Page 132 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Plotting? Us?” Elaine gasps, hooking her arm through mine with the kind of grip that makes me think she might be considering a career in professional wrestling. “Can’t two friends suggest dinner without getting accused of scheming?”

“The Riverstone has this special tonight that you absolutely must try,” Roxanne adds, sidling up to my other side.

“The chef is only making it tonight!” Elaine blurts, then winces when Roxanne elbows her so hard I swear I hear ribs crack.

These two couldn’t be more obvious if they were wearing t-shirts that said “WE’RE UP TO SOMETHING” in neon letters. Their idea of subtle is about as effective as Mochi’s attempts to secretly steal socks, complete with dramatic tiptoeing and exaggerated innocence.

“You two are the worst liars in Frost,” I say, “and that’s including Harold, who told everyone his cat did his taxes.”

“Just come to dinner,” Elaine pleads, practically frog-marching me toward the building’s exit. “No questions asked.”

“Fine,” I sigh, letting myself be steered toward Elaine’s car. “But whatever you’re up to, I reserve the right to flee if necessary.”

Twenty minutes later, instead of pulling into The Riverstone’s parking lot, Elaine stops at the edge of Frost Lake. The engine cuts off with a decisive click.

“This doesn’t look like the restaurant,” I deadpan, eyeing the deserted parking area. “Unless they’ve really expanded their outdoor seating.”

“Plans change,” Roxanne says mysteriously, like she’s auditioning for a cryptic fortune teller role. “We should take a walk by the lake before dinner.”

“In my work clothes? What—” The protest dies in my throat as I step out of the car and see what waits ahead.

Oh.

Paper lanterns line a path through the flowering dogwoods that border the lake, their warm glow reflecting in the still water like stars that fell to earth. And at the far end of the path stands a figure I’d recognize blindfolded. Those broad shoulders, that stance with hands tucked in pockets, that patient stillness that has always been uniquely Asher.

My heart does a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest.

When I turn back to question my so-called friends, the car is already pulling away, Elaine’s arm waving wildly out the window like she’s practicing for a parade.

“Traitors!” I call after them, but there’s no heat in it. Just a breathless kind of wonder that makes my voice shake.

Heart racing faster, I take my first step onto the lantern-lit path. Each lantern holds a photograph—moments from our shared history captured in amber light.

There we are as kids, mud-splattered and grinning after he helped rescue my books on moving day. There we are as teenagers at the old skating rink, me clinging to his arm with a death grip while he pretends my fingernails aren’t permanently disfiguring his bicep. And—oh my goodness—is that the time I fell headfirst out of the peach tree in his backyard, and he somehow managed to half-catch me, both of us ending up in a sticky, juice-covered heap?

I run my fingers over the photo, a lump forming in my throat. He’s kept every ridiculous, wonderful, embarrassing moment of us.

Further along are newer memories: Mochi’s adoption day, his tiny body cradled between us. Asher and I at the gym’s Senior Program launch, his arm warm around my waist. The two of us with flour-covered faces from our disastrous attempt at making croissants.

Walking this path feels like traveling through the story of us—friendship deepening into something more profound with each step I take. My chest tightens with emotions too big for words.

I reach him.

“Asher,” I whisper.

“Hi, Peachie.” His smile is the most gorgeous thing in the world. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the turquoise somehow deeper in the lantern light.

“Did you do all this?” I gesture to the glowing pathway, though it’s obviously a ridiculous question. Who else would hang photos of us as gangly preteens for the world to see?

“With a little help.” He takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that way that still sends electricity racing up my arm. The calluses on his palm are familiar, comforting. “I wanted to show you something.”

He leads me to a small clearing where an antique table stands set with candles. In the center lies a pink sheet of paper, the childish handwriting instantly familiar.

My Love Bucket List.

Except now, it’s already been renamed.

At the top, in neat handwriting that definitely isn’t mine, are the words:

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