Page 82 of Fake As Puck
I laugh at the right moments, ask interested questions about people’s jobs and lives, and make sure to touch West’s armor shoulder occasionally like someone who’s comfortable with casual intimacy.
“So, Liv,” says a woman named Giselle who’s sitting across from us. “What do you do?”
“I’m a freelance writer. Mostly lifestyle and entertainment content.”
“That’s so cool. Do you write anything I might have read?”
“Probably not but thank you for asking.”
“How did you and West meet?” she asks.
I glance at West, and he nods slightly, a signal that I should take this one.
“Through his sister, actually. Tessa and I are best friends.”
“Oh, that’s sweet. So you’ve known each other for a while?”
“Years. But we only started dating recently.”
“What took you so long?” asks a guy named Harry, grinning at West. “Was she out of your league?”
“Completely out of my league,” West says without hesitation. “Still is.”
“So what changed?” Giselle asks. “What made you finally make a move?”
I feel West tense next to me, and I realize we’re venturing into territory we haven’t prepared for.
“I wore him down,” I say with a laugh. “Persistence and excellent cooking.”
“She makes the best pasta I’ve ever had,” West adds, which is funny because I’ve never cooked pasta for him.
“That’ll do it,” says another guy. “Food is the way to a man’s heart.”
“Among other things,” says West, and something in his tone makes me look at him.
The conversation moves on to other topics like Jamie’s law practice, someone’s recent promotion, the logistics of planning a wedding during tourist season, but I’m only half listening.
I’m too aware of West next to me. The way he keeps his hand on my knee under the table. The way he leans in when I talk like he doesn’t want to miss a word.
The way he says “my girlfriend” when he introduces me to people, like the words feel natural in his mouth. I can tell he’s more on edge at this wedding because he holds my hand tightly, and I’m not sure what he’s so nervous about.
“So how long have you two been together?” asks a guy named Tom who just joined our table.
I open my mouth to give our practiced answer—four months, just like we agreed—but West speaks first.
“Feels like forever,” he says, looking directly at me. “But not long enough.”
My stomach does a complete flip at those words. Because that’s not our story. That’s not what we practiced.
I smile at him and rub his cheek.
“Aww,” says Giselle. “That’s so sweet.”
“You guys are adorable,” adds Tom’s date.
I smile and nod and try to look like someone who’s used to her boyfriend saying romantic things about their relationship.
But inside, I’m reeling.
