Page 123 of The Fake Dating War

REEMA

I didn’t read his messages.

Instead, I sent him a message of my own two days later, after the paint on the walls had dried and a single, blow-up mattress sat in the middle of my new apartment. On it, I’m alone.

My sister and her husband left for their honeymoon, but only after threatening me with a visit a few weeks from now. I told them it was unfair to subject me to the chaotic moods of a pregnant woman, to which Esha said she did not give a fuck. I told her fine, but also to bring our parents with her. She agreed too quickly.

The buzzer rings.

That’s him. He has come.

My message had been simple, almost badly so, when compared to the volume of his efforts. Mine was one line.

I’m at this address.

That was followed by a pin of my location.

Jake hasn’t wasted time. Almost as soon as I reached out, he’s here. As if he’d been waiting this whole time to be here.

He walks through my door, clenching a bouquet.

“You brought me flowers,” I whisper. “But I’ve got allergies.”

Without hesitation, he chucks them to the ground. “Can I come in?”

“You’re already inside.”

“Closer to you.”

“If you want?”

He does, and that’s when I notice the universe has listened to one of my forgotten wishes. Jake Coleman is now a troll.

Except, not really.

He’s a man who looks to be in a lot of pain.

His face is as if hands have dragged over it many times, and eyes are miserable pools of murky green, covered in shadows. Shaving has been abandoned for almost a week’s worth of beard growth, and even his hair seems exhausted as strands wilt over one eye.

The outfit is no better.

His collar is deflated. There’s no tie.

He slowly glances around the space. “Are you moving out?”

“Moving in. This is where I’m going to live now.”

“It’s nice.”

“Sort of. I mean, yes.”

See, we can be cordial. Vocally I’m not falling apart and I can stay that way, if I stand in this exact spot and don’t move around or breathe too deeply, or look at his arms and imagine them around me. No, I can’t do that. That’s the worst idea. If I do that, a massive amount of agony flares without warning inside me.

“Thank you for letting me come here,” says Jake. There’s a rustle of movement. I cautiously angle myself to see him pull out a paper from his pocket. He holds it for me to see. It’s a check.

“The bonus,” he says. “It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

He places it on my kitchen counter and steps away as if it has nothing to do with him.

---