Page 21 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
“For real?”Her screech ricochets through my bedroom.“We agreed he was off-limits after I said I’d totally do him.”
“It’s fake, Aiden.And just for a weekend.”I pause, holding up two outfits that don’t even belong in the same decade.“He’s still off-limits.We don’t mess with neighbors—I can’t afford to search for a new place.Also, minor detail—his family lives in Winterberry Cove.You know who else lives there?”
Mine.
Or close enough.They’re technically separated by acres of land and mutual loathing.But it’s all the same small town with the same nosy neighbors, church fundraisers, and obsessive annual pie-baking competitions that always end in passive-aggressive social media comments.
Honestly, what could possibly go wrong?Everything.
I unzip my third weekender bag, sigh, then dump the entire contents back onto the bed.Nothing feels right.Everything is wrong.I’m spiraling, and I know it, but that doesn’t mean I can stop.
“It’s like an emergency meet-the-royal-family situation.Or like a surprise audience with Beyoncé—but more like a guilt-tripped engagement party for his sister.So ...boom.Operation Fake Girlfriend is on.”
Aiden exhales like she’s aged five years.“And you said yes.”
“Obviously.”I toss a dress across the room.“Didn’t you hear that I just got dumped by Lancelot the LARPer?I need a distraction, plus my romantic standards are basically feral now.”
“You’re not using him as a rebound, are you?”Her voice dips into That Tone: concerned older cousin, code red.
“No.I’m not rebounding.I’m strategically soft-launching a man who’s literally allergic to emotions to keep me distracted from my current situation.”
I glare at a white blouse that used to be perfect until I baptized it in salsa at a Fourth of July barbecue.If I could find a Tide pen and the right bra, maybe it could work.Maybe I could work.
But then—what if everything I packed is wrong?
What if this vineyard isn’t the charming-romantic kind with fairy lights and sun-dappled wine tastings but instead the rustic, no-electricity, bring-your-own-bug-spray-and-wear-flannel kind?What if it smells like hay and disappointment?
Worse—what if his family is all tailored neutrals and icy glares, and I show up dressed like a vision board titled “Romantic Escapes for Sensitive Poets”?
“Winniefreddy.”Aiden groans.“You’re traveling last minute.Are you even remotely ready?”
“I’ll be fine.”Total lie.“He said, ‘you have one hour to pack’ like we’re fleeing the country.Do you know how hard it is to plan a cohesive fake-couple aesthetic with zero location intel?There was no Pinterest board.No vibe briefing.I’m working blind here.”
“You’re spiraling.”
I shoot the phone a look that could melt stone, even though she can’t see me.“What gave it away?”
There’s a pause.Then she adds, “Do you want help?”
“No.I want him to give me a full rundown of his wardrobe so we don’t show up looking like clashing fonts on a wedding invitation.”
“You want to coordinate?”
“Yes, because if we’re taking photos, I refuse to look like the before in a desperate makeover, fake girlfriend edition.I want the full illusion: cutesy couple laughing over wine, bickering over board games, possibly feeding each other dessert-like we’re auditioning for a rom-com montage.”
Aiden goes quiet.The kind of quiet that carries judgment.
“You’re really going all in on this.”
“It’s not for him.”I dig into my jewelry box with the grace of a raccoon.“It’s for the aesthetic.”
“Sure,” she says, with the verbal equivalent of a wink.“Keep telling yourself that, but you do realize this isn’t going to end well, right?”
“Have faith, Aid.”I hold up a Jane-Austen-meets-New-England-high-tea dress that once made me feel like the main character—until I realized I was the only one dressed like a Jane Austen fan at a poetry reading in a coffee shop.“I’ll send pictures.”
“Obviously.”
I hang up and survey the destruction.My bed now looks like a stylish landslide—if the landslide had strong opinions about fabrics and emotionally unavailable men.Still not right.I need visual context.I need a vibe check.
