Page 6 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

But I didn’t.

I told myself it was the right choice. That I was protecting what we had.

Being responsible means thinking through every consequence and weighing every risk.

Dad drilled that into me years ago, long before he handed over the family gym. I still remember the way his brow pulled tight, the serious look on his face every time he said it. And I’ve been living by it.

I don’t want to disappoint her like I disappointed my dad.

Oh, yeah. And there’s a friendship pact Isla and I made when we were kids. No dating each other.Ever.

So I’ve played it safe, being the steady friend, the reliable shoulder. Though I do think I’m not the only one feeling the sparks when our eyes meet in a way that could power the town’s Christmas lights for a week.

I step behind her and ease the tangled coat off her shoulders. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder, and her tiny frame seems so fragile under my hands, like a sparrow trembling in my grasp.

She freezes. Then that fake laugh bubbles up, the one that makes my chest ache. “Oh, hey! Just doing a little cleaning therapy. You know how it is.”

I don’t smile. Watching her get hurt over and over is like being tied to a chair, forced to watch a fire I can’t put out.

Something needs to change.

“Isla, enough. You’re working yourself to death.”

“This is just my process, Ash,” she mutters, standing on her toes as she shoves another book into place with a little too much force. “Don’t you have something better to do than critique my shelving technique?”

I catch her hand before she can send the next stack into chaos. My fingers curl around hers, just for a second longer than they need to. I want to hold on and never let go, but I’m pretty sure that falls under “Things That Would Definitely Freak Out Your Best Friend,” according to an article I definitely didn’t Google at 2 a.m. last week.

I lean down slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. “No. You’re my priority tonight.”

Isla’s eyes widen, the golden flecks in her hazel eyes catching the light, but instead of their usual spark, they look dim now, broken. It makes me want to punch something.

Preferably Kyle’s face. Multiple times.

Her twin brother, Conner, would back me up on that. He might not be in town much, but he made one thing clear before he left—look out for his sister. That could mean a lot of things, and I’ve done my best to cover all of them.

And I made sure Isla didn’t notice. She’d never want revenge on any of her exes because she’s too busy convincing herself she was the one who messed it all up.

“Come on. You don’t have to hold it in, Is. Not with me.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a slightly squished up paper bag. “Especially when you’ve got emergency rations.”

I open the bag, revealing the strawberry-glazed mochi donut inside. Her favorite treat. We used to sneak out of school to grab mochi donuts from that Japanese bakery. The powdered sugar would always end up on Isla’s nose. We’d sit on the curb, sharing bites and laughing about nothing and everything. It was our secret tradition back then.

Now, that tradition’s become our Friday ritual. We’d walk to the bakery and split a box of mochi donuts. But on the harder days, I’ll swing by and grab her favorite. It’s my secret way of making her rough days feel a little softer.

She blinks, eyes darting from the donut to my face. With a small, hesitant movement, her hands close around it like it’s something sacred. A tiny sniff escapes as she takes a bite. “I always liked the strawberry one.”

But even as she chews, her eyes shimmer again. She blinks up at me, her brow furrowed. “I still feel so sad. I’m such a wimp. It’s pathetic.”

She never wants to trouble anyone, always worried about being an inconvenience. Just like three years ago when she helped Mike, ex-boyfriend number seven, move into his new apartment. He didn’t even notice she’d slipped and hurt her shoulder.

She wouldn’t have told a soul if I hadn’t caught her wincing and rubbing her shoulder during our movie night. The way she pushes through pain with that quiet strength makes me fall for her even more, but it also makes me want to shield her from ever hurting again.

“It’s not pathetic.” My hands find her upper arms, steadying her. “It’s just feelings . . . plus donuts.”

That does it. The dam breaks and tears spill down Isla’s cheeks. But even as she cries, she keeps eating the donut, bite after bite, cheeks puffed out like a sad little chipmunk storing up for an emotional winter. My heart shatters and melts in one fell swoop.

I pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her while she finishes the last bite. I hate Kyle for what he’s done, but I can’t bring myself to hate the chance to hold her like this.

“These donuts are so good,” she mumbles, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “But I still don’t understand what I did wrong.”

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