Page 33 of Fake It 'til You Make It

‘I’m wearing lounge pants,’ she shouts above the music.

‘I can see that. Come on.’

It’s not like my shorts and hoodie combo are screaming ‘party’ either. I reach out to place a hand on her shoulder. I don’t know why, for moral support perhaps. But she moves and my hand winds up on the bare skin of the nape of her neck.

Her eyes dart to mine and I expect to be yelled at for touching her. But her mouth opens without sound, exquisite, gold-flecked eyes wide. She has a smattering of freckles across her nose that spills onto her cheeks.

And she’s really close to me. So near I can smell coconut in her hair. Without conscious thought, I inhale and am greeted with the scent of holidays. The calm of the ocean. The warmth of the sun. A mind devoid of stress. I almost forget there’s a party kicking off right behind us.

A party. People. Mike’s house. Mike who is me but isn’t. Abbey who thinks I am Mike. And for some reason, I really don’t want her to find out that I’m Ted, the tech guy, the non-athlete. That I’m Peter Parker, not Spiderman.

I could really use one of those free beers.

‘Let’s get a beer, Fluffy Boots.’

That breaks the peace we held for a fleeting moment. Her glower returns and her hands are back on her hips.

‘Don’t call me Fluffy Boots!’

‘It beats Big Panties,’ I tell her, laughing as her mouth forms a really big O.

I take two beers from the refrigerator and flip off the tops with an opener someone has helpfully found and left lying on the benchtop.

As I hand a bottle to Abbey, my cellphone rings.

About time, big brother.

13

ABBEY

‘How do you know Mike?’

The woman who asks the question seems to come out of nowhere. As soon as Mike has gone, her proximity to me increases until she’s practically on top of me.

I’m chastising myself but can’t help thinking:she smells expensive but looks cheap. First, that’s nasty and judgy and unnecessary. Secondly, she looks cheap in a way that probably cost a small fortune. She’s wearing a black leather mini-dress and what I can only describe as hooker sandals, strapped from her ankles to her thighs.

How long must it take to put those things on? Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a pair of fishnet stockings?

I also can’t help noticing the way her extremely pert breasts appear to defy gravity, as if she’s managed to fit bones in the dress, as well as her body.

Would it be weird to ask her to give me a twirl so I can understand this feat of engineering?

She looks hot. Smoking hot. And the way she looks fits perfectly well with Mike’s boastful attitude. His supercilioussmirk. The way he speaks as if everything he has to say is important.

Yes, this woman’s get-up could be described as Female Mike.

She leans her head to one side, letting me know that she’s waiting for my answer.

‘Ah I don’t, not really. We’re neighbors. I’ve recently moved in.’

‘Ohhhhh.’ With a wine glass in her hand, she gestures up and down the length of my body. ‘This makes sense now. Do you need to borrow sugar or something?’

She laughs, as if her insult was the best joke ever.

I’ll have her know these are my new capsule wardrobe lounge pants.

Any ounce of guilt I felt for stereotyping or objectifying her appearance has dissolved into my well ofwhat the hell am I doing here?thoughts.

---