Page 25 of Fake Out

“I hate cilantro,” he says abruptly from the other side of the room, breaking our silence.

I laugh, taken aback by the random confession. “Okay. It tastes like soap?”

“Yes.” He grins. “How did you know?”

I chuckle again and make a mental note of it, despite how unlikely the topic of cilantro will come up during our meeting tomorrow.

But then, as twilight seeps into the room and fatigue paints shadows under our eyes, we find ourselves side by side on the couch again. The laughter dies down, replaced by a quiet understanding that we’ve done a good job today. It’s strange how draining pretending can be.

Looking at Charlie almost feels intimate now, his expressive eyes holding my gaze and then looking to my lips. His hand rests next to mine on the couch: close but not touching. The possibility of contact sends goosebumps up my arm.

For an illusion, it feels terribly real.

I lick my lips and search for something distracting to talk about, something that has nothing to do with the butterflies in my chest.

“What are your favorite movies?” I ask.

“Movies?” He seems surprised by the question but plays along. “Hmm, that’s tough… Okay, I have a top three. The Godfather, Rocky, and… The Princess Bride.”

“The Princess Bride?” I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head, defending his choice. “What? It’s a classic.”

In the dim light, his eyes twinkle with mirth, and my heart does that annoying flutter again. I swallow it down and feign seriousness.

“I didn’t peg you as a fan of romantic comedies,” I say.

“Well…” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I guess it doesn’t pay to judge a book by its cover.”

I chuckle at that. It’s a simple statement but somehow profound coming from him. Charlie Elwood, the star athlete, the man who always looks so brooding in photos, loves The Princess Bride.

As our laughter subsides, our conversation lulls and our eyes meet once more. The air between us crackles again like a live wire. All of a sudden, I notice how close we are now — close enough to close the distance if either of us dared.

“What about you?” he asks. “Favorite movies.”

“Me?” I tap my finger against my chin, buying some time.

His question has scattered my thoughts. A tame attempt to locate their fragments leaves me staring at his lips.

“Julia Roberts,” I answer, forcing my gaze back to his eyes. “Anything with Julia Roberts.”

He chuckles at my vague reply. “That’s not a movie.”

“But it’s an answer,” I retort, giving him a playful shrug.

Silence follows, but it’s a comfortable one. The kind of silence that speaks volumes on its own, without the need for words or sounds. His gaze shifts from my eyes to my mouth, lingering for a moment before moving back up again.

“And why Julia Roberts?” He continues the conversation smoothly, as if he didn’t just inspect my lips like they were made of gold.

“Because she’s amazing,” I state. “She’s strong and she’s real, and she can be anyone she wants to be.”

Charlie nods thoughtfully, admiration in his eyes.

“Strong and real,” he repeats softly. Then after a pause, adds, “Like you.”

My heart skips a beat. Or maybe it stops altogether — I can’t feel it anymore.

The room is dense with unspoken words and unsaid feelings hanging between us like fog. The heat from his body radiates towards me, making me shiver despite the warmth.

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