Page 2 of The Fake Date Agreement

I have no idea who’s winning, and frankly, I don’t care.

“I’m just here to be a supportive girlfriend,” I mutter.

As I scan the seats for his blond head, his face pops up on the big screen like it was meant to be—clear blue eyes, thick, dark blond hair, wearing the dark blue, silver, and white Wolverines’ jersey. There is the love of my life.

I smile, calling out as I approach, “Marc!”

The camera pulls back, and a heart shape forms around his image on the screen.

I snort. Marc is here alone. He doesn’t have anyone to?—

My boyfriend of six years dips his head and draws a pretty blonde into a deep, open-mouth kiss that stuns me.

My stomach clenches, and pressure forms in my chest as a wave of lightheadedness makes me dizzy.

He was my first everything.

First kiss.

First time I had sex.

First guy I said I love you to and who said it back.

Marc Peters owns my entire heart.

“You don’t have to come to hockey with me, babe. I go on my own or with Doug from class.”

That’s what he said.

She doesn’t look like a Doug to me.

Don’t they need to come up for air at some point? How the hell can this kiss just keep going?

The crowd is loving it, cheering and stamping their feet as my boyfriend shatters my heart into a million tiny pieces.

And I amstillholding these stupid fucking hotdogs and not doing anything but staring.

Throw them at his head, Tobie,I tell myself. He deserves worse than that, but just dosomething.

The camera pans from Marc to me, and the announcer’s voice booms. “Uh, oh. Looks like there might be trouble in paradise.”

Marc breaks the kiss. He’s smiling, flushed, and happy until he spots me.

His smile freezes, and he shoots to his feet. “Tobie, I can explain.”

Four words are all the confirmation I need that this was no innocent kiss.

I don’t like confrontation.

The moment it looks like I might have to stand up for myself, my palms sweat, my heart races, and I can’t breathe. Then I have this desperate urge to run away. If I don’t, I spend the next several seconds stuttering and stumbling over my words beforecoming up with the perfect response approximately forty-eight hours later.

But this time, I know exactly what to say.

“How could you, Marc?” There’s a quiver in my voice as a burn starts at the back of my eyelids.

“Tobie…” He steps toward me, but I want nothing to do with him.

I take a step away, and there’s nothing but air.

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