Page 16 of Fake As Puck
My phone buzzes with the couples group chat notification. I glance at it, expecting another wine tasting invitation or someone asking about double date availability.
Instead, it’s Chelsea, Reed’s fiancé.
Chelsea:Hey everyone! Quick question for the plus-ones - any dietary restrictions I should know about for the reception? Trying to finalize headcount with the caterer.
I stare at the message, panic rising in my throat.
Dietary restrictions. I should know if Liv has dietary restrictions. I’m supposed to be in love with this woman and I don’t know if she’s allergic to shellfish.
Reed: My girl is considerate. Respect.
Hurley:Lana will eat literally anything. She’s not picky.
G: No
The cursor blinks in the message box, waiting for my response. What do I say? I can’t ask Liv now. She’s on a plane. “Hey, fake girlfriend, do you have any food allergies I should know about for our fake relationship?”
West:I’ll check with Liv and get back to you.
Chelsea:No rush! Just need to know by tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow morning. When Liv will be here. When we’ll be pretending this is all real.
I stare at my phone, realizing I don’t know basic facts about her life.
I grab my laptop and do something that’s probably either very smart or completely psychotic: I Google her.
Olivia Rodriguez freelance journalist.
Her LinkedIn pops up first. Freelance writer and content creator. Based in LA. Experience in digital marketing, lifestyle content, and entertainment journalism.
Good. I can work with that.
Her Instagram is private, but her Twitter is public. Mostly retweets of political stuff and complaints about the entertainment industry. Recent tweet: “Just got replaced by AI. Again. Apparently my ‘human perspective’ is ‘less cost-effective’ than a computer program. Cool.”
Okay, so she’s having career troubles. That explains the money situation.
I scroll back further. A photo from Tessa’s birthday last year. Liv’s in a green dress, laughing at something off-camera, and she looks... happy. Relaxed. Nothing like the stressed, financially-anxious person who agreed to this insane scheme.
Another photo from Christmas. She’s wearing an ugly sweater that says “Jingle My Bells” and flipping off the camera. Classic Liv.
I close the laptop, feeling like a creep for internet-stalking my fake girlfriend.
By 11 PM, I’ve cleaned the guest bathroom twice, changed the sheets three times, and rearranged the throw pillows approximately seventeen different ways. The fridge is stockedwith enough food to survive a natural disaster, and I’ve practiced my “how we got together” story so many times that I almost believe it myself.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that in less than sixteen hours, Liv will be here. In my house. Pretending to be my girlfriend.
This is either the best idea I’ve ever had or the worst.
4
The problem with traveling next to a man who apparently bathes in garlic and regret is that you start to question every life choice that led you to this moment.
Including the one where you agreed to fake-date your best friend’s brother for money.
I’m shuffling through the airport in my travel uniform—oversized hoodie, leggings with a questionable stain, and agreasy ponytail that screams “I gave up on life somewhere over Nevada” when I spot West waiting by the baggage claim.
And I immediately want to turn around and catch the next flight back to LA.
