Page 44 of The Fake Play

Keke

Ifeel excited as I prepare to go out to dinner with Luke. I have never before participated in such an elaborate charade designed to highlight a relationship that existed more in the realm of fantasy than reality.

The restaurant glows with soft golden light over the elegantly set tables adorned with flickering candles. The clinking of glasses and the low hum of laughter creates an elegant symphony of sound. As I scan the room, I spot him at the bar, looking every bit the charming celebrity dressed in a tailored navy suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders and muscular frame.

He turns, and our eyes lock. For a heartbeat, the world fades, leaving just the two of us. His lips curve into a smile, and a rush of warmth washes over me. It’s the kind of smile that has the power to melt icebergs and soothe fears. We live together; I shouldn’t feel butterflies when I walk up to him, but I do.

“Wow, you look stunning,” he says as I approach, his eyes sparkling.

I’m wearing a black dress that hugs my curves. I hoped he’d like it. “Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself.”

I kiss his cheek, an innocent gesture that lingers. Tonight isn’t about playing a role, it’s about projecting an image that could secure Luke's future in the league and solidify our positions in the public eye. A newly involved, and fake couple, sharing a dinner. Professional ambition and personal entanglement made my head spin.

As we settle into our seats, the waiter approaches with a bottle of wine, and it was too easy to slip into the role of girlfriend around a stranger. The first few sips of the velvety red flow smoothly, loosening my inhibitions. Our conversation turns to laughter, laughter turns into more stories, and more stories melt into playful banter. I share a few tales from my college days, nothing too salacious, while he tells me about his dating disasters.

The night progresses. Our lightheartedness is abruptly shattered by unwelcome flashes of a camera, the bright, intrusive light cutting through the bubble of our intimacy. I turn, the sudden brightness making my eyes squint against the glare.

A paparazzo stands just outside the window, grinning like he just struck gold. My heart drops at the realization that this was the very thing I had tried to avoid.

“Who the hell is that?” Luke mutters, fury lighting up his face.

Before I can even process what’s happening, he runs outside, looking for the photographer. All caveman, no brains. Another paparazzo snaps shots of him ready to attack the first one.

I bang on the glass, shouting, “Luke, no!”

He hesitates, glancing back at me. Confusion flares in his eyes. He holds up his hands, stopping.

I wave for him to come back inside and thankfully, he does. “What did you stop me for? That guy was invading our privacy. Bars are one thing, but this is a nice restaurant.”

“I understand where you're at in your head right now, but I need you to understand this is not worth the fight. It will only make things worse.”

For a fleeting moment I see the inner battle raging within him, the desire to defend me clashing with the need to maintain our carefully constructed image. But the three paparazzi, emboldened by the spectacle, continue to snap picture after picture.

“Damn it,” I mutter. “Focus on me, Luke, not them. Never them.”

His jaw clenches and he looks angry, but he settles down. “You're the boss.”

“Let's just get the check and go.”

We do just that, and as we retreat from the restaurant, the air feels heavier. Smothering, almost. Our good-natured banter has evaporated, replaced by an uncomfortable silence that clings to us.

After a while, I can no longer keep my thoughts inside. “Why did you fly off the handle like that?”

“I was trying to protect you. How can you be mad about that?”

“Protect me by nearly starting a fight with a guy who was just doing his job? That's not protection, that's being reckless.”

Anger rolls off of him in waves as he puts the key in the lock. “What am I supposed to do, just stand by while someone disrespects you?”

“I need you to think strategically instead of reactively. It's not just you that needs a makeover, remember?” I slam the door behind us.

“But—”

“I alerted them beforehand to where we would be.”

He blinks at me. “You did what?”

“I’m doing my job. I just wish that idiot knew how to work his camera at night without a fucking flash. Amateur.”

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