Page 70 of Chips & Checks
I’m holding tight to his rules, trying to be the cool girl he warned me he needed. And he’s gripping those same rules like armor, convinced I want space, detachment, a no-strings arrangement.
We’re both pretending for each other.
And we’re both so fucking wrong.
I don’t want casual. I don’t want safe. I want to be the reason he breaks every single rule he’s ever lived by. I want him ruined for anything but us. And I want him to want that too.
“We just need to keep it light. Chill. Casual,” I say instead, like I’m not already spiraling inside. “We don’t want them reading too much into this.”
“Right.” Bowen nods, but his eyes linger a second too long. Something crosses his face; if I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked disappointed. “Because that would be… dangerous.”
“The fake dating thing hasn’t been working, anyway. Pretending we’re more than we are will only get our parents worked up over nothing.”
“What do you mean, it’s not working?” Bowen asks.
“It’s not exactly getting Chad off my back. We did it for his sake, and it hasn’t stopped him. Heck, it hasn’t even slowed him down.” I peer up into his face. That came out harsher than I meant it to, but where’s the lie?
Bowen nods. I can tell my words landed harder than I meant them to, but I don’t know what to do about it. After all, what’s the point in being precious about our circumstances? I’m not telling Bowen that he’s a terrible real boyfriend. The real problem here is, and has always been, Chad.
We stand there in uncomfortable silence until the barista calls, “Pistachio latte?”
Bowen and I make a simultaneous move toward the counter. “Wait,” I ask, “is that whatyougot?”
Of course, he ordered the same thing. Out of all the possibilities—mocha, chai, cold brew with extra protein—he picked mine. The weird, green, very-me pistachio latte. And I know it’s stupid, but something about it makes my chest ache. Like we’re synced in ways neither of us planned. Like he already knows the rhythm of me—what I’d order, how I’d laugh, the way I stir in my sweetener—and somewhere deep down, his bonesremember it too. We’re playing at casual, but the universe keeps handing us matching lattes and inside jokes and this dangerous sense of inevitability. And I hate it. I love it. I’m terrified of what it could mean.
“It sounded interesting.” He shrugs. “I like to try new things.”
By the time we reach the counter, the barista is back with a second serving of pistachio goodness. I tap the edges of our paper cups together before taking my first swig. “Here’s to not making total fools of ourselves at a triple-date brunch!”
Bowen chuckles. “You’re ridiculous.” He leans in for a kiss, casual and instinctive—like we’ve done this a thousand times.
I duck away just in time, heart thudding. “Nope. No public displays of affection. The rules…”
“Yeah.” Bowen grimaces and takes a slug of his own drink. As soon as the beverage hits his tongue, his eyes widen. “Okay, holy shit, that’s so good.”
“You should try their pastries. One of these, paired with a raspberry Danish?” I kiss my fingertips. “Perfection.”
“Maybe we can come here for a date sometime,” Bowen says, too breezy, like he doesn’t hear the slip.
I pause. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel the ache of what I want and the chill of everything we’ve sworn not to be.
I force a smile and lead the way toward the door. “Listen, Mr. Casual, that sounds a lot like you’re making future date plans. Any more talk like that and the ‘rents are going to get suspicious.”
But as we step outside and the Vegas sun hits us full-force, I can feel his gaze on me. Quiet. Lingering. Like he’s wondering what it would be like if we weren’t pretending.
Like with or without a little PDA, maybe neither of us is pretending anymore.
* * *
Dad stands outside the front door like he’s a docent at the Museum of Violet’s Humiliating Origins. “This is Violet’s first stool,” he announces proudly, pointing to the battered plastic thing tucked into the corner of the porch. “She used to sit here when I was first dating Layla so she could reach the doorbell.”
Bowen crouches, running a hand along the top step like he’s inspecting a priceless artifact. “Adorable. I guess you were always short, huh?”
“I was two,” I deadpan. “It’s one of a toddler’s defining characteristics.”
Dad beams like we’re all on board for the next stop on the Publicly Shame Violet Tour™, leading Bowen inside where Declyn and Tierney are already waiting, bless them. “This here’s the cubby I built for Cash Money. Violet and her best boy used to crawl in and hold meetings or eat snacks or whatever kids do in tiny spaces.”
He points at a photo taped to the back wall of the closet. It’s me in a tiara, and my dog—an extremely regal and sleek Doberman—wearing a gold chain and tinted doggles.
