Page 65 of Fake As Puck
The drive home is quiet in a way that feels loaded. Like there are things we both want to say but don’t know how to start.
I keep glancing at her out of the corner of my eye, watching the way the streetlights play across her face, wondering what she’s thinking.
Wondering if she planned this whole look.
Wondering if she’s as affected by being here as I am by having her here.
Wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with the fact that every instinct I have is telling me to pull over and kiss her until we both forget this is supposed to be pretend.
We pull into my driveway, and as we sit in my car in the dark, the tension is so thick I can practically taste it, I can’t help but think that fine is the last thing this week is going to be.
17
The next day feels like scenes from a movie I’m watching instead of living.
We fall into a routine that feels familiar but wrong, like putting on clothes that used to fit perfectly but now pull in all the wrong places.
Wednesday morning, I wake up to the smell of coffee and find West in the kitchen making breakfast. Like he did three weeks ago, except this time when he hands me my mug, our fingers brush.
Just for a second. Just the barest touch of skin against skin.
Neither of us pulls away immediately.
Neither of us acknowledges it.
But I feel it in my chest like a small electric shock, and from the way his jaw tightens, I think he feels it too.
“Thanks,” I say, wrapping my hands around the mug to keep them occupied.
“Welcome.”
We eat breakfast standing at the kitchen island, talking about nothing important. The weather, his training schedule, whether we should go grocery shopping later. Safe topics that require no emotional investment.
But underneath the casual conversation, there’s a current of awareness that makes everything feel significant.
The way he leans against the counter. The way I tuck my hair behind my ear. The space between us that feels both too much and not enough.
“I need to run some errands this afternoon,” he says, loading our plates into the dishwasher. “You want to come, or do you want to stay here?”
“I’ll come.”
“You sure? It’s just boring stuff. Post office, bank, that kind of thing.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Okay.”
What I don’t say is that I don’t want to be alone in his house. Don’t want to sit in his living room thinking about how he looked at me across the dinner table last night. Don’t want to walk past his bedroom and wonder what it looks like.
Better to stay busy. Stay distracted. Stay in public where nothing can happen.
We spend the afternoon running errands that don’t really need both of us, but we do them together anyway. At the bank, I sit in the waiting area while he talks to someone about his accounts, and I catch myself watching the way he gestures when he talks.
At the grocery store, we navigate the aisles like we’re a real couple with shared preferences and inside jokes about which brand of pasta to buy.
“We need coffee,” he says, stopping in front of the wall of options.
“You have coffee.”
