Page 129 of Fake As Puck
Her response comes back immediately:Already booked with Tess. Thanks though.
I stare at the message, stopped at a red light, and feel something deflate in my chest.
She booked her own flight. With Tessa.
Which makes sense. They’re best friends. They probably want to travel together, make it easy with the kids, have it be a whole thing.
But it feels like she’s avoiding me.
I type back:Sounds good. See you there.
See you there.
Not “can’t wait to see you” or “looking forward to it” or any of the things I want to say.
Just “see you there.”
Like I’m still paying her to be there as my fake date.
Dammit.
The light turns green, and I drive home trying not to read too much into text messages. People communicate differently. Maybe she’s just being practical. Maybe she doesn’t want to impose on me for airport pickup when she has other options.
Maybe I’m overthinking everything.
At home, I drop off my suit at the dry cleaner and confirm my hotel reservation. One room, two beds, under my first and last name. The same arrangement we’ve had for every wedding so far.
Except this time, I’m not sure what the sleeping arrangements actually mean.
Are we sharing a room because we’re supposed to be a couple? Because it’s convenient? Because we’ve moved past the point where sharing space is weird?
I should probably ask her.
I definitely should have asked her already.
But somehow, bringing up the fake dating logistics feels impossible now. Too awkward. Too much like admitting that I don’t know what we are to each other anymore.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of preparations. Confirming wedding gift delivery. Checking the weather in Napa. Packing enough clothes for a weekend that feels like it might change everything.
That Friday, I’m checking into the hotel in St. Helena, and I’m surprised by how much I wish Liv was with me.
Not because I need her here. Not because I can’t handle a simple hotel check-in on my own.
But because she’s supposed to be my girlfriend, right? Even if it’s fake, even if it’s complicated, even if I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, she’s supposed to be here with me.
That’s how this works.
That’s what couples do.
“Will your wife be joining you later?” the desk clerk asks, handing me my key cards.
“Girlfriend,” I correct automatically. “And yeah, she’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Wonderful. The wedding’s at the Auberge, right? Beautiful venue.”
“Yeah. Should be nice.”
“I’m sure it will be. Let me know if you need anything.”
