm a little disappointed I missed the full hockey flow experience in person."
The touch of her hand at the nape of my neck is doing serious damage to my ability to form coherent thoughts. Herfingers are cool against my skin, the casual intimacy of the gesture belying the effect it's having on me.
"I could grow it back," I offer, my voice sounding strangely rough to my own ears. "If you're really that invested in questionable hairstyle choices."
"Don't you dare," she laughs, but her hand remains, her fingers now tracing small circles that are rapidly dismantling my capacity for rational thought. "The current look is much better. More professional hockey backup, less 'guy who sells hemp bracelets at music festivals.'"
I should make a joke here. Keep things light, maintain the banter that's been our safe territory. But the warmth of her touch and the look in her eyes—slightly uncertain but unmistakably interested—pushes me toward honesty instead.
"Audrey," I say quietly, "what are we doing here?"
Her fingers still against my neck, but she doesn't pull away. "Currently? I'm critiquing your hair evolution while secretly plotting how many tiramisus I can reasonably order without judgment."
"I mean this," I clarify, gesturing vaguely between us. "Is this still part of the act, or..."
I trail off, not quite brave enough to finish the question.
Audrey withdraws her hand slowly, and I immediately miss her touch. But instead of creating more distance, she meets my eyes directly, a frankness in her expression that I'm coming to recognize as purely her.
"I don't know," she admits. "It started as an act, obviously. A favor for a virtual stranger to avoid an awkward situation. But now it feels... different."
"Different how?" I press, needing clarification that I'm not imagining the shift between us.
"Different like I'm not sure if that 'real date' you mentioned after the first dinner was a pity invitation or if you actually want to spend time with me without the pretense of your parents or ex-girlfriend as an excuse."
Her bluntness startles a laugh out of me. "Pity? Audrey, you're the least pitiful person I've ever met."
"You'd be surprised," she says with a self-deprecating smile. "I've perfected the art of covering insecurity with humor and deflection. Very pitiful if you look beneath the surface."
"I'd like to," I say before I can stop myself. "Look beneath the surface, I mean."
Something shifts in her expression—vulnerability mixed with hope and a touch of the wariness I've come to recognize whenever conversations veer toward genuine emotion.
