Page 34 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

I glance down at my dress shoes, then at the slick pavement. Great first-date footwear. Really built for traction and romance. “You sure about this? It’s not exactly treadmill weather out here.”

“Oh, please, it’s just a little spring drizzle. Come on, slowpoke!”

She takes off down the street. I sigh, resigned to my fate, and jog after her. Water splashes under my feet. The pavement gleams like it’s actively conspiring against my shins.

“So, tell me about your gym,” Michelle pants between strides. “How many members? Square footage? What’s your lead gen strategy?”

“It’s—”

“Never mind! Save your breath. I’d rather see how that body moves. Let’s go, Mr. Fitness!”

It might be the first time I’ve considered faking a cramp. Or pretending I suddenly remembered I left my oven on.

She surges ahead, narrowly avoiding an elderly couple walking their dog. We round the corner, passing Fresh n’ Fluffy. A whiff of warm cookies sneaking out from the slightly cracked window of Fresh n’ Fluffy.

Elaine steps just outside under the awning. “Didn’t know jogging was on the menu, Asher!”

“Just trying something new.”

Michelle grabs my arm, tugging me forward. “Less talking, more moving! Let’s go!”

Isla would’ve taken one look at the drizzle, slipped once on purpose, and called it a sign from the universe to go home and watchThe Notebookfor the eighty-ninth time.

And I would’ve gone without protest.

As we jog through the park, Michelle’s enthusiasm seems to grow with each step. Did Isla set this up as some kind of elaborate prank? Is her new system glitching, or did she really think this would work?

“Let’s take a shortcut!” Michelle chirps, veering off the path.

I open my mouth to warn her, but she’s already mid-leap.

“I’ve got this! Watch and—” Her triumphant cry turns into a yelp as she misjudges the jump. Instead of gracefully clearing the puddle, she lands in the mud with her arms pinwheeling like a malfunctioning windmill.

“Help!” she squeaks, flailing in the muck. “These are limited-edition leggings! This mud is going to stain!”

I step carefully into the puddle, grab her under the elbows, and haul her upright before she does a full trust fall into the bushes.

A chorus of laughter erupts from nearby. A group of kids has stopped to watch the show, grinning from ear to ear.

“She fell in the mud!” one kid yells.

“Her butt’s all brown!”

Mud and water cling to her designer leggings, making her look like she lost a fight with a rain puddle.

“That was just a warm-up!” Michelle snaps, brushing mud off her designer leggings with sharp, angry movements. Her face is red. The kids’ laughter seems to grate on her like nails on a chalkboard. “Stop staring!”

“Here,” I offer, but she’s already storming ahead.

If Isla had fallen like this, she’d probably be laughing, maybe even suggesting we take pictures of her graceful dismount for posterity. She’d probably make some joke about auditioning for a rain-soaked romantic comedy. Just picturing her, dripping wet and giggling, makes my heart ache in the best way.

I miss her already.

What’s she up to right now? Is she curled up with a book and an iced chai? Wrapped in a hoodie she swears isn’t mine?

Does she really not feel anything?

Is this easy for her, watching me go on dates with other women like it’s just business? Or is she just as wrecked as I am, pretending it’s all fine because we made a pact not to ruin the friendship?

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