Page 61 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“That’s a hard limit.”
“It’s required,” I argue, because I’ve clearly lost grip on sanity, and this hill is the one I’ve chosen to die on.“A couple in love wears coordinated costumes.That’s very important.”
“We’re not a couple in love.Change the dynamic.”
“You kissed me like we were,” I remind him.“They think we’re crazy for each other—probably wedding bells by next year.”
Silence.Just enough of it to make me regret every ounce of confidence.
“I’m going to be in London,” he says finally.
“Is that another excuse to avoid me, your fake relationship responsibilities, and miniature candy bars?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Oh, please,” I groan.“The fifth doesn’t apply when there’s a ficus involved.You crossed into real relationship territory the minute that delivery driver showed up on my porch with a potted metaphor and a smile.”
Another pause.
Then, a sigh that sounds entirely too much like surrender.
“Fine.But I draw the line at couples’ costumes involving tights.”
I grin.“No promises.”
“Do I even want to know what an emotional crisis looks like in your townhouse?”
“Picture a cornucopia.Now imagine it’s weaponized.”
“That’s oddly specific and somehow exactly what I expected.”
A pause stretches out.I can hear the faint clink of glass—he’s somewhere civilized, probably in a sleek hotel with dim lighting and overpriced bottled water.
“Why did you leave like that?”I ask, softer now.
He’s quiet for a beat.
“Because staying meant facing you.And I didn’t know if I could do that without ...saying something I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear.”
“Like what?”
“I’m definitely not ready to talk about it.”
“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admit.“We’re still pretending.We have to keep pretending.”
“Right.Until Christmas.For the Howler.”His voice tilts toward irony, but the undercurrent is gentle.
“Until the photo for the Howler,” I correct.“Then we quietly unravel the relationship and say we grew apart due to professional differences and conflicting Thanksgiving aesthetics.You could skip Christmas.”
Another pause.I hear him shift, the sound of fabric, maybe the soft creak of a chair.
“No,” he says.“If I skip Christmas, your mother will be insufferable.I wouldn’t do that to you.”
And that?That right there?That makes my throat tighten, my chest tip into something dangerous.Something soft.Something terrifying.
Because he says it like he means it.Like, he gives a damn about me.
That thirty-three percent maybe-I’m-in-love-with-him feeling?It just grew to forty-two.At this rate, I’ll be fully ruined by Thanksgiving.
