Page 17 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

Once we’re all settled in our usual spots, the familiar routine of passing bowls and platters begins.

I reach for the roasted vegetables and casually pile a little extra onto Isla’s plate while she chats with my parents. I make sure to give her plenty of those crispy Brussels sprouts, her favorite. She’ll never ask. She’s far too polite. But I’ve seen her battle Elaine for the last crispy one more times than I can count.

Mom raises one eyebrow at me. Her eyes are ping-ponging between me and Isla like we’re the final match at Wimbledon, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head.

“Oh! Isla, do you remember when Asher used to insist on carrying your backpack to school?” Mom’s spoon clatters against her plate.

“Mom—”

“Every morning, rain or shine.” Mom ignores my death glare. “He’d wait by our front door, watching for you through the window.”

Isla’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flick to mine. I give her my best innocent shrug.

“He’s always been my best friend.” Isla bumps my shoulder. “Best friend anyone could ask for.”

Friends.

The words stick like thorns. So that’s where I stand, firmly injust friendsterritory.

Looks like I’ve got more work to do if I want to shake that label.

Mom sets down her glass with just a little too much care. There’s a gleam in her eyes. The kind that’s never ended well for me.

“You know,” she says, drawing it out like she’s winding up for a show, “Christina and I were just saying how tragic it is . . .”

She pauses for a full dramatic beat. “Back when we had you two the same year, we used to dream about becoming a real family. Two perfect children who are clearly meant for each other—”

“Mom!”

“Honey.” Dad scoops up some mashed potatoes and slides the fork straight toward Mom’s mouth.

Everything happens at once. Isla jerks like she’s been shocked. Her water glass tips. Cold liquid spreads across the tablecloth, seeping into my shirt.

“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!”

Her hands flutter like startled birds, scattering napkins across the table like she’s trying to outrun the spill. In the chaos, she bumps into another glass. This one is full of orange juice.

It splashes straight into my lap, soaking the front of my shirt and the top of my jeans, bright streaks spreading across the fabric like some kind of breakfast-themed Rorschach test. Her cheeks flush in an instant, and a blooming wash of soft pink climbs to her ears as she grabs napkins by the fistful.

“I’m such a disaster,” she mutters under her breath, still saying sorry over and over.

I can’t stop looking.

I couldn’t care less about my now-orange shirt or whatever’s happening to my jeans. All I want is to peel the shirt off, pull her into my arms, and tell her she’s the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever seen.

“It’s ok.”

“I’ll grab you a towel.” She jumps up, nearly knocking over the salt shaker.

“I got it—”

“No, let me. It’s my fault, anyway.” She’s already halfway to the kitchen, face still burning.

Dad’s shoulders shake with poorly suppressed laughter. Mom, at least, has the grace to look slightly guilty.

I follow Isla into the kitchen, my shirt still damp from the double spill.

Isla grabs a paper towel, her cheeks still flushed. “Here, let me help.”

---