Page 66 of Bleacher Report
Abby stops short. “Wait—what bed? You said you were broke.”
“Oh, I am. It’s not my bed. Hunter bought it. Had it delivered yesterday while he was out of town.”
She turns to stare at me like I just told her I eloped with Jason Momoa.
“He bought you a bed?”
I nod.
“A whole bed? Like...with a frame and everything?”
“Yes.”
Abby scoffs. “Your king-sized fake boyfriend bought you a plow platform?”
I blink. “A what?”
“You know...a sheet shaker, a boom-boom base, a horizontal hustle zone.”
I reach over and gently pluck the iced tea from her hand. “I don’t think you need any more of this. You’re wired enough.”
She throws her arms up. “Meanwhile, your brother hasn’t given me more than a crick in my neck and a caffeine addiction.”
I snort. “The bed’s really nice, too.”
She smirks over at me. “Oh, I bet it is. Of course it is. Because men like Hunter Reed only come in two modes—emotionally unavailable or accidentally perfect. And you’re telling me this man bought you a bed and still hasn’t screwed you in it?”
“Abby!”
“I’m just saying,” she says as we push through the studio doors, “this man is one pillow talk away from domestic bliss, and you’re still calling this fake?”
I roll my eyes, but the little flutter in my stomach doesn’t lie.
Because the bed? The text? The scavenger hunt yesterday?
None of it feels fake.
Abby’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I see that look. You’re in trouble.”
“I am not,” I insist, adjusting my mat under my arm as we walk inside. “It’s fake, remember?”
She gives me a knowing look. “You keep saying that, but the way you’re blushing right now? Fake isn’t the word I’d use.”
I don’t respond because what am I supposed to say? That every time Hunter texts me, it feels less fake and more like the start of something I can’t afford to want?
We check in at the front desk, and as we walk toward the back corner of the studio, Abby lowers her voice.
“Look, I’m not saying you’re in love with him—”
“Good. Because I’m definitely not,” I interrupt.
She ignores me. “I’m just saying…maybe you should figure out what’s real and what’s not before you wake up one morning and it’s too late.”
The instructor dims the lights and the class begins, but her words stick like a pebble in my shoe.
Because the truth is, I’m starting to lose track of what’s fake and what’s not too.
We take our spots at the back of the class because we don’t come enough and we’re sure to make asses out of ourselves…plus we’re loud, and we get glares from the serious yogis upfront if we get too close.
