Page 43 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
And yet here I am, hiding in a bathroom, wishing we hadn’t stopped.I start with concealer.Tap, blend.Next comes the lip color—not too bold, not too innocent.A soft mauve with enough attitude to say, ‘I’ve emotionally recovered and still have a little mystery left.’
Hairpins.I tame the loose strands and smooth everything back into place, every twist and tuck a silent mantra:You are calm.You are confident.You are not spiraling.
Spoiler alert: I’m totally spiraling.
But at least I look like I’m not.
Mascara.Blush.A touch of setting spray.And just like that, I’m not a girl hiding in a bathroom anymore.
I’m Winnifred 2.0.
The upgraded, post-kiss version.Still slightly unhinged, but with better contour.
I take a breath, roll my shoulders, and try to remember the mission.This is fake.We are faking.And nothing—not even the way he kissed me like he meant every second of it—can change that.
Unless he kisses me like that again.
Then I’m fucked.
Another kiss like that and ...I swallow because, in some way, after that kiss, he made me want more.
I pull out my phone.I need a distraction.A meme.A group chat.Something to ground me.
But there’s a notification.Oh, no, It’s a text from my mother.
Mom: So you’re in town and dating a Thorn?What happened to Chad?Were those all lies?
Mom: Call me.
I stare at it.
“Why me?”I swear this weekend can’t get any worse ...it could, so I better not tempt fate or karma.They’re out to get me.
I am going to pass out.Right here.On this tile.Someone will find me three days from now, clutching my phone and murmuring, “It was supposed to be a fake soft launch” into the void.
Because this is it.The moment I’ve feared since I realized we’ll be here for this little charade.This is what every spiraling thought has led to.
She knows.
My mother knows I’m here.She knows I’m with him.
She doesn’t ask if it’s true.
She just knows.
And if she knows?Everyone knows.
My Aunt Melissa is probably two margaritas deep into a theory about how I faked a relationship.My siblings ...I don’t even want to know.
I swipe up, turn on airplane mode.Because I need one second.Just one.
I lower the phone and press it against my chest, like if I hold it there long enough, the truth will vibrate out of me, and I can go back to pretending.
I should text Soren.
I should laugh it off.
I should crawl out of this bathroom and say something charming, something like, “Well, that escalated,” and pretend my heart didn’t just rewrite itself in his mouth.
